Soul Food, BlogHer Style

I went to a little get together in Chicago last weekend. Maybe you've heard of it? Or seen some posts on it? One or two. I'll warn you, if you're a bit BlogHer overloaded, skip this one, it's ridiculously sappy. Heart and rainbow sparks will spit from your computer screen. There are no good bits, I'm clueless, I miss drama if it happens two feet from me, I am never in the know.

I wasn't sure why I wanted to go to a blogging conference. Not for free stuff (although, my little menagerie loved the Mr. Potato Head dolls, thank you!). Not to network or meet PR people. Not to learn how to increase my traffic. Not for the parties, I'm not a fan of big parties. Not to get away from my children...well, wow, that was nice, but I'd probably choose a get away with my husband.

There isn't a lot of time in life for interactions with new people. I have close friends and they nourish me, fill my need to be valued, to be heard, to feel connected and loved. I don't form many new friendships. It's hard. We're busy. Small children eat time. Life is complicated.

This weekend, an entire weekend was devoted to getting to know new people that I admire. A chance to move beyond I love your words or identify with your experience or share your point of view and know the smiles, the expressions, the sense of humor and turn of phrase.

I went to meet the people behind the writing and it was worth it.

There were awkward moments. Rooms filled with strangers laughing and talking are intimidating without question. There were instances when I felt uncomfortable, people I wish I could have talked to more, people I missed completely, conversations that got cut short and times when I felt too overwhelmed to think of small talk or fill the void. Mostly though, I spent the weekend deepening relationships, confirming friendships and talk, talk, talking with people who love something I love...written communication.

I went because I sat in the lobby of a gorgeous hotel while, over a half hour, a small group of women collected. Women who talk to each other almost every day, but had never met. Women who hugged shyly, laughed tentatively, surprised I think, as I was, at the first warm rush of belonging.

I went because my roommate made me laugh constantly, tweeting quips, telling stories embellished with a perfect accent, and mocking my theories on death, blood and asses. (I hugged her five times, oh yeah, I counted, and get this...she initiated a hug once.)

I went because an unbelievably talented photographer came up to me and introduced himself on Friday afternoon. A soft spoken man whose wife labored with their new baby girl while I gave birth to Nate. I talked and laughed with him, way too briefly (I could have talked with him for hours), at the MommaPop Sparkle Party while he took my picture, one of the few pictures of myself I've ever seen that I don't hate.

I went because, sitting at dinner on Thursday night with Andrea and Kari and Kirsten and Issa and Greis and Renee and Maura and Caitlin, I marveled at how the conversation flowed, how much I wanted to know about the women around me. (I'm going to use real names in this post, without links, because I'd be linking forever and because these are my real friends and because if you read here a lot, you'll hear about these women over and over with lots of links to their writing because I love them.)

I went because it's not often that I get to whisper with a friend to the early hours of the morning, tucked into a big bed (that I had all to myself, sigh) in a quiet hotel room.

I went because of the walk to feed my chai addiction early Friday morning before the conference sessions, giggling and reliving the night before.

I went because of the community keynote readings. I don't know where else I could be in a room with 1300 people, a current of emotion connecting us all as we listened to writers read their own words. I cried until my head hurt and laughed until my side hurt. I hid my face to hide the tears until I glanced around and realized that the men and women at my table kept reaching up to wipe tears from their cheeks.

I went because Matthew allowed me to own the word writer in addition to blogger and he wasn't even talking to me directly.

I went for the unexpected chance to find myself at a table with a gorgeous view of the Chicago River, a pomegranate margarita in my hand, and ten more, clever, funny, delightfully warm, unbelievably talented women seated around me. I had to pinch myself and take a gulp of margarita. Maggie, Margaret, Ann, Anna, Jessica, Sandi, Jen, Amy, Meg, Debbie...thank you.

I went to drink sweet vodka tea and eat poorly cooked hamburgers, sitting in the sunshine by the river, my head foggy with exhaustion and happiness. To chat with Pauline and Traci and Amy and Ann and Debbie and Marinka (no she never escaped me) and Tracey and Sandi. To have Carolyn and Darcy stop by and join us.

