Still pregnant.
Still having tons of contractions.
Still feeling great in the mornings, exhausted in the afternoons, significantly uncomfortable at night.
Nothing terribly interesting going on.
I keep trying to compare this pregnancy to Suzannah's, but obviously that's ridiculous, and I'm only succeeding in driving myself crazy. I know perfectly well I could go into labor tomorrow or still be pregnant two weeks from now, and that's all fine; it's just hard for me, the eternal control-freak, to accept the fact that I can't predict when or how labor will start. Or how it will go. I know there's some annoying life lesson in all this.
Thanksgiving was, overall, quite pleasant. Matt baked his famous pies, my dad took care of the turkey and stuffing, and my mom cooked pretty much everything else and cleaned my house and put up my Christmas decorations. (See, Friday or Saturday would have been such a convenient day for me to go into labor -- so much help, a clean house...which is why I knew it wouldn't happen.) On Saturday, we drove up to Seattle and wandered around a bit; I wanted to hit up the Elliott Bay Book Company and we had some good coffee. I didn't think I'd make it to Seattle again before I had this baby, but suddenly it seemed like a good idea. And it was fine, but every time I start to feel guilty about leaving work before I'm actually in labor, I go out and walk more than twenty feet and realize that I'm really, really not up for working days anymore. Matt parked just down the street from the bookstore, and by the time I waddled in the door I was really, really uncomfortable. If I'm on my feet, I'm pretty much contracting non-stop.
BUT, I have officially passed the 37-week mark! Which means that whenever I do go into labor, I can head to the birth center and deliver with my fabulous midwife. It also means I can vigorously scrub the kitchen at 10:30 at night if I feel like it without worrying that I'm going to send my body into preterm labor, and that's exactly what I did last night. It took a long time, because by that time of night I am one big ball of Braxton-Hicks contractions and I actually have to breathe through some of them, but wow, did it feel good to scrub things. I haven't done much more than light dusting for over three weeks now, and my nesting urges have been pretty unbearable.
But it made Matt nervous. "Is this a LABOR PROJECT?" he kept asking.
"I don't think so," I said. But then I reminded him that labor, at this point, is pretty inevitable. And also, it's going to happen soon regardless of whether I scrub the kitchen or lie on the couch.
"Well, yeah," he said. "But you know me. I like to procrastinate."
At any rate, I woke up very much Not In Labor this morning. Matt and I headed to my 37-week prenatal appointment (I wasn't sure I'd make it this far!) and things are fine -- now we're just waiting. I vacuumed my house today (ahhhh!) and did some laundry and squeezed in a nap. It's weird not to be teaching. This morning I felt so energetic that I wasted a good chunk of time second-guessing my "early" maternity leave, but as usual, once lunchtime hit, I couldn't keep my eyes open or remain comfortably on my feet, so I guess that's my answer.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Saturday, November 21, 2009
36 weeks 2 days!
Oh, heyyyy, look at this! Still pregnant! Five days 'till full-term and I can stop worrying (or worry a lot less) about a hospital birth I do not want!
I actually sort of hesitate to write things like that, for a couple of reasons: One, I don't want to jinx myself and go into labor tonight (though I should hasten to add that I don't feel at all like I'm going to), and two, I don't want anyone to think that I'm dumb enough to assume I can predict the date on which this baby will be born or that I'm just SO READY to be DONE! I'm uncomfortable in that hugely-pregnant way, but I'm not miserable, especially because I've spent the better part of the last week easing into my maternity leave. I'm finishing up at school a little earlier than I intended, but I'm trying to listen to my body's cues this time around. Sometime during the wee hours of Wednesday morning after a particularly sleepless night, I realized that I just don't have it in me to teach my full schedule anymore; I wind up exhausted and I have too many contractions. (Teaching freshmen requires a whole lot of energy, y'all.) So I went to school on Wednesday morning and asked my department chair if we could possibly get my afternoon classes covered for the rest of the week. Since I'm already on a .8 contract, taking a half-day means I only had to show up to teach my juniors, and I love my juniors, so I had a pleasant couple of days. I've also had a lot -- a lot, a lot, a lot -- of grading to catch up on, and I know that if I taught my full schedule there's no way any of that grading would happen, because when I come home it's pretty much me just hanging out with Suzannah for the rest of the day. On the couch, if she lets me. Forget grading when she goes to bed, because when she goes to bed, I go to bed. I've gone to bed earlier several times, actually. I'm basically completely useless at night.
