Spring is my favorite. I'll say it. I've said it. I might say something different come the autumn but shut up. It's spring!
When I was a tiny girl in New York state, we had a next-door neighbor named Mrs. Thomas. One day every spring she would let me and my brother come into her yard and pick daffodils. There were rows and rows and rows of them, a little daffodil farm under a giant weeping willow. I loved how tall the daffodils were compared to me -almost up to my waist. Crazy white and yellow and peach and orange trumpets! And I loved how the scent immediately drove springtime home, drove it right up my nose, the imminence of the Easter Bunny and how gorgeous it was to play outside again. I loved how it felt in the shade of the big tree, cool and warm and perfect. We were allowed to pick as many daffodils as we could carry in our arms on that one day. There was the tiny tinge of sadness as we left her yard and hit the unlovely asphalt of the street on our 20 foot walk home, arms full of blooms, fun part over.
Here comes the boy, now, in just a few weeks. Could be 3 weeks. Could be 7 weeks. Could be anywhere in between. As we get closer to the day, the reality of the situation is pushing its head out more and more. We get these vivid moments, where the reality has this strange new texture to it. I can't get it right while I'm writing this, this isn't one of the moments. But last night I had it in rolling waves.
Goodbye, free girl. I can barely buy into the idea that I'm a woman. I feel so young. But somebody in the house is going to be THE YOUNGEST OF ALL and I will need to be OLD and GOOD and ON TOP OF IT. And also, the nice sadness of admitting that I am an actual woman, and I've always wanted to be one, and how sweet it will be to be old and good and on top of it and loving somebody small. That's the sadness of having a dream sort of come true, hitting the asphalt with my arms full. It will have happened. No more wondering what it will look like.
We're parents, we're parents, we're parents, we're parents, we're still parents, we're still parents, we'll never stop until we're dead, nothing else is so certain and so permanent. This is a string which ties us to our mortality more thoroughly than our marriage can, however exactly right our marriage is.
Already I love Dave in a way that aches - that, like our baby, holds our deaths in it. There's no time to appreciate him, I can't drink him in enough in any given moment. And here comes somebody else, who is going to drag this aching love out of me and be horribly central and precious to my life.
Dave and Finn, here they are. They're hired. They are the most extremely essential personnel that will be traveling with me through this life. So, it's you! You and you. Me, you and you. Of course, there are others, lots of other essential personnel, but these two - I will see them just about every day of my life. My life looks, will look - among other things - like their faces.
This large, lumpy baby is seriously coming out from between my legs. Seriously. You mean it. In a matter of weeks. And in the meanwhile, he's getting larger, you say. Well. Well, well. And if I try to make a break for it, the baby is coming with me anyway and will come out from in between my legs in Puerto Vallarta or southern Oregon or wherever it is I'm hiding. So, I am, as they say, fucked. Every night I'm online googling "good birth stories", "wonderful first-time births", "idyllic home births". I'm trying to re-establish connections with Ganesha, the excellent Hindu god who is responsible for the placing and removal of obstacles.
Hey, you great big good old elephant head! Remember me? Say, so, what...what do you think about removing some obstacles for this birth here? Hey, um, if you don't have anything else to do, you could remove some obstacles, maybe hook us up with one of those super-smooth births that I've read about? I just, you know, love your work, man, and just....keep us in mind! Oh - Om Gum Ganapatayai Namaha. Yes. Straight up to you.
Like many people, I become a total kiss-ass when I'm in need.
Tomorrow is our last childbirth class. Roll it out, lady. Break out the Ark of the Childbirth Covenant and open that mofo for us. Shine that face-melting light of knowledge right in my face. ANY FINAL TIPS YOU HAVE, I'M LISTENING.
P.S. The Beatles were right that happiness is a warm gun, only the gun is a bra that just came out of the dryer. Hold 'em up, y'old warm horse.