I went to hug Andrea and have her agree that I am the least photogenic person on the planet. Her exact words were, you're so pretty, how can you take such awful pictures. I know, I mean, I would say, I'm so normal looking usually, how can I look like a deranged alien in pictures, but it's the same sentiment in the end.

I went to talk life and parenting with Cindy and Greis and Traci and Pauline while waiting for a dinner that took two hours to cook and to feel that, though the delay nearly killed us with hunger, I could have continued the conversation for two more hours.

I went to say to so many people, your writing speaks to me, I've been dying to meet you, and I can't believe they said the same.

In the end, at the last, I went to sit on two hotel beds until 2:00 a.m. with Kirsten and Kari and Maura and Issa and Marinka and Renee and Issa like twelve-year-olds at a slumber party. We laughed until we cried at silly stories and inside jokes and flappiness and mistaken identities and my ability to have an entire conversation with someone while thinking they were someone else.

I went for all the people I got to hug, but not really talk to, Meghan, Renee, Sean, Christine, Heather, Christy, Ree, Kendra, Carol Lynn, Fran, so many more.

I went because friends are precious in this world, and close girlfriends are priceless.

I went because souls get lonely, they need something undefined, no matter how good the life, how loved the family. Something that was in the air in Chicago this weekend.

It fed my soul. YOU fed my soul. Thank you.

Chi-ca-go

I actually left. I'm in Chicago at BlogHer. I was so nervous yesterday on the plane that my hands were shaking, but I got to the hotel and, well, I know everyone says this, but the people I was dying to meet are fabulous and the people I never knew I would meet are fabulous and my hands are just fine now.

Pumping Sucks.

I thought my pump was broken this morning and that would have sucked far worse than actually pumping.

Flying without small children is heaven.

It's really humid in Chicago. My hair hates it here.

Have I mentioned that I love it and I'm having a really good time (thanks Maura, Issa, Marinka, Greis, Andrea, MommyTime, Mommy Geekology, Kari, Kirsten, Renee, so many more and I can't bring myself to link today ...)

My hair hates it though and I had it styled, hoping it would look fabulous.

I may be the only woman out of 1500 at this hotel that hasn't had a pedicure in the last three months.

My excuse is my teeny tiny baby.

Oh, yeah, my teeny tiny baby is eating just fine for grandma. I do miss him, I miss them all. Not enough to have wanted them all the airplane with me. Thank you, Grandma.

On the second flight, a really young (oh my GOD when did eighteen become so young) soldier in fatigues sat in the row in front of me. The airline invited him to first class because there were empty seats. He was thrilled, everyone on board told him how much he deserved it as he walked by. I covered my face and cried. Maybe I'm just hormonal, but it was so moving.

I was in the same hotel as President Obama last night, briefly. The men in flak jackets were cute. But, mainly because there were only men in flak jackets, no actual bombs.

That's all I can think of right now and I'm not sure I've said anything interesting. On to blogging sessions.

Cry Baby

This baby cries a lot more than his brothers did.

He's not difficult or particularly fussy. He sleeps fairly well for a 21-day-old. He crashes hard around eleven each night and sleeps until four in the morning, cuddled comfortably into my side. It's a bit unfortunate that he picks 4-6 for his nightly milk fest because if there were two hours I would choose to be asleep on a 24-hour clock it would be those two hours.

Of course, around six, like clockwork, Cue starts to claim false sun sightings. "Sun ON, Momma."

No. Sun not on. I know because I set the god damned sun and it is SO not on.

Digression. Babynater sleeps almost five hours every night and so do I and for now that's pretty darn acceptable. During the day, he's easy to comfort. He's just like both other boys. He either sleeps or he'd like that soft milk delivering nipple in his mouth at all times please. If denied, he spends thirty seconds gaining unlawful carnal knowledge of whatever blanket or car seat part or carpet fuzz is directly beside his right ear before he lets his displeasure with the lack of nipple situation be known.