My juniors threw me a huge surprise party yesterday. I got to school shortly before third period, tossed my stuff on my desk, and ran (or waddled) up to the office building to pee during passing time. When I returned to my classroom, I was met by three of my junior boys, who blocked the door and began to sing -- a noisy version of "Silent Night," of all things. (They were especially animated when they sang the words "mother" and "child." Also, "virgin.") I laughed, then asked if I was allowed to go inside yet. I could see that my classroom was dark...
...and when I opened the door, they flipped the lights on and yelled something -- "Surprise!" or "Congratulations!" or something I don't remember, because I was busy staring, absolutely wide-eyed, at my room. They'd all gathered underneath a giant banner they'd decorated and signed, and the room was full of pink and blue streamers and tons of balloons. And food, from one end of the room to the other -- cupcakes and brownies and cookies and chips and breads and dips and huge bottles of juice and soda. I was literally speechless. I wasn't really surprised they'd done something, but I thought maybe they'd give me a big card. The fact that they threw this room together in six minutes flat and managed to coordinate so much food and so many decorations (when? I don't know!) blew my mind. And the dorky teacher side of me thought, what a cool class -- they work together so well.
There may have been a childbirth simulation involving a backpack and a baby doll tied on a piece of string. That was fairly horrifying. There was also helium, so the boys -- well. They did what boys do, and I was serenaded some more, with their squeaky little helium voices.
They were noisy and silly and loud and I loved them, and I'm more than a little sad that I won't finish out the year with this class. (But it was nice to have some closure; when I was pregnant with Suzannah, I went into labor so suddenly over Memorial weekend that I just didn't go back to school on Tuesday after a perfectly normal Friday, and I found myself in a funk on the kids' last day of school.)
I really am ready to be done at school, though. I'm starting to let the crankiness out a little too much, and it's not even towards the kids; it's towards every adult who had children decades ago and therefore feels strangely entitled to share their observations and opinions with me. I don't actually need to know that I look like I'm about to pop because my belly has DROPPED so MUCH this time! (Fun Fact: After your first pregnancy, you often don't "drop" until you are literally in labor, but it's not at all uncommon to carry lower. Shouldn't they remember this? They seem to remember everything else.) And also, I don't understand why my pregnancy and birth experience has to mirror someone else's in order for it to be THE RIGHT ONE. And ALSO, I have no patience for people who begin sentences with, "When I was that pregnant, I was still__________." Fill in the blank with whatever impressive thing you want, and then listen to me snap, WELL PIN A ROSE ON YOUR FRICKIN' NOSE. (I really did say that to someone who has a little more, ahem, authority than me at school. Thank goodness the principal looked amused -- and also very much like he wanted to be in a different room at that point. Yeah, it's probably best that I leave now.)
More than once this week I thought, you know, it's a good thing I won't be back to school until next fall, or I'd have to listen to everyone tell me I should be stuffing my baby full of rice cereal or she'll never sleep through the night, and also, I need to be teaching her to sleep on her own. By the time I go back, I will be so deeply entrenched in my ridiculous parenting ways that perhaps people will consider me a lost cause and leave me alone.
