Details & more photographs anon....
Ms. Booty Homemaker Explains It All To You. --"Desperate housewife my zigzag!"
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Friday, September 23, 2005
Dreaming in Vivid Color.
Ms. Booty woke in the darkness of this early morning having had a round of disturbing dreams.
Despite my family's age old belief in NOT telling a dream before breakfast, I whispered the most easily recalled vision to my man, who told me it sounded like one of his own anxiety dreams:
My Mister showed up to pick me up driving his work truck. In the course of his workday, he'd found a tiny baby girl who'd been abandonned by parents who did not want her; thus, she died. Knowing that I'd feel the same, prospective parents that we are, my man decided that the baby girl needed to be returned to the earth that made her in order to be respectful of her presence and of her passage. Thus, we headed over to a natural foods market and made two purchases: one) a cloth nappy to dress the babe in, and two) a packet of stew bones to place around the babe when we lay her in the woods, the better to draw wolves who'd dispose of the body naturally as we believed most right.
Despite my family's age old belief in NOT telling a dream before breakfast, I whispered the most easily recalled vision to my man, who told me it sounded like one of his own anxiety dreams:
My Mister showed up to pick me up driving his work truck. In the course of his workday, he'd found a tiny baby girl who'd been abandonned by parents who did not want her; thus, she died. Knowing that I'd feel the same, prospective parents that we are, my man decided that the baby girl needed to be returned to the earth that made her in order to be respectful of her presence and of her passage. Thus, we headed over to a natural foods market and made two purchases: one) a cloth nappy to dress the babe in, and two) a packet of stew bones to place around the babe when we lay her in the woods, the better to draw wolves who'd dispose of the body naturally as we believed most right.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Autumnal Equinox....
....whereby as of 6:23 this very evening, night and day become equal and Fall began.
My favorite season, Autumn feels fresh and more like New Year than New Year itself, where everything is possible: love, serenity, spiritual fitness, birth and healing from grief.
Surely much rests in the old school year calendar that still permeates such thought patterns as beginning anew each September. It's the opportunity to start with a clean slate and to be closer to what one is aiming for.
As I head into my fourth year of marriage and my first year of motherhood, with relationship certainly at the heart of things, I feel invigorated and glad of the New Year's gracious granting of both dark & light, equally weighed and measured. To step into the darkness, to let it wash over us with the belief that light will come and do same is a leap of faith we must take again, again, again, our pumpkin prayer to the Universe that Home, Hope, Hello be both mine, and yours.
Blessings this night on all our houses, that they be homes.
I waited a bit too late, it seems. No surprise, that.
So. Now my wedding ring has its own story.
My Beloved Mister lost his original wedding band -- we'd been married just over a year andwere returning south from one of our winter forays to his boyhood rural Michigan. As ever, we stopped at the dunes in Indiana along the old back highway. Hiked up and down 'em. Walked along the shores of the big lake. The dunes were icy and steep. When we got down the road a little ways, it became apparent that his band had stayed behind as hands plunged in and out of the sand! He was absolutely heartsick;I'll not forget the look on his face when he told me-- I was terrified of what was about to come out of his mouth as I'd never seen him look that way before.
Once I knew my man wasn't suffering from some terminal disease, the best thing of comfort Ms. Booty thought up to say was that like our pumpkin notes to the Universe, the ring became its own note and had returned to earth as a prayer of good will in one of our favorite places. Unless I've been completely hoodwinked, that really did help my Mister to feel a bit better, though it was months before we stopped being sick to our stomachs about it everytime it came up.
My Mister now wears a replacement band-- the original was purchased from the same jeweler as several of our beloved Titans use!-- the replacement is a slightly thicker white gold band than its predecessor and came from, of all places, Costco, where once upon a time I ran into one of the Brooks & Dunn guys near the big boxes of Cheerios; I do not know those fellas by name, but it was the blonde scarecrow looking gentleman. A very Nashville moment.
So my man's ring bears its own story and now mine, which had to be sawed off by a jeweler yesterday (thank you Chuck from Anthony on Elliston Place) awaits its resurrection as a full circle deal once the swelling has gone down and my hands are closer to normalcy.
In the meantime, Ms. Booty's ring finger is branded and Chuck the jeweler tells me it'll take weeks to heal.
I waited a bit too late, it seems. No surprise, that.
My Beloved Mister lost his original wedding band -- we'd been married just over a year andwere returning south from one of our winter forays to his boyhood rural Michigan. As ever, we stopped at the dunes in Indiana along the old back highway. Hiked up and down 'em. Walked along the shores of the big lake. The dunes were icy and steep. When we got down the road a little ways, it became apparent that his band had stayed behind as hands plunged in and out of the sand! He was absolutely heartsick;I'll not forget the look on his face when he told me-- I was terrified of what was about to come out of his mouth as I'd never seen him look that way before.
Once I knew my man wasn't suffering from some terminal disease, the best thing of comfort Ms. Booty thought up to say was that like our pumpkin notes to the Universe, the ring became its own note and had returned to earth as a prayer of good will in one of our favorite places. Unless I've been completely hoodwinked, that really did help my Mister to feel a bit better, though it was months before we stopped being sick to our stomachs about it everytime it came up.
My Mister now wears a replacement band-- the original was purchased from the same jeweler as several of our beloved Titans use!-- the replacement is a slightly thicker white gold band than its predecessor and came from, of all places, Costco, where once upon a time I ran into one of the Brooks & Dunn guys near the big boxes of Cheerios; I do not know those fellas by name, but it was the blonde scarecrow looking gentleman. A very Nashville moment.
So my man's ring bears its own story and now mine, which had to be sawed off by a jeweler yesterday (thank you Chuck from Anthony on Elliston Place) awaits its resurrection as a full circle deal once the swelling has gone down and my hands are closer to normalcy.
