Molly nursing, not in the middle of the night

It’s still dark. It’s winter, of course it’s still dark, but even in the summer it’s dark at 5:44 am. A cry comes from the baby’s room and I’m up and stumbling bodily to the door before my brain has even recognized the sound, my torso moving with purpose, working my legs and even less gracefully my head a step behind out into the dark. I pick up the baby, who’s always on her stomach now, sometimes an arm trapped under the side she rolled from.

I make it back to the bed and put her on my right even though my hand on that side is still tingling from sleep, because I always nurse on the right side first in the morning, saving the left side for the leisurely second side, the we-can-lie here-as-long-you-want side, the maybe-I’ll-even-fall-back-to-sleep-while-you-nurse side, but I never do, now that I’m getting solid sleep again.

The milk swells, stored and waiting for the breakfast-starved chubbermonkey to swallow in happy, hydraulic gulps. She latches on and patiently works her cheeks, in and out, three, two, one, here it comes gushing, in both breasts even though only one is in the mouth of the precious lover-baby to appreciate it.

Some gets spilled, from the second breast it soaks my top, more in the morning, less in the afternoon, by nighttime I’m so empty from nursing every hour there’s no extra for the wringing out.

Every day the circuit. Pressure of bursting fullness, of dammed nourishment-to-be; rush of release and flow and satisfaction; deflation of all-gone-ness needing re-stocking.

In my brain I keep getting to the still-dark phase, the before-letdown phase. But there’s no writing baby to suck it from me, no story baby who needs it to live, no other baby who will demand it whether it’s ready or not. Whether I’m ready or not, awake or still sleeping, tired or revived.

I wish there were.

I don’t believe that writing and motherhood should be incompatible, in fact usually I am adamant that writing makes me a better mother, because it is how I examine motherhood (my life, at this point), and because in the examining I see both the ineffable divinity in every day and the humor (or at least reason) in even the most aggravating moments.

But the past several weeks I can hardly pull back far enough from the here and now, from the one-pound Scout jabbing me unexpectedly, from the Spot girl who says she isn’t my baby anymore “your baby’s in your tummy” in her cute munchkin voice. Now that I know kids grow out of that voice, that they learn, eventually, to say their g’s and k’s, I want to pause her so she stays with me and urgently explains every detail of her day at college the way she does her discovery that pulling on the skin around her unbent knee doesn’t hurt, today.

On Sunday as we walked to church I asked her if she’d gone to the bathroom that morning. She said, exasperated, “I peed on Saturday, Mom.” I said that’s great, but that she probably really should pee everyday, and did she pee that morning? And she said, “I didn’t pee in the tub, Mom. My bum made bubbles in the tub, but I didn’t pee.”

Four days later I was making my bed upstairs, listening to the girls in the backyard through the open window. Their happy squeals as they jumped on the trampoline turned to tears (on Spot’s part) and protestations of innocence (on Susan’s part) and then I heard the sliding glass door open and close, rushed sobbing across the living room and up the stairs, and then she was in my arms, choking out a moving tale of bonked heads and owwie faces. Her eyes were streaming with tears, and so was her nose.

A smallish pink button slid right out on a trail of snot, and I was cheered in the midst of sorrow.

—–

We’re born loving stories. When I was a kid we couldn’t watch regular tv or movies on Sunday, so we watched old home videos, windy tapes my dad took while driving down the highway in Okinawa during his six-month tour there, windy tapes of us at the Oakland temple with the Meyers, windy tapes of me singing into Grandma Belle’s four-footed cane. When I got older we watched the Hank movie over and over, with Mom doing her wheeze-laugh that she can’t stop and Marcy and Brad discovering they’re not meant for the Actor’s Studio, and me yelling at Ryan (and Mom) to please take it more seriously, I have to reply to my prom invitation sometime this year. Two of my good friends are on that tape too, but then they were almost part of the family.