I actually sort of hesitate to write things like that, for a couple of reasons: One, I don't want to jinx myself and go into labor tonight (though I should hasten to add that I don't feel at all like I'm going to), and two, I don't want anyone to think that I'm dumb enough to assume I can predict the date on which this baby will be born or that I'm just SO READY to be DONE! I'm uncomfortable in that hugely-pregnant way, but I'm not miserable, especially because I've spent the better part of the last week easing into my maternity leave. I'm finishing up at school a little earlier than I intended, but I'm trying to listen to my body's cues this time around. Sometime during the wee hours of Wednesday morning after a particularly sleepless night, I realized that I just don't have it in me to teach my full schedule anymore; I wind up exhausted and I have too many contractions. (Teaching freshmen requires a whole lot of energy, y'all.) So I went to school on Wednesday morning and asked my department chair if we could possibly get my afternoon classes covered for the rest of the week. Since I'm already on a .8 contract, taking a half-day means I only had to show up to teach my juniors, and I love my juniors, so I had a pleasant couple of days. I've also had a lot -- a lot, a lot, a lot -- of grading to catch up on, and I know that if I taught my full schedule there's no way any of that grading would happen, because when I come home it's pretty much me just hanging out with Suzannah for the rest of the day. On the couch, if she lets me. Forget grading when she goes to bed, because when she goes to bed, I go to bed. I've gone to bed earlier several times, actually. I'm basically completely useless at night.
My juniors threw me a huge surprise party yesterday. I got to school shortly before third period, tossed my stuff on my desk, and ran (or waddled) up to the office building to pee during passing time. When I returned to my classroom, I was met by three of my junior boys, who blocked the door and began to sing -- a noisy version of "Silent Night," of all things. (They were especially animated when they sang the words "mother" and "child." Also, "virgin.") I laughed, then asked if I was allowed to go inside yet. I could see that my classroom was dark...
...and when I opened the door, they flipped the lights on and yelled something -- "Surprise!" or "Congratulations!" or something I don't remember, because I was busy staring, absolutely wide-eyed, at my room. They'd all gathered underneath a giant banner they'd decorated and signed, and the room was full of pink and blue streamers and tons of balloons. And food, from one end of the room to the other -- cupcakes and brownies and cookies and chips and breads and dips and huge bottles of juice and soda. I was literally speechless. I wasn't really surprised they'd done something, but I thought maybe they'd give me a big card. The fact that they threw this room together in six minutes flat and managed to coordinate so much food and so many decorations (when? I don't know!) blew my mind. And the dorky teacher side of me thought, what a cool class -- they work together so well.
There may have been a childbirth simulation involving a backpack and a baby doll tied on a piece of string. That was fairly horrifying. There was also helium, so the boys -- well. They did what boys do, and I was serenaded some more, with their squeaky little helium voices.
They were noisy and silly and loud and I loved them, and I'm more than a little sad that I won't finish out the year with this class. (But it was nice to have some closure; when I was pregnant with Suzannah, I went into labor so suddenly over Memorial weekend that I just didn't go back to school on Tuesday after a perfectly normal Friday, and I found myself in a funk on the kids' last day of school.)
I really am ready to be done at school, though. I'm starting to let the crankiness out a little too much, and it's not even towards the kids; it's towards every adult who had children decades ago and therefore feels strangely entitled to share their observations and opinions with me. I don't actually need to know that I look like I'm about to pop because my belly has DROPPED so MUCH this time! (Fun Fact: After your first pregnancy, you often don't "drop" until you are literally in labor, but it's not at all uncommon to carry lower. Shouldn't they remember this? They seem to remember everything else.) And also, I don't understand why my pregnancy and birth experience has to mirror someone else's in order for it to be THE RIGHT ONE. And ALSO, I have no patience for people who begin sentences with, "When I was that pregnant, I was still__________." Fill in the blank with whatever impressive thing you want, and then listen to me snap, WELL PIN A ROSE ON YOUR FRICKIN' NOSE. (I really did say that to someone who has a little more, ahem, authority than me at school. Thank goodness the principal looked amused -- and also very much like he wanted to be in a different room at that point. Yeah, it's probably best that I leave now.)