I'm a very relaxed nurser. I've let all my newborns hang out on my nipple like it's a convenient, slightly awkward for conversation, pacifier. I'm not shy. I don't use a cover or a blanket or a hooter hider. I just pull up my shirt on one side, attach baby, recover unused bewb and move on. Really, I move on, I'm not a sedentary nurser either, much to the horror of any dads at the playground. I police my three other children, I help Cue climb the steps, I get drinks and snacks. I'm an adept, experienced one-hand-for-nursing-baby, one-hand-for-life mom.

Gee didn't cry. At all really. I was a first time mom with few other obligations and his lips remained firmly attached to my nipple for six months. Cue, a little less so, he cried when I was busy, but he also lived for a while as a permanent bewb attachment. Babynater cries. There are parts of the daily routine for my three other children that require two hands. The lunch/naptime hour, bedtime, bathroom breaks. I like to get everyone cleaned up after lunch and into nap and quiet time and then nurse the baby into happy, hopefully quiet oblivion.

I try to time it right, but it seems like he inevitably hits newborn meltdown mode just as I have both three-year-olds on the potty and Cue is desperate for his nap. I put him off. I let him cry. Some afternoons, he achieves that dying nanny goat newborn cry. I know every woman who has ever raised a baby knows this cry.

mmmmm WAHHHHH!!!
mmmmmmmm WAHHHHH!!!
MMMMMMMM WAAAAAHHHHH!!!
uh WAH! uh WAH! uh WAH! uh WAH! uh WAH! na-a-a-a-a-aWAH!WAH!WAH!

Dying nanny goat. Oh God. Every alarm bell in my heart is ringing at full intensity, but I just need five more minutes to get Ess and Gee wiped and Cue's diaper changed and then I'll be there. I know it's okay. It's only been three minutes or eleven million YEARS.

I plough on with the nanny goat sobs jarring every fiber of my being. Just a few more minutes, Ess and Gee are settled in the basement with their toys. One quick book for Cue. He's been crying for light years, glance at watch, or ten minutes now, only ten minutes.

I peek at him on my way upstairs. He is in full on pissed off falling baby monkey mode, arms akimbo, legs kicking, red, sweaty face scrunched into paroxysms of fury. I break a sweat and hurry Cue up the stairs. Cue wants his time, he wants to be cuddled, read a book, he demands his nap time routine. He won't be rushed and when, at the end of the ten minutes, in desperation, I leave him unsatisfied in his crib, he throws himself down and sobs, "MOMMA."

But, he quiets. He's tired. Ess and Gee play almost nicely with their animals in the basement until someone whacks someone else with a plastic elephant. I sit with my sweaty, angry baby and let him nurse until he is relaxed and content and sleepy.

It works most days. We are learning. We go to the park. Babynater sleeps through morning outings. I have time to snuggle Cue at night with Daddy's extra hands present. Gee and I whisper some mornings when he wakes early. Ess goes with me to the store, just she and I.

Most days, it works and some days it doesn't. Some days, some parts of days, no one is happy. I feel tired and deflated and stretched too thin. I wonder. I panic in my head about our choices. What if they were a little further apart? What if we'd waited? So much of their day is spent being managed in mass, like a rolly litter of puppies. Is that okay? Are they okay? Will I know them, each one of them, spend time with them like I should? Maybe it's too much. Maybe I can't do it alone.

Yesterday, it didn't work so well. Nate woke as I unloaded them all from the car and started to fuss. I rushed the older kids to the bathroom. I tried to focus.

"I tirsty, momma," Cue whined as I hurried him up the stairs. If I could just get him down. I tried to carry him up. "MINE do it." Great. That gives me time to beat my head against the hall wall.

"Mommmmmaaaa, I'm finished." Shit. Literally. Ess was still on the toilet.

"Hang on, I'm coming." I held Cue's hand for the last few steps and quickly wiped away my tears with my other hand.