I read blogs for the stories, I watch movies for the stories, and I read my favorite books over and over for the stories. In Dead Poet’s Society (I don’t know if I’d remember this, but someone printed it out and put it with the New Eras from 1987 in the downstairs bathroom reading material at my mom’s house), Professor Keating says (insert “stories” for “poetry”):

We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, “O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless… of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?” Answer. That you are here – that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play *goes on* and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?

We need stories like we need water, food, and shelter. More than we need clothes. Except in winter, maybe.

—–

The Timpanogos Storytelling Festival is this weekend. Actually it starts on September 3rd (Thursday). It’s my first festival and I can’t wait. Mr. Bennet and I are getting a babysitter, and we’re going to get inspired and moved and motivated and filled up on stories. I know about it this year (their 20th anniversary) because I went to an event put on by Cherish Bound a few months ago. It was a fabulous evening, and if you ever have a chance to hear Wendy Gourley tell a story, it’s worth a missed appointment with George Clooney. (Okay, maybe not really George Clooney, but Wendy is such a storyteller that maybe she’ll be my answer when people ask, “Who would you love to have dinner with someday?”)

Cherish Bound gave us gift certificates to make story books. I was excited, because I’ve wanted to make a book out of my family-centered blog posts ever since Tara did a blurb book. But I’ll be honest with you: you need more patience than I have to get their software to work for you, but that probably says more about me than it does about Cherish Bound, because I am not known for my computer-related patience. (Please ignore Sally piping up that I’m not patient about other things too.)

I love the idea behind Cherish Bound — that creating, preserving, publishing our stories is of utmost importance. Amen. That whole “picture is worth a thousand words” has always bothered me just a little because I’m a slightly more competent storyteller than photographer, and usually I feel like if I could only express it right, my words should be able to say more than a photo, especially if I’m recording that Susan refers to a recent trip I took as “when you went to San Francisco to get our presents.” How do you get that certainty of center-of-the-universe-ness in a photograph?

—–

Moral of the story: Go to the Timpanogos Storytelling Festival if you’re in Utah, write and create your personal stories (for yourself, your children, and you country), and never assume a child doesn’t know what she’s talking about if she comes to you with a tale of a button up her nose.

But as I watched the dancers, in odd (but modest!) angel-nun costumes, and the high school bell choirs, in odd marching band-liturgical robes, swarm the stage in front of the choir, behind the orchestra and the elaborate Victorian Christmas decorations, all I could think of was the long rehearsals. The rushed dinners, the set-building and instrument tuning, the costume-sewing and voice exercises, the light checks and sound checks, and the driving and planning and parking and waiting and the taking-it-again-from-the-top.

Despite all the spectacle and the moments of great theater, it just wasn’t spectacular enough to transport me to that place where you forget everything going on behind the scenes.

Or maybe I’m getting old, and tired. When I read a good post lately, I think of the blogger hacking away at her computer, trying to tune out the kids or the husband or the shrieking mounds of laundry. As I eat a delicious meal, I think of the pots and pans stacked in the sink, and the garlic chopping and potato dicing.

At the Mo-Tab, I got goose bumps during the a capella sections of Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring, and we laughed delightedly at The Friendly Beasts. But several of the songs were a bit blah, despite the star-worthy voice and presence of Brian Stokes Mitchell and the moving dramatic reading of Christmas with the Longfellows by Edward Herrmann.

(Edward Herrmann was great, by the way; knowing that he played Goldie Hawn’s loser husband in Overboard only added to his performance.)

We were late picking up our kids. The show was longer than I expected, the underground parking garage was stuffed with concert-goers, and the roads were icy. We grabbed a snack at Carl’s Jr, and I had Dick put on coconut verbena lotion afterwards so our friends wouldn’t smell the hamburgers and fries on us and know that we hadn’t hurried home quite as fast as we could have.

It was all so exhausting. The dressing-up, the babysitter-arranging (including reciprocation), the smiling at our seatmates, the standing for Handel’s Hallelujah chorus, the sucking of seventeen cough drops and the fretting over driving in a blizzard and the pressing question of exactly who chose those bizarre habits for the angel-nun dancers.