In the meantime, Ms. Booty's ring finger is branded and Chuck the jeweler tells me it'll take weeks to heal.
I waited a bit too late, it seems. No surprise, that.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Wedding Band Blues.
So this hot hot summer of gestation has resulted in swelling. No surprise there.I can wear precisely two pair of my shoes, and bothwere purchased just for the summer: some low structure Birks and a pair of Crocs.
Now, the going off sugar and replacing refined products w/ whole grain helped. A Lot.
But now in the last hours, days, weeks...(?) Ms. Booty's got a problem. While my antique family heirloom solitaire has been off my hand for several months now, my wedding band is STUCK on this puffy little sausage looking finger. I can not for the life of me get it off. We've tried icing it down, oiling it, soaping it, lotioning it. Middle of the night I even tried Windex, which I have to say, came the closest to working. But if I can't get it off and pretty damned quickly, I'll have to get it cut off.
Ms. Booty isn't the kind of woman to frequent fancy ass jewelery stores, but is, as of today, going to scout out the resources. If the last attempts to wiggle this sucker off fail, fireman or jeweler, one, will need to saw my band off and I can get it soldered back together at a later time. Both midwife & doula have expressed concern that it be off my hand by the time of birth, as it's not unheard of to swell more during and / or after labor.
Yow. My precious. This gets a little Middle Earth for Ms. Booty, in such unfamiliar territory are we.
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Revisiting: How Does Your Ziggy Grow?
This letter was originally written and sent to family & friends on Sunday 22 May, 2005. It seems only right & proper to revisit its contents at the current time....
Friday, my last day of work at Renewal House was also the day of our ultrasound. I purposefully scheduled it for that day, thinking it'd be a great way to blow it all out in high festive style....
As you may recall, I wasn't initially down with the idea of an ultrasound OR of finding out the babe's sex; after much consideration, discussion with my husband, our midwife and with a therapist I've been working with, I decided that it'd be best for all to learn as much as possible to properly prepare and bond. And I got very excited about the prospect of seeing our babe again, and learning more about who it was going to be, a process in which we will be engaged for the rest of our lives.
Thursday night, as with several nights in the weeks preceding, I curled up with my beloved on the couch to watch the basketball. Generally speaking, during basketball games this time of the year, E intently watches, laughs, cheers, answers all my many questions which range from actual sporting type questions ("These guys play less fluidly, right? That's a conference thing, right? Because they focus more on defense?") to things like, "Don't you think he looks angry? He's having a bad night, what do you think?" or "Now who's he married to again?" and "What do you think really happened with Kobe Bryant and that woman?".
This year: no different. Except that hot chicken gives me heartburn so we're doing that less and exist in that place between drowsing off and thumbing through a copy of Baby Bargains, asking E additional questions about gear preferences for this new being in our lives.
So Thursday night is like many another. We've eaten supper (various leftovers: fruit, cheese, crackers & soup for me; roasted chicken and other tidbits for E) casually camped out in the living room, our rickety coffee table serving as a dining surface (I vow we'll get rid of it as soon as the just right thing presents itself on one of our yard sale forays). The game is on, the dog is sprawled out on the floor, I'm nodding off. And then: movement. Movement such as I have been feeling in fits and starts since week fourteen of my pregnancy, the force of same growing stronger with each passing week. Here at almost 22 weeks, the movement is distinct, precise; a forcefully gentle pressing within my womb which feels like a foot or a fist stretching into the boundaries of its miraculously malleable home. When I tell E that Ziggy is getting active, he asks to feel, so I lay back into the arm of the sofa, feet in his lap, and place his hand low on my abdomen. E's face lights up and goes from knowing to a question mark. He has, it seems, been anticipating what looks in the movies to be kung fu kick strength with the need to draw back in great surprise, as opposed to this gentle prodding, saying: I am here.... do you feel me? Then Ziggy lets him have it. A good one. We are laughing and cozying in closer to this life and it seems appropriate that any child of my man would hang with Daddy during the ballgame, and punctuate such presence with a good push.
Later during the evening, I go to bed; E stays up late to watch the second game. Yet I am awake again in the wee hours of the morning, excitedly anticipating the coming day's events. I lay in bed and look at the constellations E has made for made for me on the ceiling, hand on belly, living the waking dream, the fuzzy snore of my husband, slumbering peacefully beside me, a soothing and familiar refrain.
Friday I dress for fun, tying my wild hair up in a long silk scarf, given me by my co-workers as a parting gift (along with a pair of baby booties in teal and purple handwoven Guatamalen fabric, and a fabulously generous gift certificate, all from my favorite global / artsy emporium near Vanderbilt's campus). It's E's one day off a week, but he's planning on going for part of the morning in to the shop to deal with his truck at Nashville's Table; it needs cleaning and to be dropped off for servicing. This, my last day working at the agency, will be a good one, I am determined. I've been feted the day previous with a potluck luncheon and the aforementioned gifts. I have completed, with grace and king fu heart, a potentially sticky exit interview, thanks to much preparation and never a moment's hesitation from the time I decided to leave. My priorities are clear, I feel very much in alignment of what is right and proper for me and mine. There is much to be done, but I know I am up to it, and in a few hours, I'll be meeting my man at the swanky imaging center to see our babe on the screen....
When I arrive fifteen minutes early for my appointment, pulling into the drive of the Crystal Terrace building, there is my husband, sitting and smiling on a garden wall in front of the main entry. He meets me in the garage by my car. We are grounded and happy and feeling exceptionally close. A family.
I tell E that I hardly recall walking into this building on our previous visit; I was in another world, having an out of body experience. Today: everything is different.