A suspicious quiet settled downstairs. Maybe the baby had fallen back to sleep? (Or been smothered, or been kidnapped.) I flew down the stairs to get Ess off the potty. Gee was not in the other bathroom. He wasn't in the basement with Ess. He wasn't destroying my computer in the office. Somewhere, I heard the murmured tune of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.

Feeling panicky, I checked on the baby and found Gee. Nate was rapt, wide awake, his eyes fixed on his brother. Gee leaned over the bouncy seat, gently singing his own lyrics to Twinkle Star.


Don't cry, baby, do not cry.
I'm your big brother.
I'm your big brother.

Just like that, my three year old reminded me that I'm not alone. We're a family and we all have each other to turn to for comfort. Even when we're about to lose it and do the flailing monkey, nanny goat cry. Or, you know, the ugly, oh-my-kids-are-so-freaking-wonderful-even-when-they-are-completely-overwhelmingly-awful mommy cry. Either one.

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Pssssst. Look Tracey and Pop and Ice, I'm making progress. Flexibility. Change. Popsicles, they're not just for the bathtub any more. Baby steps.

A Friend Indeed

I admit, I might be cheating a little here. I'm tired and when I sit down to write about our experiences, or the kids, transitions, life, anything, it just doesn't flow from my sluggish brain.

I've been privileged to have some heart sisters in my life. Women I couldn't live with out. Women I want beside me at my not so finest hour. Women I hope my children will adore and have to turn to their whole lives. Elise is one of them. So, I hope you'll bear with us through one more post about Babynater's birth. After all, this blog isn't just about practicing my writing and maybe entertaining a few readers, it's also a record of this gorgeous, gone in a blink of an eye time in our lives. I want Nate to have this letter for always.

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Dear Nate,

Even though you are only 14 days old, I have known you for more than half a year. I knew you when you were an idea, then a bump, then a slightly larger bump. I knew you as rendered your mother unable to drink a chai and push a stroller at the same time (Gasp!). Then (the horror continues) I knew you when you actually created a chai prohibition; the midwife suggesting you were measuring large and perhaps a cut back in sugar was called for.

All I have to say is: thank god she stopped drinking those chais! You would have been a 10+ pounder for sure had the 4x/week (uh, I mean 1x/week Matt....) consumption continued.

And I knew you as you took your first breath. I saw you pass over that threshold where your mother's body had sustained you and held you close, and into the world. I saw your mother as she sat on the bed at the hospital, cool as a cucumber, making sarcastic comments about her decision not to wax before the big event. I saw her as she began to be unable to laugh through the contractions. I held her leg as she pushed and pushed and cursed and cried and, with beauty and strength and belief in herself, birthed a baby.

Now Nate, I realize you've only been on the outside for a few weeks but you know how you have some moments in your life that remain, like a photo in your head, with you always? I have a few and they are all from times when I felt the most alive, the most present. Catching the first glimpse of your hair is, for me, one of those times.

(I realize it may not be for you because of that whole conscious memory thing, not to mention the fact that your poor little head was getting the begezus squeezed out of it and you are probably not going to be a big fan of any stories involving you and your mother's vagina, but let's focus on me here.)

Your hair, tinted red and moving forward and back inside your mom, coming close and closer into contact with the outside world - we didn't know if you were a boy or a girl, didn't know what kind of personality you would have, when you would smile or crawl or walk or get married or sound like as you gave your first cry, but I could see the top of your head. I could see you, this person, about to emerge from my dear friend Stacey (who I believe at that point was screaming "He's not moving!!! Why isn't he moving??? Somebody help me!!!") and it was spectacular. As was the rest of you that followed.

So thank you, Stacey. I am more honored and touched and giddy that you wanted me to be there with you than I will be able to say. And also a thank you from Jeremy (my husband) whose first question to me after I came home was "...so?" as in "so... since you ended up with a bum emergency c-section the first time did seeing an unmediated birth make you want to give it one more shot so that you don't spend the rest of your life feeling like you missed out on one of the great privileges of being a woman?" To which I could honestly answer "Nope, I think I'm good. It was amazing and awe inspiring, but I think I can live the rest of my life without being in that much pain."

