Coming 'Round the Mountain

We had been waiting. Quietly and loudly. Patiently. Obnoxiously. Pacing and pleading. We had been waiting in lament and in begging. In indifference and in hope with the sureity that one of these days, for it had to happen sooner than later, that all this waiting would culminate in her arrival. It seemed like months but in retrospect it was merely weeks though time took on a new and varied texture in its passing. But that day. That very ordinary day something was different and with bated breath the waiting transitioned into something else entirely. It became the whittling down of hours and minutes to the arrival of the paradigm shift. The day when three would become 4. When our collective tribe of family and friends welcomed the newest one. The traveling one. The slow poke or lazy girl or stubborn soul who was not if nothing else, taking her sweet sweet time in making her dazzling appearance.

And then the long slow work of the long hard road began. I walked and wrote. Talked and read and more than anything else really, just cooked. Filling the ice box with salad after salad and fruit and anything I could possibly crave or desire after the work of her labor was in my hindsight. But I am getting ahead of myself. Very very far ahead of myself.

Slowly. The unfolding of this labor was a slow burning flower of magenta and gold. It was a gently tended tiny fire in the palm of my hand that with small whispered breaths and tiny encouragements was finally, becoming the engulfing flame I needed it to be. 12 hours after my water broke at 5:30am in a tinkling trickle that left me no doubt of the impending arrival of my daughter, the real work began. Drizzling honey start. Maple syrup at the bottom of the bottle rolling like lava in the thick of time beginning. Moving at the pace of glaciers she was. Talking with Rufus and my family in easy laughter and anticipation not knowing what I was really in for this second time around. Not even in the slightest.

And then. Then. The Mack truck. The train of fury and pain and dizziness that nearly leveled me took hold, without abatement or reprieve, for the next 2 hours. And I sank into the dark. Alone. Eyes closed. Animal breath. Keening and shaking. Cresting and tumbling and trying to remember that this work, that this consumptive and tidal and black and burgundy blooming behind my eyes work, was the most difficult work a woman can be faced with. I held onto the ribbon of husband's voice. Felt the solace of his hands on my back. His encouragement and the gentleness of his eyes keeping me in this present place reminding me with each crashing break of what felt like bone and skin and all that was human in me, I was going to make it across the divide of this into the new and waiting light. Work. I was doing the work. Hands reaching out to comfort and soothe. Drink this. Breath. Walk. Rest. Sweat. Cry out and don't try and swallow the words. Remember that you are alive and take the moment and be in the thick. Be in your body. Sway and hang on. You won't drown though that's what it feels like. Trust in it. Twist. Bend. Yell and hit and moan like the dragon you are. Roar. Push. Weight. Wait. Water bursting. Pressure. Breaking. Tears. Blood and blood and wet everywhere. And then, release.

Small slippery body pushing with all her tiny and ferocious might for that first breath. Perfect evolution of ten fingers and toes. Your eyes disbelieving. Your heart bursting. Your body, exhausted and proud and resilient. Your husband slowly like a meteor shower, falling in love. Baby. Daughter. Welcome to the world darling sparrow. Welcome home.

Waiting Game

It's maddening really. This waiting. This rushing and stockpiling and then nothing but static. The house is ready. And by ready I mean it's overflowing with this mystery baby's stuff. All the trappings in place for this mythical invisible child that we are all pacing the floor waiting to meet. Bursting at the seams and tucked into corners are quilts made by her great grandmother, just waiting to wrap her up. Hand knit hats soft as the belly of a kitten made by the hands of those we love stacked in piles wishing to kiss her wispy little head. Cotton and wool in dusty colors jumbled like a New Mexico sunset bursting out of dresser drawers and enough diapers to keep her and us, housebound for at least a week should we wish the seclusion after her birth.

And we're ready too. But she is stubborn. She is comfortable and no amount of walking or spicy food, sex, tea, castor oil, cajoling, jumping jacks, pleading and begging, pelvic tilts or praying is obviously changing her mind. She seems perfectly happy where she is and I am within an inch of reaching in and pulling her out myself. Yeah. It's like that.