When we are called for our appointment, the technician introduces herself. It is only later that evening, once we are home all crumped up in the bed that E tells me he didn't like her, he found her cold. "Me, too!" I tell him. She was no Stephanie, our last and much appreciated technician. No matter. We are in charge here. This is our day. Our baby. Our taking on home, hope, hello in this act of bringing a new life into a greatly flawed and compromised world. We know we will do our best, and that one of the greatest things we can do in this life is love and be loved, and in so doing, raise up a being of mindful presence.
E ties my gown in the back and I climb onto the table feeling like a primitive and rounded goddess of fertility in this most contemporary setting. My bladder is near bursting, as I've drunk 24 oz. of water in the thirty minutes preceding my appointment, as per instruction. Yet the moment E takes my hand from his seat in the chair beside me, squeezes it and says, "Babe, that's SOME belly...." I forget all about my mad desire to urinate and focus on the computer screen perched above my right shoulder and on my husband's solid presence to my left.
The technician squirts a blob of warmed gel onto my belly. E comments that it's like mustard on a hotdog. The hand held doppler goes down onto my abdomen and onto the screen pops our little one, this morning curled up like a plump little butterbean, rump and legs curled over torso, ankles crossed. tootsies moving to the beat of his own drum, hand waving. We see every bone in one hand as it raises above the head and pulls focus, upstaging everything but still E suggests that the heartrate seems lower than when we heard the heartbeat at our midwife's office just two week's ago. The technician lets the waves run across the screen and pronounces that this wee being has a heart that's beating at 138 beats per minute, which is, in fact, down from our last Ziggy heartrate monitoring. The head, across the temple, we are told, measures roughly 2 1/2 inches. We see the heart, the placenta, the developing brain. We see the femur looking thick and strong, the mouth and eyes and nose. We see our baby and watch with amazement, until the technician seems to wind down, at which point I speak up, "We'd like to find out the babe's sex, if possible." "Oh," she says, squirts another blop of gel on my belly and begins to prod at me, saying she's trying to make the babe uncross his legs. We see the legs wiggle a bit and relinquish their tight cross ankled hold.
"Ah," says the technician, "looks like we've got a boy in here." A boy. I look at E. "I was right," I tell him, "it's a boy. A boy.... !" E nods and looks for all the world like a proud and slightly mind boggled Dad would in such an instance. The technician points out the babe's penis, which looks from this view like a white protrusion in exactly the right spot. I point at the screen and say, "There?" Wow. Our baby. Our son. Our Ziggy. Our boy.
Just before the technician shuts down all the machinery, I ask, "So you're sure it's a boy?" "Ohhhh, Yes!" she answers.
In the hours and days that have followed since, I say dozens of times, "We're having a BOY" and "Babe, we're having a SON."
I run into our upstairs neighbor and friend J.J. I tell her our news. Kindly, she tells me, "That's wonderful! You two will make such great parents and the world needs good men. Strong women raise good men. And Eric is so great.... "
We're having a boy. Already, we love him and welcome him wholly into our lives. We can hardly wait to share him with all of you.
With love,
p & e & z
Friday, my last day of work at Renewal House was also the day of our ultrasound. I purposefully scheduled it for that day, thinking it'd be a great way to blow it all out in high festive style....
As you may recall, I wasn't initially down with the idea of an ultrasound OR of finding out the babe's sex; after much consideration, discussion with my husband, our midwife and with a therapist I've been working with, I decided that it'd be best for all to learn as much as possible to properly prepare and bond. And I got very excited about the prospect of seeing our babe again, and learning more about who it was going to be, a process in which we will be engaged for the rest of our lives.
Thursday night, as with several nights in the weeks preceding, I curled up with my beloved on the couch to watch the basketball. Generally speaking, during basketball games this time of the year, E intently watches, laughs, cheers, answers all my many questions which range from actual sporting type questions ("These guys play less fluidly, right? That's a conference thing, right? Because they focus more on defense?") to things like, "Don't you think he looks angry? He's having a bad night, what do you think?" or "Now who's he married to again?" and "What do you think really happened with Kobe Bryant and that woman?".
This year: no different. Except that hot chicken gives me heartburn so we're doing that less and exist in that place between drowsing off and thumbing through a copy of Baby Bargains, asking E additional questions about gear preferences for this new being in our lives.
So Thursday night is like many another. We've eaten supper (various leftovers: fruit, cheese, crackers & soup for me; roasted chicken and other tidbits for E) casually camped out in the living room, our rickety coffee table serving as a dining surface (I vow we'll get rid of it as soon as the just right thing presents itself on one of our yard sale forays). The game is on, the dog is sprawled out on the floor, I'm nodding off. And then: movement. Movement such as I have been feeling in fits and starts since week fourteen of my pregnancy, the force of same growing stronger with each passing week. Here at almost 22 weeks, the movement is distinct, precise; a forcefully gentle pressing within my womb which feels like a foot or a fist stretching into the boundaries of its miraculously malleable home. When I tell E that Ziggy is getting active, he asks to feel, so I lay back into the arm of the sofa, feet in his lap, and place his hand low on my abdomen. E's face lights up and goes from knowing to a question mark. He has, it seems, been anticipating what looks in the movies to be kung fu kick strength with the need to draw back in great surprise, as opposed to this gentle prodding, saying: I am here.... do you feel me? Then Ziggy lets him have it. A good one. We are laughing and cozying in closer to this life and it seems appropriate that any child of my man would hang with Daddy during the ballgame, and punctuate such presence with a good push.