Happy birthday Baby Nate, and much love to you all, anyfamily!

Birth Control

I asked my gorgeous baby sister, Aunt D, if she'd write about the Babynater's birth from her perspective. We've done a lot of crazy, fun, scary, sometimes not-so-wise things together and we're the best kind of sisters, the kind that are best friends too.


Thinking about it though, even now in our thirties, I'm the older sister, usually in control, perhaps a bit bossy. (She's rolling her eyes at that 'perhaps.') It was strange to have her by my side and be so vulnerable. Strange and wonderful, she was fantastic. If I were to have another baby (no, not happening), I'd ask her, no I'd beg her, to be by my side.

Here's her view of Nate's arrival, in her own hilarious words.
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My evil plan worked! I successfully delayed Stacey’s labor for over two weeks! Fear not; karma’s a beast and I’m sure I’ll get mine. I’m not the obvious candidate for birth-watcher-person having never given birth nor seen it. I vaguely recall horrifying sixth grade videos, but I’ve suppressed most of late elementary school through high school graduation. (I had an extensive awkward period.) Having been invited to the party, there was no WAY I was going to miss it.

My plane landed on reindeer strewn tundra at 9:30 on Saturday night and less than 10 hours later Stacey and I were in a tiny examination room watching little contraction mountains float across the screen. She was wearing lots of suction cups and no pants and trying to explain effacement to me between contractions.

The next four hours were not the screaming, sweaty endurance race I expected. We just hung out in the sunny, lovely hospital room eating egg mcmuffins and chatting. It was like Stacey, Matt, Elise, Doula Bobbette and I had picked a really weird place for a breakfast date. We talked; Stacey occasionally contracted, making no noise and causing no interruption to the conversation.

She walked around for a while and Bobbette rubbed her ankle to make the contractions stronger. (Right. Unclear on this one. Anyone else not buying the ankle bone contraction causal structure?) Bobbette pulled on a toe and made Stacey wag her tail, hop on one foot, left foot green, etc. She was either screwing with us or the doula school is friendly with the pharmacy club if you know what I mean. Whatever it was worked. Stacey was at 8 cm when her midwife, Sara, arrived.

Time to break her water!

I’m a bit unclear on this part. I remember thinking Sara had on really big earrings and that I likely wouldn’t have chosen them to wear to a birth. I remember the “sack was really thick” ‘cause…ew and also hehe sack. Then suddenly she was pushing and I was somewhere between Elise and Matt on Stacey’s left. If I leaned forward I could see birthing; if not, I could just see Stacey’s leg and lots of arms.

It seemed painful (professional opinion). She yelled and got really sweaty and everyone was touching her. I had a full conversation with myself about whether I should be touching her too.

Me: She’s in pain. Let her know you’re here.

Me: She’s so sweaty and there are lots of hands. I hate being touched when I’m sweaty. Let her breathe.

Me: She’s screaming. Hold her haHOLYSHITISTHATTHEBABY’SHEAD?!

Wow, that shit is cool. A BABY was being born RIGHT THERE! Amazing. And, yet, so poorly designed. Seriously, HP? That’s the best you could come up with? Was there a committee involved?

Stacey: “It’s stuck! It’s not moving!”

The room: “No! It’s coming! You’re doing great! GoooOOOO STACEY!!”

Stacey, in this low, throaty, terror movie voice: “EEETZZSTUUUUUCK…”

So baby is sticking out to the neck and not advancing, and Sara shoves her WHOLE HAND in there and turns the head with the other hand. It seriously looked like the head would pop off. Stacey made a noise that I can still hear - like a werewolf being eaten by a pterodactyl - horrifying and mesmerizing and slimy and still cool.