We wondered if the evening was worth our effort. I wondered if it was worth the efforts of the hundreds of performers. How many moments must be sublime for a performance to be worth it? How many images in a post or bites in a meal?

Usually I find that if I’ve forgotten for even a second the toys scattered on the floor and the errands to be run, then a story or an idea or a prayer has been worth the time.

As her teacher Mr. Carpenter reminds Emily in L.M.Montgomery’s Emily of New Moon, the Lord would have spared Sodom and Gommorah if ten righteous people had been found there. That’s after he’s looked through her reams of poetry and found only a dozen lines worth keeping.

There are so many hands to be washed and lessons to be taught. So many dinners to be cooked and books to be read.

Will it be worth it to work at creating my own art?

I don’t know.

But it was worth it for Longfellow, who wrote I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day a couple years after losing his wife in a fire that burned him badly trying to save her. His son had been crippled in the continuing Civil War. He said “How inexpressibly sad are all the holidays” the year after Fanny’s death. And the year after that he wrote this:

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail
With peace on earth, good will to men.”

I know my youngest sister would find that hard to believe. Once Mary and Karen and I were driving along a dark road and I told them something I’d been thinking about for awhile. Karen asked if I just say everything that pops into my head, and I reassured her that I refrain from saying at least nine out of ten of the things that pop into my head.

I wondered today, as we did the usual Sunday things, what I would write on this the last day of the great NaBloPoMo (a day so significant that, yea, verily I say unto you, nearly 99.99% of all the earths’ inhabitants have never even dreamed of being aware of it).

What would you write if you only had one more month to live? And you can’t say “A letter to my family telling them how much I love them.” Pretend you’ve already done that. Or that your family, you know, knows that you love them, because you smell their panties to determine cleanliness WITH YOUR OWN NOSE.

And you can’t say “Instructions for my funeral,” because, get over it. Funerals are for the living, not the dead. I don’t know why people do that thing where they plan out their funerals. Does anyone really do that? A birthday party for six year-olds is about my limit planning-wise, so I’ll leave the funeral seating arrangements to the experts.

What would you write?

Your memoirs? Gothic poetry? That fiction story that’s been nagging at the corners of your mind for months? (years?) A rock opera? The great American novel? The great Madagascarian novel? A play? A screenplay? An inaugural speech for if you were elected president? I know, a BLOG POST. A postcard to your estranged mother in Australia?

A few things I’d like to write include:

* A romance novel that’s kind of a cross between Jane Eyre, Some Kind of Wonderful, and Suddenly You.*

* A hymn of praise/unworthiness. Take a classic measure/phrase pattern and preferably a tune that was once a Welsh drinking song, and write my own lyrics. Deep, forgiveness-inducing lyrics.

* Memoirs of that period in my life when I fell in love with completely the wrong person, about a year and a half before I fell in love again, this time with completely the right person.

* Some sort of motherhood handbook that tells the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Easy, because naturally there is only one right way to be a mother.

What would you write if you had only a month to live? (and you can’t say that you’d be too busy spending time with your family, telling them how much you love them. Let’s say if you have six months, okay? Surely in that much time you’d want to leave some sort of mark. What would it be?)

Jane

*I’m not recommending Suddenly You to the gentle readers out there. It’s a bit racy.

Posting every day for a month is demanding and specific enough that you start to hold your breath at the end, hoping you’ll make it to the edge of the pool before your arms give out. You think of all the other things you need to be checking off your To-Do list, and realize (half-guilty, half-relieved) that you can’t possibly deal with them until this thing is over.

Two quotes have been chasing each other like hamsters in my brain all month (yep, there’s a lot of space in there for hamster wheels and puppy dog tails). The first is so intoxicating, exhilarating, liberating, inspiring, and I have no idea what it really means (or, if, in fact, Ray Bradbury ever really said this):

You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.

Why is this so appealing? Why does it make me want to run BARBARIC YAWPING to an Edenic spring, tearing off all my clothes as I go and cannon-balling into the water with a splash that ripples all the way to the shore?