More than once this week I thought, you know, it's a good thing I won't be back to school until next fall, or I'd have to listen to everyone tell me I should be stuffing my baby full of rice cereal or she'll never sleep through the night, and also, I need to be teaching her to sleep on her own. By the time I go back, I will be so deeply entrenched in my ridiculous parenting ways that perhaps people will consider me a lost cause and leave me alone.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
35 weeks 2 days
Hello, my poor little neglected blog. Let's see if I remember how this thing works.
First things first: I did not go into labor last night and I am not in labor this morning! Of this I am reasonably certain! Now, you ask, why are you even announcing this, since you are not due for weeks? Because. Last night, Matt and Suzannah and I went out to dinner with Kyanne and her husband, and the last time we made actual concrete plans to do this together, husbands in tow, we wound up having the following conversation late in the afternoon:
And I didn't. I wasn't even unreasonably uncomfortable. We had a very pleasant evening at this wonderful little Greek restaurant in Kent, something I wanted to do while it's still relatively easy to hop in the car and go out for dinner if we feel like it...because I know those days are numbered. (And no, I'm not exactly planning to become a shut-in or anything, but right now all I have to do is say, "Okay, Zannah-pants, get your shoes on!" and we're gone. It's nice. And don't ask me why I call my daughter Zannah-pants, because I don't really know.)
Suzannah was an absolute ham all night. More than usual. She stayed up way too late, which meant thatshe slept in she woke us up about forty-five minutes before we normally have to haul her out of bed on weekdays. Charming how that works.
We've been asking her if she thinks we're having a baby girl or a baby boy, since everyone always says the siblings just intuitively know. Mostly, she announces that she wants a baby girl (is this the same thing as knowing we're having one, or is she just putting in her request?) but the other morning she switched it up and said, "Um...a baby boy." That afternoon, she flung her hands up in the air and said, "I don't know!"
Perhaps we're bugging her too much.
So anyway, things are going well. I have a nice stash of prefold diapers and covers washed up and ready to go, and this weekend my plan is to get some kind of storage for them. We haven't bought any of the pocket diapers I want yet, but I think the prefolds will last us nicely for the first several weeks at least (and really as long as we need or want them to). My other plan this weekend is to get everything packed for the birth center, since, as I recall, we hadn't packed a thing when I went into labor with Suzannah. Of course, that also means that I already know I don't need a lot of stuff, so this shouldn't be so difficult. (I always laughed at the "suggested" list of things to pack that you find in mainstream pregnancy books and magazines. Really? Reading material? Thank-you cards? Anyway, if all goes well, we'll only be at the birth center for a few hours after the birth, so I won't have to worry about killing time there.)
Matt has taken over all the vacuuming for the next couple of weeks; my midwife suggested that I take it easy at least until I hit full-term at 37 weeks. Which, incidentally, is twelve days from now, or Thanksgiving Day. I don't particularly feel that labor is imminent or anything, and I'm more than happy to be pregnant as long as this baby needs me to be, but Suzannah was born right around 37 weeks so I feel like I should at least try to prepare myself for that.
I'm going to go right ahead and admit that it's hard for me to relinquish control of the vacuuming. Matt told me I'd just have to lower my standards (yeah, that helped me relax), but he's actually been really wonderful about taking on far more than his share of the chores around here. Then again, he informed me that he doesn't envy me, being the one to carry and birth our baby, so I guess it all evens out in the end.