And then there was Nate - gray and silent. The floor disappeared and it was sit down or fall down time for me. In the movies, babies cry right away…there’s no gray moment/hour of heart stopping silence. I was wholly unprepared. But, then he moved, and he made a little sound, and the world turned back on from the baby out to the walls.

The whole day was crazy and I’m so glad that I made it in time to “help." There was the afternoon ordeal, but that’s kind of glossed over now – and it’s not really part of the birth anyway (although it does contribute to the birth control!).

My husband is happy that I’ve had my baby fix for a while and that we can stick with just the dog for now. But really, what does he know? When I told him that Cue called the baby Dat New One he thought I meant Dat Nguyen from the Cowboys. Umm, wha? The man needs to babysit.

And The Blanket Goes To...

I had so much fun with all your guesses in the anybaby poll. Without further ado, let's dole out the points and see if I can keep this short for once.

Birth day and time: June 28 at 12:25 p.m.

Amber from Chantings from the Underbrush takes the 10 points with her guess of June 28 at 1:52 p.m. She guessed her own birthday and birth time. Nice. Aunt D got very close as well, but she's disqualified for being related to a blog sponsor. She was only guessing the day she arrived anyway.

Birth weight: Actual weight was 9 lbs 3 oz.

Andrea of The Sweet Life wins this category with her guess of 8 lbs 12 oz. Ten points. I don't even have to feel bitter about her guessing such a big baby, since our little Babynater (Matt's nickname, not mine) was even a bit larger. Sara J, Amy and IIDLYYCKMA all guessed close to nine pounds for honorable mentions.

How to make a big baby look small - let his very tall Dad hold him.

If our little boy had been a beer? I mean a girl...


We would have named her Hailey Pauline. Hailey inspired by Hale's Ales Brewery in Seattle. Pauline because we wanted a name that started with "P" for the baby's middle name. In the pseudo-Jewish/Yiddish/superstitious crap traditions of my family, you honor a living relative by giving a baby their initial. {You never give a baby the same name as an older relative because the angel of death can get confused. I know. Dark. Morbid. Welcome to my family.} My mom and Dad's first names start with "P" and so did Matt's Grandmother's first name. There you have it. Kind of anticlimactic.

Manic Mommy was the first to guess Hailey for ten points. Melissa Joff, Gayle and Akilah also had the right name.

Let's talk about sex, baby: BOY! Matt is a one trick pony. He makes stocky, ruddy lads.

Aren't they cute though?
Hit 40 from Sane Without Drugs was the first to predict we'd have yet another boy. She takes the ten points.

After all of the guessing, when the points had settled, I'm A Smart One hangs onto her lead and wins the handmade blanket. Congratulations!! We are all googly-eyed with excitement that it's you.


Email me, Kym, my darling, and we can discuss design.

Over and Under

I suppose, to be proper, that this should be easy and light-hearted, with lots of pictures and gushing professions of love. We are in love, all six of us with each other, but that's not all that's in me right now. I don't know all that's in me. I'm scattered like this post.

The first few weeks post partum are hard, whether it's your first baby or your fourth or your tenth. Hard and happy and sad and intense.

I'm a little overwhelmed. There's no getting around it. Nine days ago I had a handle on my life. We had a routine that worked. I could take my three toddlers almost anywhere, though some places (the grocery store) horrified me more than others. Now, I feel in over my head. I forgot those insistent newborn cries and the unrelenting urge to respond immediately with milk, comfort, with both hands, no matter who is sitting on the potty, or crawling into trouble, or ripping wires out of my computer. I have a new weakness in my usually easy and consistent discipline and it's name is Nate. My underlings have identified it and exploit it with ease.


(I can't believe I'm sharing this picture, but it pretty much sums it up, doesn't it?)

I'm a little overwrought. I'm wound too tight, walking a narrow emotional ledge between laughter and tears. It's a combination of things. Hormones, I'm sure. Plain old overtiredness. Part of it is just that it's over. You plan and hope and smile and dream and then suddenly it's happening and then it's over. Our third and final pregnancy is over, the birth, that first crazy-beautiful week. No more trimesters, no more moments in the bathroom, heart beating hard as I strain to see that faint pink line, no more ultrasounds or names.