Later during the evening, I go to bed; E stays up late to watch the second game. Yet I am awake again in the wee hours of the morning, excitedly anticipating the coming day's events. I lay in bed and look at the constellations E has made for made for me on the ceiling, hand on belly, living the waking dream, the fuzzy snore of my husband, slumbering peacefully beside me, a soothing and familiar refrain.
Friday I dress for fun, tying my wild hair up in a long silk scarf, given me by my co-workers as a parting gift (along with a pair of baby booties in teal and purple handwoven Guatamalen fabric, and a fabulously generous gift certificate, all from my favorite global / artsy emporium near Vanderbilt's campus). It's E's one day off a week, but he's planning on going for part of the morning in to the shop to deal with his truck at Nashville's Table; it needs cleaning and to be dropped off for servicing. This, my last day working at the agency, will be a good one, I am determined. I've been feted the day previous with a potluck luncheon and the aforementioned gifts. I have completed, with grace and king fu heart, a potentially sticky exit interview, thanks to much preparation and never a moment's hesitation from the time I decided to leave. My priorities are clear, I feel very much in alignment of what is right and proper for me and mine. There is much to be done, but I know I am up to it, and in a few hours, I'll be meeting my man at the swanky imaging center to see our babe on the screen....
When I arrive fifteen minutes early for my appointment, pulling into the drive of the Crystal Terrace building, there is my husband, sitting and smiling on a garden wall in front of the main entry. He meets me in the garage by my car. We are grounded and happy and feeling exceptionally close. A family.
I tell E that I hardly recall walking into this building on our previous visit; I was in another world, having an out of body experience. Today: everything is different.
When we are called for our appointment, the technician introduces herself. It is only later that evening, once we are home all crumped up in the bed that E tells me he didn't like her, he found her cold. "Me, too!" I tell him. She was no Stephanie, our last and much appreciated technician. No matter. We are in charge here. This is our day. Our baby. Our taking on home, hope, hello in this act of bringing a new life into a greatly flawed and compromised world. We know we will do our best, and that one of the greatest things we can do in this life is love and be loved, and in so doing, raise up a being of mindful presence.
E ties my gown in the back and I climb onto the table feeling like a primitive and rounded goddess of fertility in this most contemporary setting. My bladder is near bursting, as I've drunk 24 oz. of water in the thirty minutes preceding my appointment, as per instruction. Yet the moment E takes my hand from his seat in the chair beside me, squeezes it and says, "Babe, that's SOME belly...." I forget all about my mad desire to urinate and focus on the computer screen perched above my right shoulder and on my husband's solid presence to my left.
The technician squirts a blob of warmed gel onto my belly. E comments that it's like mustard on a hotdog. The hand held doppler goes down onto my abdomen and onto the screen pops our little one, this morning curled up like a plump little butterbean, rump and legs curled over torso, ankles crossed. tootsies moving to the beat of his own drum, hand waving. We see every bone in one hand as it raises above the head and pulls focus, upstaging everything but still E suggests that the heartrate seems lower than when we heard the heartbeat at our midwife's office just two week's ago. The technician lets the waves run across the screen and pronounces that this wee being has a heart that's beating at 138 beats per minute, which is, in fact, down from our last Ziggy heartrate monitoring. The head, across the temple, we are told, measures roughly 2 1/2 inches. We see the heart, the placenta, the developing brain. We see the femur looking thick and strong, the mouth and eyes and nose. We see our baby and watch with amazement, until the technician seems to wind down, at which point I speak up, "We'd like to find out the babe's sex, if possible." "Oh," she says, squirts another blop of gel on my belly and begins to prod at me, saying she's trying to make the babe uncross his legs. We see the legs wiggle a bit and relinquish their tight cross ankled hold.
"Ah," says the technician, "looks like we've got a boy in here." A boy. I look at E. "I was right," I tell him, "it's a boy. A boy.... !" E nods and looks for all the world like a proud and slightly mind boggled Dad would in such an instance. The technician points out the babe's penis, which looks from this view like a white protrusion in exactly the right spot. I point at the screen and say, "There?" Wow. Our baby. Our son. Our Ziggy. Our boy.
Just before the technician shuts down all the machinery, I ask, "So you're sure it's a boy?" "Ohhhh, Yes!" she answers.
In the hours and days that have followed since, I say dozens of times, "We're having a BOY" and "Babe, we're having a SON."
I run into our upstairs neighbor and friend J.J. I tell her our news. Kindly, she tells me, "That's wonderful! You two will make such great parents and the world needs good men. Strong women raise good men. And Eric is so great.... "
We're having a boy. Already, we love him and welcome him wholly into our lives. We can hardly wait to share him with all of you.
With love,
p & e & z
When Blue Jays & Crows Unite.
This morning's note from my father, the family's last standing old Indian:
Prediction: Paige, I saw a Blue Jay and a Crow, working as a Team to remove ears of corn from the yard and parking lot this morning (Tum and Jo Jo and I placed them yesterday). The squirrels for some unknown reason had slept in and I detected no movement from their nests, thus concluding from an old Indian belief that a birth is near at hand when Blue Jays and Crows unite and squirrels are struck by a strange sleep. So I shall now prepare a birthing fire, small embers with green twigs to make smoke for the next 72 hours! Blessings.
Monday, September 19, 2005
I Love Him, 'Deed I Do.
That face. My favorite face morning, noon & night. And I'll bet you dollars to donuts Ziggy looks just like him.
As four year old Sophie told her Mama Loca the other day, Babe: "I will love you all of the days."
Every last one of them.
Amen.
Sunday, September 18, 2005
Of Home & Hearth. That'd Be Hestia, Yes?
Nesting activities noted:
(or: what I'm doing to distract myself & keep active until labor decides to come on in full)
*Walked with My Beloved Mister & Bert to and from dog park; short but active visit.