The second quote, I am all too sure that I know exactly what it means, and what it means is that I will never be a genius (i.e. “one who creates”) so long as I am mired in the motherhood. (Handy, right, to blame all my un-genius-ness on the myriad mundane moorings of my morassifisic life?):

A genius is the man in whom you are least likely to find the power of attending to anything insipid or distasteful in itself. He breaks his engagements, leaves his letters unanswered, neglects his family duties incorrigibly, because he is powerless to turn his attention down and back from those more interesting trains of imagery with which his genius constantly occupies his mind.

Perhaps William James just wanted an excuse to give his wife for why he was always late for dinner.

And I am the wife. Feeling (not-guilty-but-defensive) if dinner is not on the table.

Jane

“Not a buh. A baby.” He smiled encouragingly.

“You’re sure? Like seventy percent or eighty? I know you doctors love percentages.” Please-oh-please let it be eighty-five or ninety. She could cope with ninety percent.

“‘Fraid not. Pregnancy’s one of those 100-percent things.” He frowned. “This isn’t so terrible, is it? It says here you’re married, and you’re as healthy as any woman I’ve seen in twenty years of practice.“

A strangled sound escaped WonderWoman. “How pregnant am I?”

“Very. Close to one-hundred percent.” His eyes twinkled in a professional manner. See? Didn’t she say doctors loved their percentages?

“Haha. I mean, how far along?” She sat still, no fidgeting. Don’t let them see your fear. Maybe she’d rather chase a meth junkie down a dark alley, but no doctor was going to scare her.

“Well, you’re about ten weeks, so I guess if you’re sure you don’t want the baby . . .“

“Oh, it’s not that I don’t want it. I mean, I don’t want it, I think, but I don’t not want it either.” What would WonderHubs think? Were they ready to be parents? Was she ready to be WonderMom?

The doctor sighed. “I know this is a big change. But relax, you’ve got six months to prepare, and no one expects you to turn into SuperMom overnight, either.

A wry smile. “No. No one expects SuperMom anymore, do they?”

“One decision you need to make soon is whether you want me to refer you to an obstetrician or a midwife or – who’s your regular doctor?”

“You’re my regular doctor.”

“But I haven’t seen you in ten years!“

She shrugged. “Like you said, I’m pretty healthy, and I get a lot of, uh, exercise.”

“Good, good,” he said. “Some women compare labor to a marathon – it’s not a stretch to say that you should definitely be training. Your visible muscle tone is fabulous, but you’ll want to get started on your Kegels right away.”

“Kegels?”

“Pelvic floor exercises. They help with the urinary incontinence associated with labor and delivery.”

“Gee, doc, you’re making this pregnancy gig sound really good.“

“ Sorry.” Again with the twinkle. Bet he wouldn’t laugh if someone signed him up for incontinence duty.

“Now, nutrition: here’s a list of banned items.”

“Oh, I know: No alcohol, right?”

“Right — along with shellfish, soft cheese, excessive caffeine.”

“Excessive — that’s another joke, right?”

“Sorry, no.” He smiled again. “Any other questions before we see you next time? Don’t forget your vitamins, only not in the morning – iron’ll aggravate the morning sickness. Extra sleep, liquids (not caffeine), sleep on your left side, Kegels morning and night, nothing spicy, especially before bed. Oh, and remember you’re not really eating for two – more like for one and a tenth. But most of all, relax. Enjoy it. That baby’ll be here and needing you well-rested before you know it.”

“Thanks, Doc. I guess I’ll, uh, see you in, uh . . .”

“For now it’s every month. See you then!”

WonderWoman stumbled, heroically, to the receptionist’s desk.

“Ok, hon. You’re going to be coming regularly, so is one day of the week better?”

“How about Tuesdays?” Good idea. Most people were still recovering from their weekend crime-sprees, so Tuesdays were usually slow. But with hurricane season approaching. . .

“I should have asked the doctor – do you know if I should not be flying?”