First things first: I did not go into labor last night and I am not in labor this morning! Of this I am reasonably certain! Now, you ask, why are you even announcing this, since you are not due for weeks? Because. Last night, Matt and Suzannah and I went out to dinner with Kyanne and her husband, and the last time we made actual concrete plans to do this together, husbands in tow, we wound up having the following conversation late in the afternoon:
Me: Yeah, so, I'm feeling really tired and uncomfortable. Do you think we could maybe meet somewhere closer to home? I don't know if I can handle a car ride all the way to Tacoma.And a few hours later I was on all fours in the hallway, in very active labor with Suzannah. For the record, her husband totally called that I would go into labor that night, and last night when I told Matt we'd be meeting them, he called on his way and said, "Oh, by the way? DON'T GO INTO LABOR YET."
Kyanne: Uh, do you want to maybe just not go?
Me: No, I can go, I think, I just don't think I want to be that far away from home.
Kyanne: Are you SURE? Maybe we can just go another time?
Me: Well...maybe.
And I didn't. I wasn't even unreasonably uncomfortable. We had a very pleasant evening at this wonderful little Greek restaurant in Kent, something I wanted to do while it's still relatively easy to hop in the car and go out for dinner if we feel like it...because I know those days are numbered. (And no, I'm not exactly planning to become a shut-in or anything, but right now all I have to do is say, "Okay, Zannah-pants, get your shoes on!" and we're gone. It's nice. And don't ask me why I call my daughter Zannah-pants, because I don't really know.)
Suzannah was an absolute ham all night. More than usual. She stayed up way too late, which meant that
We've been asking her if she thinks we're having a baby girl or a baby boy, since everyone always says the siblings just intuitively know. Mostly, she announces that she wants a baby girl (is this the same thing as knowing we're having one, or is she just putting in her request?) but the other morning she switched it up and said, "Um...a baby boy." That afternoon, she flung her hands up in the air and said, "I don't know!"
Perhaps we're bugging her too much.
So anyway, things are going well. I have a nice stash of prefold diapers and covers washed up and ready to go, and this weekend my plan is to get some kind of storage for them. We haven't bought any of the pocket diapers I want yet, but I think the prefolds will last us nicely for the first several weeks at least (and really as long as we need or want them to). My other plan this weekend is to get everything packed for the birth center, since, as I recall, we hadn't packed a thing when I went into labor with Suzannah. Of course, that also means that I already know I don't need a lot of stuff, so this shouldn't be so difficult. (I always laughed at the "suggested" list of things to pack that you find in mainstream pregnancy books and magazines. Really? Reading material? Thank-you cards? Anyway, if all goes well, we'll only be at the birth center for a few hours after the birth, so I won't have to worry about killing time there.)
Matt has taken over all the vacuuming for the next couple of weeks; my midwife suggested that I take it easy at least until I hit full-term at 37 weeks. Which, incidentally, is twelve days from now, or Thanksgiving Day. I don't particularly feel that labor is imminent or anything, and I'm more than happy to be pregnant as long as this baby needs me to be, but Suzannah was born right around 37 weeks so I feel like I should at least try to prepare myself for that.
I'm going to go right ahead and admit that it's hard for me to relinquish control of the vacuuming. Matt told me I'd just have to lower my standards (yeah, that helped me relax), but he's actually been really wonderful about taking on far more than his share of the chores around here. Then again, he informed me that he doesn't envy me, being the one to carry and birth our baby, so I guess it all evens out in the end.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
The blessings of an ordinary life
This weekend, I:
haven't touched the papers I've been trying to grade since Thursday
haven't finished a letter I started to write in Suzannah's journal
haven't finished rereading Jane Eyre
but I have
washed and folded tiny little newborn clothes and put them all away in the baby's room
cooked up a huge pot of beef minestrone soup, which is simmering in my kitchen
collaborated with my three-year-old on various drawings on her easel
sung a lot of songs (it's been a musical day)
read a lot of books (Suzannah's, not mine -- but that's okay)
swiffered the wood floors in the dining room and living room, because wow, pug hair
added to our cloth diaper stash, which makes me feel so happy and excited
so I think it's been a pretty good weekend. Suzannah also had her first rehearsal for the Sunday School Christmas Program today, and I'm just so full of something that my heart is ready to burst. My little girl in her first Christmas Program. (My little girl in Sunday School!) We're practicing "Away in a Manger." Suzannah loves Christmas songs as much as her mama does (we sing "Jingle Bells" all year long over here).