(or: what I'm doing to distract myself & keep active until labor decides to come on in full)
*Walked with My Beloved Mister & Bert to and from dog park; short but active visit.
*Baked:
Two loaves whole wheat banana walnut bread
One loaf whole wheat lemony banana walnut bread
One loaf whole wheat peanut butter banana bread
One loaf whole wheat zucchini bread
Three tins whole wheat zucchini muffins
Two spinach & feta quiches
One chehini pie
*Washed heaps of dishes.
*Tumped one VERY large tumbler of water all over the kitchen floor, thereby mopping it up sock footed w/ cup towels.
*Spoken with Em on phone: she's GREAT-- overjoyed with her beautiful new baby girl.
*Spoken with my father by phone-- twice.
*Spoken with sister by phone.
*Woken upstairs neighbor up from her nap with fresh banana walnut bread delivery--oops! Sorry, JJ.
*Walked more with Bert the dog.
*Watched Steve McNair throw his second touchdown of the season. On television. Not down the road....
*Napped. Forty-five minutes.
*Swept. More than once. The dog hair wins. Every damned time.
*Eaten: one turkey sandwich with tomatoes on whole wheat bread, three slices banana walnut bread, one pluot (gifted me by My Mister, they're also called Dinosaur Eggs; a hybrid of the plum and the apricot, they are DELICIOUS!!), one chicken wing, one thigh. Protein is my friend.
*Packed my Mister's lunch.
*Frozen up bags of chili for quick suppers in the next weeks.
*Peed about thirty six times. Washed hands twice as many times. Pulled apron off and on each time.
*Water water water. Drank it. Hydration is my friend.
*Read dribs and drabs of this and that including information on the Dr. Sears website, and articles in recent issues of the Nation, American Baby, Mothering.
*Stretched.
*Fiddled with our packed bags.
*Washed more dishes.
*Prepped for supper; soon the Mister will be home. Yay!
Saturday, September 17, 2005
Also....
.... at the park today, I got pooped on. By an overhead flying bird.
I've always heard that that's an omen of good luck, so I'll take that.
As My Mister has just told me, based on a story he recalls from childhood, the moral of the story is: If the foo shits, wear it.
I've always heard that that's an omen of good luck, so I'll take that.
As My Mister has just told me, based on a story he recalls from childhood, the moral of the story is: If the foo shits, wear it.
Hurry Up And Wait.
No baby yet. Yes, I'm still pregnant. Yes, I'm a little worn out with it. No, I'm not in despair.
Fact is, at 39 weeks today, I feel far more relieved having gotten things at home at a manageable level FINALLY.... All the work at organizing I've been doing in fits and starts for months now is showing its fruition in some clearly defined systems and a sense of what my Beloved Mister calls the Where Does It Go game (there's even a song....). For the first time in the last few weeks of having consistently, though non-patterned contractions, and other classic hallmarks of impending labor, I feel truly free to have this baby boy without worry about what might be left undone. It's a fantastically freeing feeling.
Ziggy: bring it on, my love. We're ready for you, whenever you get to gettin'.
While we plan to stay here at home as late into the process as possible, the bags for us to take to hospital and for Bert to take to Sue's are all packed and lined up in the front room. Lists of who to call, what to take where and when to do what are taped to the back of the door. The labor candle is ready to be lit, the birthing bead necklace is close at hand, nourishing foods are at the ready. And as of last evening, we have a doula! The Mister feels relief and relaxation, and that helps me to tune into what I need for me, which is largely luxuriating in the magic of things and going as deeply inward as I seem to wish.
In the meantime, sweet Em had her baby girl two nights ago and her husband says she was amazingly strong. With baby Wren's birth, the balance was tipped and now over half of our childbirth education class babes have made their way into the world. It's thrilling each time we learn of a couple's new family member; we're so excited to look at the photos they zing over electronically and I'm delighted with the wonder of it all, over and over.
I'm determined to plant some pots of mums and anemones, as I want Ziggy to come home to flowers and those planted in the late Spring and early Summer have succumbed to heat and a stomping by the well meaning landlord, but we'll see if that's a something done prior to his birth or no.... Pansies, the Herdwick sheep of the floral world, are due to be potted up next month, once Autumn has officially begun and Middle Tennessee cools enough for them to flourish through the next three seasons. And it may be that I'm content to wait until I can sling up my boy and hit the front pots in the weeks to come.
I've got visions of baking quiches and banana bread this late afternoon, and of freezing up bags of chili. Nesting has settled in in a less frenetic way where it just feels good and easy, untethered to expectation.... Lots of Gillian Welch, Buddy & Julie Miller, The Staple Singers and Steve Miller Band on the stereo.
Bert the dog and I have gotten in a good walk and a lengthy visit to the dog park this afternoon, surprising our neighbors as we waddle by, my belly still round.... Still pregnant. Still waiting. Still smiling.
The only thing for certain is that the birth will come. The particulars will remain cloaked in what Maren Tonder Hansen calls the Mother Mysteries, and today, I'm perfectly content to let the mystery be.
Fact is, at 39 weeks today, I feel far more relieved having gotten things at home at a manageable level FINALLY.... All the work at organizing I've been doing in fits and starts for months now is showing its fruition in some clearly defined systems and a sense of what my Beloved Mister calls the Where Does It Go game (there's even a song....). For the first time in the last few weeks of having consistently, though non-patterned contractions, and other classic hallmarks of impending labor, I feel truly free to have this baby boy without worry about what might be left undone. It's a fantastically freeing feeling.
Ziggy: bring it on, my love. We're ready for you, whenever you get to gettin'.