“Flying’s okay for now. Ask next time about when you should restrict your travel. Okay, then. We’ve got you down for Tuesday the 12th at ten. Take care!”

WonderWoman nodded. Maybe she’d take the rest of the day off. Let WonderHubs save the world for once. It would still be there tomorrow. Today there were Kegels to be done and vitamins to take. And naps to be napped. She hadn’t felt this tired since Fiji. And WonderBaby here sounded a bit more disruptive than some puny monsoon.

—-

Special thanks to Marianne of Writer-Mommy for inspiring me to try some fiction. Though I guess you can’t really blame her for this. Also thanks to the Write-Away contest for the topic.

—-

Even more special thanks to all those who entered this weekend’s Things That Must Go iTunes Giveaway. This coming weekend the giveaway is a custom LLBean Tote bag. Can’t wait to hear what’s bugging you this week!

Please, for the love of everything holy, go comment on my poor little offering. Thanks! I’ll even close comments here so we can pretend that I’m stopping hordes of you fine people from commenting here instead of there. I already know I have no influence on the children in my life. Let me retain SOME illusions, okay?

I’d offer exotic internet favors in return, but I’ve already pledged my soul to the devil for a DSLR camera via Twitter. Do you think the devil is on Twitter? I guess I hope not. Because I didn’t really mean it about my soul. Maybe a kidney?

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At the lunch, we remarked on the nifty plastic tablecloths. They were fitted and had a tiny edging of elastic to kept them from shifting. My dad was so struck by them that I volunteered to go ask the friendly, middle-aged zoo host guy where they got them. He and his helper were very chatty. I said the tablecloths would be great for church activities, and then later in the conversation he asked what I thought of the whole event. I said that the only thing not perfect was that I wasn’t sure that the paints being used for the birdhouse craft would come out of my childrens’ clothes. And he said, “Well, that would be a great topic for a Relief Society night.”

This caught me off guard and I didn’t respond right away. He said, “You know, getting paint out of clothes.” Still a confused look on my face, so he rushed to apologize: “Oh, when you said that about church activities, but, I’m sorry . . . ,” and of course I said, “Oh no, that’s fine, you’re right, it would be a great topic for Relief Society.” (Although it wouldn’t. Who wants to learn about laundry techniques on the rare night out with the church-girls?)

The weird thing is that I’m sure at some point in my life I wouldn’t have been at all surprised by his casual reference to the church I belong to. And at some other point in my life I would have been offended on behalf of every non-Mormon that someone would assume from a simple “church activities” that I was Mormon and not Baptist or Catholic. I’m pretty sure they have activities too. Not to mention his assuming that everyone knows that “Relief Society,” in Mormon terms, refers to the entire women’s group, and not some committee to send aid to lepers in the leper colony (although Relief Society women have been known to knit those funny bandages).

Now I’m at a point in my life where it was just awkward, and I felt bad for him putting me on the spot and for me putting him on the spot. Of course, it was even more awkward when, after he had taken pains to speak to the craft women and to assure me that the birdhouse paint was water-soluble, I spilled an entire coke all over the nifty plastic tablecloth and then had to stand around apologizing and feeling stupid while he cleaned up after me.

Not my finest moment.

Also at the lunch, a woman came over to Dick and me. I did not recognize her at first, though she looks much more similar to her pre-children college self than I do. In other words, she looks great. Turns out that the three of us were in Writing Fellows together, which was the class/club/ finally-I-know-who-I-am-group where Dick and I met at BYU. She is married to my dad’s, well, not boss exactly, but very-respected colleague of some sort. We asked some personal (awkward) questions in an attempt to catch up. Yes, those four kids are hers. No, the older two (including a 14 year-old) are from her husband’s first marriage. Etc.

Dick and I talked too much, in our excitement at seeing her and through her, re-connecting with our idealistic, impressionable selves. I often feel later that I have monopolized a conversation, talking too much about myself, my interests and I never know if it’s because I am a really insufferable person (probably) or if the people I tend to be friends with are just really good at asking questions and seeming to be interested in me.

