Ode to Function

"The smoke of my own breath,
Echoes, ripples, buzz'd whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine,
My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs . . .

The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun."
-"Song of Myself", Walt Whitman

I have a really good pelvis.

Good, in the case of I'm-getting-ready-to-give-birth-to-a-9lb-4oz-infant, by the way, can be summed up in one word: LARGE. I am not just vain or optimistic. I was told this a week before my son decided to finally make his entrance, and my husband can verify the elation that ensued. I literally sang songs about my great pelvis, shouted them to the world in the parking lot as we left the office. For some strange reason this embarrassed my husband. I figured, since we were leaving an ob's office, all the pregnant women entering and exiting would fully understand.

Oh how things change.

If you knew me in college, or the few years that followed, you know that my 90-pound frame drew comments ranging from "I would DIE for that metabolism" to "Does she have an eating disorder?" (For the record, I ate like a hog back then, as I continue to do now. For some reason, the old body doesn't handle millions of calories like it used to.) Back then being thin and looking decent mattered to me. The body was all about decoration. It was a tool to help the other parts of me (my brain, my personality, etc) get me what I wanted, and I don't just mean a fine-looking husband.

Then, I entered career-land, and looking like I was a pre-pubescent twelve year old became somewhat of a liability when I became a teacher of twelve year olds. The pounds began to creep on. But it wasn't until Justin and I started talking "let's try for a kid" that I really became, well. . . not ninety pounds anymore.

Here's the ugly truth. We women care about our weight. Even the most intelligent, wise among us can't curb the desire to be thin. Some of us, of course, care a lot more than others. But I became a whole lot more comfortable in my skin, despite, or because of, my ballooning weight, once I became pregnant with my first. Suddenly, my body was more than a nice little vehicle to get me around life. It was more than a fashion accessory. It became a human-creating-sustaining machine. This is remarkable. This is a miracle.

Take breasts, for instance. Those two once useless lumps morph into these incredible baby-feeding-machines. Just last week as we were leaving the state fair, my husband caught two less-than-reputable-middle-aged-men staring at my cleavage (enhanced, of course, by milk at the moment) as I put Lucy in her car seat. As they passed by, giving me a smile and a wave, Justin remarked dryly, pointing at my sweaty son, snoring softly in the stroller: "Stop looking. Those things are HIS."

And so, though I'd be lying to say I love the way my thighs rub together and the slight double chin that can result from an unfortunate photo-angle, I've got to say .. . seriously, who really cares about a few pounds?! A few early-twenty-somethings and I were talking the other day, and they discussed, with real animation, the fear they have about getting pregnant some day. "I'm just going to blow up," one said,"I will have to work out every day before and after I give birth." (They, by the way, forgot to mention how incredibly great I look after just giving birth eight weeks ago . .. hmmm . . . ) "But look what you get out of it!" I replied, pointing at a fussy Zander. They smiled politely and continued on, exchanging diet advice, as if I had missed the point entirely.

I didn't miss the point. And to every mother, fat and skinny and somewhere in-between, don't forget to sing a song of yourself everytime you begin to consider all of the things you'd like to change about something as trivial as your face, your legs, your jiggly arms. There's one little ditty that you actually want running constantly through your head . . .

On Love . . .

You know those moms who declare that, the moment they laid eyes on their wrinkled, wet, smooshed-up infant, they had an instant connection? The ones that felt their life was suddenly, inexorably changed, that felt an immediate surge of love-protective energy power up their exhausted body? These moms couldn't help but proclaim, upon first glancing the literal fruit of their labor, "this kid HAS to be the cutest thing EVER."

Well, I am not one of those moms.

I'm told, upon seeing my wild black hair and squinty eyes, my own mother, drugged up on c-section drugs declared something to the effect of: "She's so ugly. Put her back." And I, too, was not blessed with the love-drenching-blindness upon seeing Lucy for the first time, and then Zander. As they placed my son on my chest just eight weeks ago, for instance, I couldn't help but think "he feels just like a slimy fish." And although I was glad he was out, thus relieving intense pressure and pain, I just had to point out to the nurses and my (slightly annoyed) husband: "He's not cute at all yet. Look at that bruised face and those exhausted eyes." But, to my credit, I also added "But don't worry. He will be."

And so it is with love and parenting and me. When Lucy was first born, I was embarrassed and quite frightened with the lack of instant love I felt. I felt, in the place where love should be, simply exhausted. I resented her constant neediness, and felt numb from the lack of dialogue you can have with a two day old. I feared I wasn't mom material. I failed in the only department that really mattered, the love department.

But then the slow miracle happened. This same miracle has been unfolding again with Zander. Each day, the kid grows on me a little more. And, if the pattern holds this time, by the time we hit Week 12 or so, I will be absolutely head-over-heels in love, and my infant will appear to me to be the cutest infat that ever walked the face of the earth. And I will no longer be a failure in the land of moms. I will simply join the host of other blind fools who think their kids are the smartest, most adorable, funniest things out there.

One more note on love for your children. It aches. My love for my mom, my dad, even my husband, feels sweet and mushy. But the love I have for my kids is fierce, is intense, and isn't altogether pleasant.

But for now, my job is to go nurse my eight week old, who is suddenly becoming more and more lovable by the second . . .

Shopping for baby bottles, childcare, and truth

I understand a lot of things. But I really don't get where decisive people get their confidence.

When I watch people lobby for political figures or parties, for movements, for ideologies, I watch in awe. When I see people rage at each other on Fox News, I am in a state amazement (slightly disgusted amazement, but amazement nonetheless). These people know what they believe, and they have no patience, no room for other opinions. How, for instance, can so many people be SURE George Bush is evil, when they haven't even met him personally? How, really, can I determine where I stand on any legislative issue when both sides make such a darn convincing case? But, most importantly, how in the heck can I determine which brand of bottles to buy my son?

I stood in the aisle at Target (with a slightly impatient husband, a hyper Lucy, and a sobbing six week old) musing on this very question. The first issue is that I breastfeed, so bottles have always seemed like somewhat mysterious, foreign territory. Aventi? Nuck? Dr. Brown? Cheap Target brand? They all claim the same things on the side: Reduces colic! Stimulates breastfeeding! No more gas and burping! And so, I stand, paralyzed with that familiar should-I-order-the-chicken-or-the-steak-and-the-waiter-is-in-a-hurry-and-everyone-is-waiting-on-me feeling.

Then there is choosing a preschool. This is difficult because they claim such opposite, but all good things. One claims to set my child academically apart from the crowd. The other claims to foster creativity and individuality. The other focuses on creating a global citizen, one that prizes diversity and learns many languages. Can't I have it all? Apparently the answer is "no". And thus is my problem with choosing ice-cream flavors, childcares, bottles, and political pundits. I want the good (and not the bad) of everything.

In case you're curious, I chose to order one of all three brands of bottles for Zander to see which he liked best. It turns out he doesn't care. He would prefer to drink from the tap. And as for daycare, we rejected all of the high claims of the preschools (which also ended up being sold for quite a high price) and decided to come back to the familiar daycare coop we belonged to last year. I'm betting that Lucy won't be the most global, academic, or creative kid in the world, but that she will do just fine.

Sometimes it's a roll of the dice. And sometimes you take a leap of faith.