While we plan to stay here at home as late into the process as possible, the bags for us to take to hospital and for Bert to take to Sue's are all packed and lined up in the front room. Lists of who to call, what to take where and when to do what are taped to the back of the door. The labor candle is ready to be lit, the birthing bead necklace is close at hand, nourishing foods are at the ready. And as of last evening, we have a doula! The Mister feels relief and relaxation, and that helps me to tune into what I need for me, which is largely luxuriating in the magic of things and going as deeply inward as I seem to wish.
In the meantime, sweet Em had her baby girl two nights ago and her husband says she was amazingly strong. With baby Wren's birth, the balance was tipped and now over half of our childbirth education class babes have made their way into the world. It's thrilling each time we learn of a couple's new family member; we're so excited to look at the photos they zing over electronically and I'm delighted with the wonder of it all, over and over.
I'm determined to plant some pots of mums and anemones, as I want Ziggy to come home to flowers and those planted in the late Spring and early Summer have succumbed to heat and a stomping by the well meaning landlord, but we'll see if that's a something done prior to his birth or no.... Pansies, the Herdwick sheep of the floral world, are due to be potted up next month, once Autumn has officially begun and Middle Tennessee cools enough for them to flourish through the next three seasons. And it may be that I'm content to wait until I can sling up my boy and hit the front pots in the weeks to come.
I've got visions of baking quiches and banana bread this late afternoon, and of freezing up bags of chili. Nesting has settled in in a less frenetic way where it just feels good and easy, untethered to expectation.... Lots of Gillian Welch, Buddy & Julie Miller, The Staple Singers and Steve Miller Band on the stereo.
Bert the dog and I have gotten in a good walk and a lengthy visit to the dog park this afternoon, surprising our neighbors as we waddle by, my belly still round.... Still pregnant. Still waiting. Still smiling.
The only thing for certain is that the birth will come. The particulars will remain cloaked in what Maren Tonder Hansen calls the Mother Mysteries, and today, I'm perfectly content to let the mystery be.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
And The Summer's Come Undone....
Yukking it up.... Sunday in the park. 
Ms. Booty & Mama Loca. 
Ziggy's first rock band tee shirt-- courtesy of Uncle Jeff & Aunt La. 
Hot Chicken in The 'Hood!! East Nashville's own Bolton's, whose chicken is tasty, but whose fish is WOW. My Mister caught this shot just at twilight.
Sister Dana celebrates her birthday AGAIN-- this time in East Nashville with the family favorite: Peggy's Cranberry Coffee Cake. This one did not hit the linoleum. 
Daddy Booty with his first Father's Day loot: camo Skip Hop messenger style diaper bag filled with goodies, including the Wee Block to curb errant streams from his son to be.... 
My Mister and his folks at the Taste of Music City.
Em & Sue at one of our frequent lunches at Taste of India. Mmmm. Get your naan on, sister!
Big Mama Booty and the Little Bit nieces readying for a swim at Diggy & Papa's in East Tennessee.
Summer's Siren Song: more of our life in pictures.
In the Booty Family's big bed: Just waiting for a little boy to join them.... Sharon's and Dana's girls: Mae Ruth (Ruthie), Gretchen Bliss, Haley Jo, Allie Marie & Autumn Michelle. What beautiful creatures!!
The Mister, Haley Jo and Ms. Booty at WPLN, Nashville Public Radio's Studio A.
Brother Jeffrey and sister-in-la Laura send greetings from Boston. 
My Beloved sprung a surprise day at the races on me!! Here we are at Churchill Downs in Louisville on a rare day off together. 
Taking it all in at the Taste of Music City on the Shelby Street walking bridge with the in-laws. 
"Ziggy is this big now!"-- The Sisters Booty at their folks' place. Uncle Jeff's childhood teddy bear, Scotty, is the Ziggy stand in.
Ms. Booty & Bert the dog -- Natchez Trace Parkway Bridge.
Random Hits of Summer.
Early one morning after a sleepless night; note decaf coffee, Mind Over Labor Book, prenatal vitamins, constant companion water bottle & the Sears book on Becoming A Father. 
Worn out after a doozy of a shower given by a bevvy of Diggy's friends-- Ms. Booty (only a week off sugar and swollen faced) and hostess Jo; the opening of gifts alone took 2 plus hours!! Those crazy church ladies are generous beyond belief!! 
Mama Booty shows mother-in-law Emmie Ziggy's goodies so far.... 
One Saturday AM, Daddy Booty espies his Mrs. and Bert the dog crashed out in their respective fetal positions after he's led them on a long walk down in Shelby Bottoms. 
Best Friends: Ms. Booty (greyer these last months) and Mama Loca. 
My Beloved Mister and me in our kitchen -- the in laws are visiting.
Ms. Booty Homemaker in the park on a Sunday.
More (Blessingway) Scenes: Ms. Booty & Her Sisters.
Lighting the Big Mama Labor Candle as Bert the dog looks on.
Hugging Karen.
Diggy, sharing wishes, lighting her Labor Candle.
A Mama and her girls. The color coordination was completely unplanned, though is very much of the norm.... we often show up similarly decked out.
Karen, working on the scrap book.
Beautiful Mel, beaming near Ms. Booty's front room altar.
Scenes From a Blessingway.
Sisters: Dana and her older sister, yours truly. At the Booty Home.
Lovely Sharon, hostess.
Ms. Booty's Mom AKA Diggy and Dana.
Ms. Booty: Belly & Bosom casted.
Bert the Dog looks on....
Ms. Booty swaddled in the nursing shawl knit by sister-friend & hostess, Kay AKA Mama Loca.
Karen is amazed at how big Ziggy's home has gotten since her last viewing in the second trimester.
Ms. Booty & her sister, laughing.
Monday, September 12, 2005
Bloody Show.