Now, we live our family of six. That is so right and so sad all at the same time.


I've never had post partum depression, but I can imagine it. I can imagine it in the bizarre sadness that strikes me at certain thoughts, small and huge. The way I can cry because we are out of turkey or because the stroller is too heavy for me to push. The same huge, sobbing tears overflow when I walk around the corner and find Garrett lying on his side beside Nate, not touching his blanket, because I told him, please do not step on, molest, trample and/or touch his blanket, but gently stroking Nate's head, murmuring loving words.


Those tears find me every single morning when Quinn patters into our room as I lay beside Nate, nursing him. The cool, still morning air soothes my tired eyes and his firm, insistent pull relieves the pressure in my breasts. Quinn waddles to my side around his full diaper. "New baby?" It's a demand. "He's right here," I tell him, "he's drinking milk." Like an emperor reviewing his troops, he's gone to get the newspaper and make coffee with Daddy.


I'm absolutely overjoyed. I've always thought that 'overjoyed' was a strange word. It implies joy that is too strong, almost too much to take. This week has been full of joy like that. There's too much to take in. I want to sit for hours, curled into the corner of our couch and let Nate sleep on my chest, full to the brim with milk and comfort. But, Quinn pulls my hand, "Baby down, momma," he says imperiously, "baby seat. Momma come." I want to follow him wherever he leads. He is going to be two in just 24 days and I can't let this time slip away. I can't let him, with his chubby toddler legs and contagious baby chortle, slip away.



Simultaneously, Saige and Garrett hurtle towards four with all the momentum they can muster. Right now, they will still sit in my lap. Right now, they still bring me owies for kissing and treasures for oohing and aahing. Tomorrow, they won't.

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There's a bridge over the road that I take into the city. I drive under it at least once a day. It's a skywalk the connects a parking garage to the Women's Health wing of the largest downtown hospital. I have walked it twice, hugely pregnant, scared and ready, breathing quietly through contractions. Both times I've left the wing by another door, where Matt could pull up close with the car and collect me and our brand new baby boy.

That bridge looms so large in my consciousness. It never fails to draw my eyes and cause a pang in my heart. In it's constant stream of traffic, pregnant women, elated families, friends with balloons, solitary men walking fast, women in wheelchairs, it personifies for me the constant cycle. There's the day I am there, giving birth to my second son, and then there's two years of days in between, each one with other women, other stories, and then there's the day I am there giving birth to my third son. The very next day, after I have climbed into our red car and driven away, there are other women crossing that bridge.

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Someone wrote to me a few days ago and mentioned that I was lucky. It surprised me a little because I know. I mean I really, deeply know that I am lucky. I wonder whether that part of me comes across here or maybe it is lost in my sarcastic sense of humor and the honest complaints and frustrations that I share.

I consider luck the golden thread that runs through it all. The unsaid addendum to every word I write. I'm overtired and lucky. I'm sick of playing with my kids and lucky. I just want a moment to myself and I am so very, very lucky. I am happy and busy and unsure and fallible and lucky.

I don't believe in being blessed. I don't have a god that rewards or withholds. I believe that the powerful force for order instead of chaos in this universe is too large, too cosmic, to smite or bestow. All that's left is luck and random chance. That comforts me, though I know it's hard for some to understand. Still, somewhere deep inside my pagan soul I resist drawing any attention to my perceived luck for fear that vengeful fates in billowing robes with wind wild hair might gaze on me with ill humor and take it all away.

We all have our griefs and our triumphs. We all have our intimate joys. We all have different words, I think, for that unbearable gratefulness that wells up inside of us and we all have different words for the place where we focus our thankfulness. For me, early in the morning with the sun-dappled maples outside of our window fluttering and this new baby curled like a kitten into my side I pray, in my own way. I thank the life force that holds it all together for maples and sunshine and new babies.


With a deep breath, I think, please, please, let our luck hold.