We asked her if she was writing. And it was as if we had asked if she were curing cancer yet. She was bashful, a bit apologetic, wistful. (I guess if you felt you should be curing cancer you’d be REALLY apologetic). I stumbled to say, “Of course, I know with kids and all, it’s almost impossible to do anything else.”

So, no writing, except for some family history things, stories about her ancestors, that sort of thing. Which, of course, is “writing,” though it was obvious that she didn’t consider it to be the kind of thing that we were talking about. Even after we told her we mostly blog, and everyone knows that isn’t a very respectable form of writing. And Dick is a technical writer, which everyone knows is selling out.

I wondered how I would have felt two years ago or a week ago when I felt like never writing another post, if someone had asked me, “Are you writing?”

Quite likely I would have screamed, “Are you KIDDING me? When should I be writing? Between the mopping of the syrup and the listening to the tantrums? Or the policing of the snack cupboard and the feeling guilty for pulling hair? Or the listening to the whining and the smelling stinky panties? I haven’t even had my Mountain Dew yet, and you think I SHOULD BE WRITING?”

I wanted to apologize, and yet, how could I? I’d apologize for the fact that her kids are taking up so much of her time, only she looks like she’s enjoying it, and her kids look really happy too.

The worst part is that Dick and I actually had cards to give her. I felt like a realtor, or a Mary Kay consultant. At least my cards were free at Vista Print and I only got them for that blogging conference I went to a few weeks ago. And they don’t have my picture on them.

Still, it was awkward, especially since she probably saw the thing later with the spilled coke all over the nifty plastic tablecloths.

The good thing is that, even though I have now stayed up another hour and a half to write this, and I’ll be paying for it tomorrow, I feel so much lighter, so much freer. Like I’ve apologized for real now, in writing, for all the awkward things that happened today. And that, Dear Reader, is why I write.

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—

If you haven’t entered the Luvs/Anita Renfroe giveaway yet, the deadline is today at 10 pm. (Well, the deadline is that whether you have or haven’t). Tell me your Things That Must Go! Besides awkwardness.

Oh the Places You’ll Go: A Dick and Jane Seussical

You were Born. Happy Day! You’re a gem in our loupe.
Holy cow, we’re forelorn. Please oh please, NO MORE POOP.

When you eat, how you play, what you say, if you share
Your mom’s hair will turn gray with each feat that you dare.

With your friends on a lark, late each day before dark –
No more snark can Mom hark, you will go to the park.

With your hand on your dirk, you will fight the mad Turk.
Through all danger and murk, you must stealthily lurk.

All the rules you must learn, though you balk like a mule.
If a fool you won’t be, get your tookey to school!

Some days you’ll feel blue, or have things that you rue –
If your kite away flew, get yourself to the zoo.

One night at a dance, in your fancy black pants,
You will glance at a boy and discover romance.

For a kiss purse your lips, from all life take a sip,
Though your nose it may drip, never miss any tips.

And when you’re all grown, and have kids of your own
Though far you may roam, you will always come home.

—

Phew! Writing that was A LOT harder than you’d think. I read an early draft aloud to Dick and Sally. Sally said, “You know how in Dr. Seuss books there are like two lines between each rhyme? I think you have too many rhymes. Also, books usually have two things: characters and problems. You need some big problem for your character to figure out.” This critique would have really discouraged me, except: HOLY SMART 7-YEAR OLD, BATMAN! Who’s a good mama?

Dick and I talk about writing and blogging often. Sometimes he says really nice things about my writing, like what he twittered about my Equal Parenting post: “Jane’s eloquence and intellect humbles me.” And then sometimes he says things like: “Don’t waste so much time on it,” like he did about my poor Seussical. To be fair, this version is much better than the first draft. (So you can only imagine, RIGHT?)

I’m entering Scribbit’s Write-Away contest. I talked about her for about seven paragraphs yesterday, so you probably already know she’s my transparency icon.

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