In the morning I lose my mucus plug. Call the Beloved Mister."Hey, now!" he says on the crackling phone from the cab of his truck, "that's exciting. I got an adrenaline rush."
The day proceeds with bits of bloody show. Birth is imminent, not necessarily immediate.
In celebration, Em & I lunch at Taste of India. After the last many weeks of powering protein, it is time to carb load. We get our naan on.
Last week I was 2 cm dilated and somewhere between 50-75% effaced. The babe's station had him at engaged, but just barely so.
In the last few days, the pressure in my pelvis feels like a bowling ball between my legs. It intensifies today. I have those low down sensations not unlike menstrual cramps where it's not really pain, but an awareness of discomfort that hangs with me. And holds tight.
Over lunch, Em tells me that 10 cm is the size of a Krispy Kreme donut. I imagine Ziggy being birthed from a donut hole deep within me.
With a wider gait from the lightening that's taking place, I wander Target in the afternoon, hopping up the last few things we need to feather our nest: a cover for the pad on the changing table, a sheet for the mattress in the antique cradle, a robe and a gown for me that'll withstand multiple laboring positions, lochia and breast feeding.
I purchase a precious book and a card for my Mister, to be given him when labor starts for good, or when the babe is born, I am not sure which. I am weeping through Target. Happy. Anticipatory. In love with my man and my boy.
I weep intermittently the rest of the day into evening.
One hell of a bloody show, I tell you.
All aboard....
Friday, September 9, 2005
Bless Each Home and Family & Steaming Cups of Raspberry Leaf Tea.
In recent days the usually social Ms. Booty has turned inward. A product of late pregnancy, Katrina & ensuing frustration and outrage at our government's shamefully / woefully inadequeate & inappropriate response, the prayerful focus on all those suffering.All of that, and being hit by this cold bug that just won't stop....
In order to get well, and to focus with clarity, I actually called off / re-scheduled ALL activities from Wednesday afternoon onward save for my appointment with the midwife yesterday afternoon. It's odd, because while I understand that in theory pregnancy is an immuno-compromised time and this bitch of a cold is to be expected, over the long haul, I've been so very healthy and feeling not just good, but glowingly wonderful.
I have at last conceded, however, that while I've loved being pregnant as much as anything I've experienced, I am at last a bit tired of it. My Beloved Mister just nods and smiles, saying, "I know, Babe."
To his great pleasure, while he's been working seven days a week for the last month, I've made myself pay attention to the needs of my body / mind & I'm just cozying in quietly with extra sleep whenever possible, books, hot baths, hot water bottle, hot tea. I've even made myself limit the ammount of disaster coverage I tune into, for as much as I want to know what's happening, rather than becoming desensitized, I tend to become too fixated.
I imagine I've simply created conditions to thrust me into final preparation for childbirth.... there'll be plenty of time for flurries of activity, and all that writing that'll shortly be cluttering up my head.
For now, it's relaxation exercises, kegels, stretching and perineal massage, plus evening primrose oil & steaming cups of rasperry leaf tea. I've continued to have near constant Braxton-Hicks contractions over the last three weeks & am dilating and effacing steadily.
Ziggy, my little butterbean boy, is head down and still kicking like a jack rabbit. And while his father proclaims that "he has options!"his position of the last few weeks indicates there's a possibility, and a fairly good one, that he'll come sunnyside up, which translates into hard back labor for Mama Booty.
And so it goes.
Over and over in my head, I sing the beautiful old spritual and send it southward to all who might need it:
All night, All day,
Angels watchin' over me my Lord.
All night, all day,
Angels watchin' over me
Bless this precious earth we share
Angels watchin' over me, my lord
Land and water, plants and air
Angels watchin' over me -
Bless each home and family
Angels watchin' over me, my lord
Help us all sleep peacefully
Angels watchin' over me.
Wednesday, September 7, 2005
Second Harvest of Middle Tennessee Needs You.
If you are looking for a way to lend a hand to the Katrina evacuees, Second Harvest of Middle Tennessee (located in Metro Center) is not only taking donations of food stuffs (at the main location or at your local Kroger-- list of most needed items detailed at website given below), but is needing able bodied folk to come sort donations and put together food boxes.
We were there Monday for a couple hours and plan on returning as we are able in the next weeks. We were grateful to have something to do that'd make a positive impact. When we arrived on Labor Day, there was only one other volunteer; when we left, there were a dozen or so others including a couple children and some teenagers. It didn't take long to get into a groove and put together boxes of food for families who'll be receiving them straight away....
Our local branch of Second Harvest guesstimates that these food boxes will be put together for the next month or so, both for the Katrina evacuees who've landed here in Nashville, as well as those farther away. Your time would be much appreciated.
You can contact the agency here, or go on over directly and tell the front desk that you're there with elbow grease:
Second Harvest Food Bank of Middle Tennessee
331 Great Circle Road
Nashville, Tennessee 37228
615. 329. 3491 (telephone) 615. 329. 3988 (facsimile)
You can learn more about the local office of this national agency here:
http://www.secondharvestnashville.org/
We were there Monday for a couple hours and plan on returning as we are able in the next weeks. We were grateful to have something to do that'd make a positive impact. When we arrived on Labor Day, there was only one other volunteer; when we left, there were a dozen or so others including a couple children and some teenagers. It didn't take long to get into a groove and put together boxes of food for families who'll be receiving them straight away....
Our local branch of Second Harvest guesstimates that these food boxes will be put together for the next month or so, both for the Katrina evacuees who've landed here in Nashville, as well as those farther away. Your time would be much appreciated.