So I pace the floor. I drink tea and enough water to float a battleship because my midwife loves to tell me just how dehydrated I am. I try and read. I write. I spin the hamster wheel in my brain. I do not pass go. I do not get to collect my two hundred dollars. I snap at my husband though by god the man is beyond destined for sainthood at this point and this is (no matter what anyone says,) not his fault. Though he did have a hand in my present condition he has born this journey with patience and understanding...that and lots and lots of beer. Or maybe it wasn't his hand that got us into this mess now that I think about it. See! I can't help it~ mean! I am mean mean mean. I feel my feet on the edge of this precipice and all I want to do is jump and I cannot. Maddening.

The hours tick by slow slower slowest until I find myself prowling the empty and quiet rooms of this house in the long moonless hours when I should be asleep. The half light from the amber lamp casting warm shadows on the walls and books as I hear the contented sighs of my dream-bound boys asleep in the other room. And I twist and sigh. Heave my enormity around the furniture like some insanely uncoordinated amazon woman trying not to crush the villagers with my reckless clumsiness. So I sit here and try and make some peace with myself. Try and get comfortable in this massive and planetary body of mine and try and remember my level. My balance. My quiet and still. I am attempting something like grace here. So I wait for the arrival of this daughter of mine and try and remind myself that this time is almost over. That soon, I will get to meet this star traveler and gaze into her knowing little face and then time will take on a whole new speed.

Breath. Slowly. Almost.

And Then There Were Four

He tucks his head into the crook between my shoulder and I take a deep, long, slow breath of his perfect little boy smell. All milk and clean sweet sweat and strawberry fruit roll ups. His small delicately boned arms wrap themselves around my neck and he squeezes me with all of his tiny might. The giant is hugging me. This ritual plays itself out 5 or 6 times a day lately and each and every time, it both surprises and delights me to no end.

I am trying to find time to write down these small shared moments because in a few short weeks his sister will be arriving and it will no longer just be he and I, arms wrapped around each other giggling ourselves deliriously. This transition is such a double edged sword for us. On the one hand we are expanding our family with the addition of his sibling which we are over the moon about and waiting to meet her is proving slightly nerve wracking in a wonderful first date jitters kinda way. Providing Joaquin with both a playmate and a very necessary alli against his father and I, it seemed only fair to him that we try and have another child to balance out the family scales. But then there is the other side to all this glorious anticipation and growth. The guilty side. The worried side. The reality that it will no longer be just the three of us and more to the point, just him with us has made me sad in a way that I did not anticipate nor did I expect.

I have spent the last year and a half being a mother to one baby. We have gotten to know each other in this passing of days. How we both need to eat when we're hungry or we get really cranky. How he likes a certain pillow to nap on and how he knows not to crush me senseless when we curl up together. I know he likes his broccoli barely steamed and his rice doused in soy sauce, just like his dad and I do. We laugh easily and play hard. We have hashed out this delicate and unspoken set of rules and ways of being with each other that is so organic. It has been a genuine pleasure having the time to get to know my son. And now that is all about to change in the most drastic way possible.

Parenting has become easier as Joaquin has gotten older and at this point in the game, I often ask Rufus what the hell we were thinking having another baby. We underestimated the potency of a few glasses of Jameson and couple of hours alone and here we are. We have had it so good between routine and bed and family help that we have miraculously created something couples with children often complain about. Time. And this coveted and hard won time allows us to do things we didn't think we ever would again. All those sleepless and dizzy nights of pacing a teething fevered baby on an already empty tank had us convinced that people were lying to us about it getting easier simply so we didn't off ourselves. We can do things now like have dinner and watch movies. And being able to have conversations about real life things other than whether or not the boy pooped enough today has done wonders for our marriage. We can read and laze, spoon and the holy grail of time for couples, actually have sex. It's amazing. And we deliberately screwed it up by getting me knocked up.

So we ride the changes the best we can and placate ourselves with thoughts of how a year from now, insanity and sleepless nights aside, there will be two curly raven haired moon eyed children keeping each other company, arms wrapped around each other's necks instead of ours, conspiring our beautiful demise.