I feel like I'm in this perpetual state of amazement at all this -- at Suzannah, this pregnancy, this family, this life. It's triggered by the simplest moments most of the time; for instance, when we were drawing together this afternoon, I asked Suzannah if I could draw on a particular part of the paper (we have a huge roll of butcher paper draped over an easel and we just work on "masterpieces" a bit at a time) -- she can be quite particular sometimes, so it's a good idea to check, lest she demand that I take it off -- and she tilted her head, studied the paper, and said, "Okay. That's fine," with an authoritative nod. And it was just so funny, to be sitting there on the floor with her, studying this paper together, deciding where we should draw flowers and rainclouds and stars and doggies and shapes, and I thought -- as I so often do -- where did this child come from? And her thoughtful three-year-face and her goofy three-year-old idiosyncrasies are suddenly superimposed over the pictures I've had in my mind all week after watching baby videos last weekend. Talk about surreal: my very bald, chubby-legged baby pushing herself up into an almost-crawl; those little baby babbles before she spoke words and sentences; those squeals and grunts that, even at the age of six months or eight months, were somehow so obviously her -- looking back on them, I can see her little personality coming through in the same way I do now when she giggles or teases or cups my face in her hands or stomps or flounces.
As I watched, I found myself trying to recall the exact moments those videos were taken. Sometimes I remembered them so vividly -- like the night Matt and I spread a blanket on the floor in the living room and laughed and laughed while she hauled herself across it in a spirited army-crawl. She was so exuberant on this particular night, so goofy and wide-eyed and silly, so amused with herself, blowing raspberries and pausing every now and then just to kick her legs seemingly from sheer silliness and joy. I remember that fuzzy yellow pajama sleeper and the way Matt tried to encourage her crawling by placing his watch -- one of her favorite toys at the time -- just out of her reach.
And then there were videos that left me perplexed, struggling to remember when they were filmed. There's one with my parents that I just don't really remember -- they're cheering her on as she scoots across the family room -- and I found myself searching through my little mental catalogue of their visits, trying to pinpoint the exact time this would have happened, the season, the month, even the date. There's a video of me standing at the kitchen counter working on dinner, wearing a t-shirt and work-out pants, casually chatting with Matt about something Suzannah's doing -- and it was such a sweet but totally ordinary moment. It could have been one of a million moments, although that's what made it so poignant for me to watch, somehow -- catching this little glimpse into the past and not quite being able to place it because it was so familiar, but so comfortable, so cozy, so exactly what I'd hope to see if someone showed me a random snapshot of my life.
At the same time, it made me wish I could record every single moment so I wouldn't miss anything, so I could remember every single little thing with brilliant, shining clarity. It doesn't seem quite right that any part of our lives should slip into a blur of ordinary days and nights, all blended together. Then again, that's rather lovely, too -- remembering the ordinariness collectively (Saturday morning waffles, extra stolen moments of sleep, cozy dinners, bumping into each other in the kitchen, dancing before bed, snuggling on the couch with books and blankets, hiking in Discovery Park, driving to and from Seattle, singing at the tops of our lungs). I can try to keep and hold as much of it as I can, and I can record as many of these ordinary moments as I can, but maybe the beauty also comes from letting it go a bit, letting it flow through me, and becoming part of it, again and again.