You can contact the agency here, or go on over directly and tell the front desk that you're there with elbow grease:
Second Harvest Food Bank of Middle Tennessee
331 Great Circle Road
Nashville, Tennessee 37228
615. 329. 3491 (telephone) 615. 329. 3988 (facsimile)
You can learn more about the local office of this national agency here:
http://www.secondharvestnashville.org/
Saturday, September 3, 2005
How YOU Can Help Those Affected By Katrina.
As with you, my mind and heart has been much consumed with Hurricane Katrina, the incomprehensible devastation and the desire to do something of consequence.
Aside from donating money and / or blood to the Red Cross immediately, in the greater Nashville area, here are a few things you can do to lend a hand:
I. Titans Stadium & Steve McNair Foundation Clothing and Goods Drive
Randy Wolcott, in conjunction with the Tennessee Titans Stadium & the SteveMcNair Foundation, is spearheading a relief effort for the victims ofHurricane Katrina. On Tuesday, September 6th, from 7:00am until 7:00pm there will be several trailers at the Titans Stadium that we hope to fillwith non-perishable food, clothing & other necessary items & deliver tothose so desperately in need.
As we have all seen, the devastation isimmense & the need for help is great. If you feel you would like to help out, please see the list below for suggestions on what you can donate to this relief effort. Please bring all items to the Titans Stadium on Tuesdaybetween 7:00am & 7:00pm.
Items Needed:Bedding – Blankets, Sleeping Bags, Sheets, Pillows, etc.
Clean Clothing – all sizes, including children's & infants
Baby Food, Formula, Diapers, etc.
Flashlights, Batteries & Battery Operated Lanterns
Personal Hygiene Items – Shampoo, Toothpaste, Soap etc.
Paper Products – Paper Towel, Plates, Toilet Paper, etc.
Non-Perishable Food Items & Water
II. Second Harvest Food Band of Middle Tennessee
Second Harvest Middle Tennessee, located in Nashville, needs volunteers to help box up food donations this weekend. There is also need for non perishable items like pop-top foods to fill boxes with. Please contact them ASAP. You can do so here:
Second Harvest Food Bank of Middle Tennessee
331 Great Circle Road
Nashville, TN 37228
Phone: 615-329-3491Fax: 615-329-3988
III. Golf House Tennessee
Looking for a way to help? Here's one small way.
We are all devasted by the destruction of Hurricane Katrina. Clothing is desperately needed for the thousands who have lost everything. Go through your closets and sort out the clothes you are not wearing, bag them, and bring to:
Golf House Tennessee
400 Franklin Rd. in Franklin
next Tuesday (9/6), Wednesday (9/7) and Thursday, September (9/8) between 9:00 a.m. 5:00 p.m. - Outback Steakhouse's trucks will then transport the clothing to New Orleans or Baton Rouge.
The Tennessee Golf Foundation (a 501 c 3 corporation) will give you a receipt for your donation.
Contact: Bonnie Taggert
Tournament Director
The Vinny Pro-Celebrity Invitational
400 Franklin Rd.
Franklin, TN 37069
615-794-9399
fax 790-8600
Additionally, the Nashville Public Library has set up a page of resources here:
http://www.library.nashville.org/Links/Recommended/hurricanekatrina.htm
Aside from donating money and / or blood to the Red Cross immediately, in the greater Nashville area, here are a few things you can do to lend a hand:
I. Titans Stadium & Steve McNair Foundation Clothing and Goods Drive
Randy Wolcott, in conjunction with the Tennessee Titans Stadium & the SteveMcNair Foundation, is spearheading a relief effort for the victims ofHurricane Katrina. On Tuesday, September 6th, from 7:00am until 7:00pm there will be several trailers at the Titans Stadium that we hope to fillwith non-perishable food, clothing & other necessary items & deliver tothose so desperately in need.
As we have all seen, the devastation isimmense & the need for help is great. If you feel you would like to help out, please see the list below for suggestions on what you can donate to this relief effort. Please bring all items to the Titans Stadium on Tuesdaybetween 7:00am & 7:00pm.
Items Needed:Bedding – Blankets, Sleeping Bags, Sheets, Pillows, etc.
Clean Clothing – all sizes, including children's & infants
Baby Food, Formula, Diapers, etc.
Flashlights, Batteries & Battery Operated Lanterns
Personal Hygiene Items – Shampoo, Toothpaste, Soap etc.
Paper Products – Paper Towel, Plates, Toilet Paper, etc.
Non-Perishable Food Items & Water
II. Second Harvest Food Band of Middle Tennessee
Second Harvest Middle Tennessee, located in Nashville, needs volunteers to help box up food donations this weekend. There is also need for non perishable items like pop-top foods to fill boxes with. Please contact them ASAP. You can do so here:
Second Harvest Food Bank of Middle Tennessee
331 Great Circle Road
Nashville, TN 37228
Phone: 615-329-3491Fax: 615-329-3988
III. Golf House Tennessee
Looking for a way to help? Here's one small way.
We are all devasted by the destruction of Hurricane Katrina. Clothing is desperately needed for the thousands who have lost everything. Go through your closets and sort out the clothes you are not wearing, bag them, and bring to:
Golf House Tennessee
400 Franklin Rd. in Franklin
next Tuesday (9/6), Wednesday (9/7) and Thursday, September (9/8) between 9:00 a.m. 5:00 p.m. - Outback Steakhouse's trucks will then transport the clothing to New Orleans or Baton Rouge.
The Tennessee Golf Foundation (a 501 c 3 corporation) will give you a receipt for your donation.
Contact: Bonnie Taggert
Tournament Director
The Vinny Pro-Celebrity Invitational
400 Franklin Rd.
Franklin, TN 37069
615-794-9399
fax 790-8600
Additionally, the Nashville Public Library has set up a page of resources here:
http://www.library.nashville.org/Links/Recommended/hurricanekatrina.htm
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