haven't touched the papers I've been trying to grade since Thursday
haven't finished a letter I started to write in Suzannah's journal
haven't finished rereading Jane Eyre
but I have
washed and folded tiny little newborn clothes and put them all away in the baby's room
cooked up a huge pot of beef minestrone soup, which is simmering in my kitchen
collaborated with my three-year-old on various drawings on her easel
sung a lot of songs (it's been a musical day)
read a lot of books (Suzannah's, not mine -- but that's okay)
swiffered the wood floors in the dining room and living room, because wow, pug hair
added to our cloth diaper stash, which makes me feel so happy and excited
so I think it's been a pretty good weekend. Suzannah also had her first rehearsal for the Sunday School Christmas Program today, and I'm just so full of something that my heart is ready to burst. My little girl in her first Christmas Program. (My little girl in Sunday School!) We're practicing "Away in a Manger." Suzannah loves Christmas songs as much as her mama does (we sing "Jingle Bells" all year long over here).
I feel like I'm in this perpetual state of amazement at all this -- at Suzannah, this pregnancy, this family, this life. It's triggered by the simplest moments most of the time; for instance, when we were drawing together this afternoon, I asked Suzannah if I could draw on a particular part of the paper (we have a huge roll of butcher paper draped over an easel and we just work on "masterpieces" a bit at a time) -- she can be quite particular sometimes, so it's a good idea to check, lest she demand that I take it off -- and she tilted her head, studied the paper, and said, "Okay. That's fine," with an authoritative nod. And it was just so funny, to be sitting there on the floor with her, studying this paper together, deciding where we should draw flowers and rainclouds and stars and doggies and shapes, and I thought -- as I so often do -- where did this child come from? And her thoughtful three-year-face and her goofy three-year-old idiosyncrasies are suddenly superimposed over the pictures I've had in my mind all week after watching baby videos last weekend. Talk about surreal: my very bald, chubby-legged baby pushing herself up into an almost-crawl; those little baby babbles before she spoke words and sentences; those squeals and grunts that, even at the age of six months or eight months, were somehow so obviously her -- looking back on them, I can see her little personality coming through in the same way I do now when she giggles or teases or cups my face in her hands or stomps or flounces.
As I watched, I found myself trying to recall the exact moments those videos were taken. Sometimes I remembered them so vividly -- like the night Matt and I spread a blanket on the floor in the living room and laughed and laughed while she hauled herself across it in a spirited army-crawl. She was so exuberant on this particular night, so goofy and wide-eyed and silly, so amused with herself, blowing raspberries and pausing every now and then just to kick her legs seemingly from sheer silliness and joy. I remember that fuzzy yellow pajama sleeper and the way Matt tried to encourage her crawling by placing his watch -- one of her favorite toys at the time -- just out of her reach.
And then there were videos that left me perplexed, struggling to remember when they were filmed. There's one with my parents that I just don't really remember -- they're cheering her on as she scoots across the family room -- and I found myself searching through my little mental catalogue of their visits, trying to pinpoint the exact time this would have happened, the season, the month, even the date. There's a video of me standing at the kitchen counter working on dinner, wearing a t-shirt and work-out pants, casually chatting with Matt about something Suzannah's doing -- and it was such a sweet but totally ordinary moment. It could have been one of a million moments, although that's what made it so poignant for me to watch, somehow -- catching this little glimpse into the past and not quite being able to place it because it was so familiar, but so comfortable, so cozy, so exactly what I'd hope to see if someone showed me a random snapshot of my life.
At the same time, it made me wish I could record every single moment so I wouldn't miss anything, so I could remember every single little thing with brilliant, shining clarity. It doesn't seem quite right that any part of our lives should slip into a blur of ordinary days and nights, all blended together. Then again, that's rather lovely, too -- remembering the ordinariness collectively (Saturday morning waffles, extra stolen moments of sleep, cozy dinners, bumping into each other in the kitchen, dancing before bed, snuggling on the couch with books and blankets, hiking in Discovery Park, driving to and from Seattle, singing at the tops of our lungs). I can try to keep and hold as much of it as I can, and I can record as many of these ordinary moments as I can, but maybe the beauty also comes from letting it go a bit, letting it flow through me, and becoming part of it, again and again.
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