The Power Within

There were three reasons I went with a midwife for this pregnancy:

1. I had a virtually complication-free pregnancy/labor/delivery with Woodstock.
2. The doctor billed me $2,500 just for delivering Woodstock. It wasn't even my doctor who delivered her, but one of the partners. He was around for only a few minutes total. My midwife charged $2,600 for the ENTIRE pregnancy, delivery and post-partum care.
3. I wanted to write my own labor/delivery show (as it turns out, I should go into writing ridiculously "truth is more exciting than fiction" screenplays, given the drama I managed to conjure up).

When I first got pregnant with Woodstock, I had virtually no opinion on the subject - which was probably for the best, since I also had virtually no knowledge of the subject either. Over the course of 9 months, I read a lot, talked to a lot of people and began to form opinions. Between my pregnancies, I continued to read and learn. My pregnancy with Pebbles' brought on a whole new dimension of learning.

Through it all, I've determined one thing - women should be given (and should take) the opportunity to direct their own childbirthing experience, medical complications notwithstanding.

My midwife and I talked a lot about what I wanted Pebbles' birth to be like. I had a great birth experience with Woodstock, but knew I wanted something more this time - more control, more intimacy and more dialogue with the medical establishment. We talked about my birth plan. We talked about my reasons for refusing a 39-week induction - standard procedure for patients on Heparin (standard only because it ensures the patient can have an epidural). We talked about how, after a pregnancy full of drugs, I wanted Pebbles to not have any more drugs in her system than necessary. We talked - and that was the most important thing. We had a dialogue, I expressed my concerns, desires, opinions and questions and she did the same. If she didn't have answer, we turned to the OB and the perinatologist I was also seeing throughout the course of my pregnancy.

It made me feel empowered - even through a pregnancy filled with all kinds of "surprises" (of mostly the not-so-fabulous kind). It made me feel like I was in control of things, which, for a reforming control freak is rather obligatory.

In the end, that sense of empowerment, that sense of directing my child's entrance into the world, proved to be almost divine. There is nothing like childbirth in the world. If you haven't given birth or been at the side of someone who has, you have missed out on one of the greatest moments life affords - because nothing comes close to replicating it. The births of both of my children were incredibly emotional and powerful. However, Pebbles' birth - nearly perfect were it not for Himself's absence - brought with it a whole new sense of power and awe and emotion.

Woodstock entered the world with me relatively calm - mostly because at the last moment, I'd opted for an epidural and could no longer feel anything but pressure below my belly button. I, however, was the only calm thing in the room. The lights were bright (it was, after all 9 in the morning), there seemed to be a dozen people, and the whole thing felt chaotic when she emerged with the cord around her neck. The resident snapped the cord, spraying us with blood. Woodstock was whisked away to help her breathing, then was weighed, measured, cleaned, wrapped and made "pretty" before I got to hold her.

With Pebbles, it was entirely different. I was in agony. No one seems to remember how bad childbirth is and therefore forgets to tell you (or opts not to). I'd forgone the epidural - not out of some hero complex, but because I really wanted to know what it was like to bear a child without having the lower half of my body deadened. I now know. And, truthfully, I really would do it again. It was hell, but it was the good kind - the kind that fills you with power and amazement and love and awe at the end, all of which cloud one's sanity and make you think it's possible to do it all over - just several years down the road.

Pebbles arrived with me the only one in chaos. I remember thinking I hoped the delivery room was sound proof because I was yelling like a banshee. In truth, it helped provide an outlet for my tense emotions so the lower half of me didn't tighten up and keep Pebbles hostage. But it sounded like I was dying. Everything else, however, was calm - almost serene. The room was dim - only one light. The pediatric team (I didn't even realize they were in the room) had been banished to the corner and was banished completely upon Pebbles' arrival. I witnessed the entire birth and felt the miracle of one's body doing everything just right. I watched as the little girl I had co-created entered the world - red, breathing and perfect.

One thing I had mourned with Woodstock's birth was not being able to hold her immediately - it was one of the most important parts of my birth plan. "If she's fine," I told my midwife in one of my prenatal appointments, "I want to hold her immediately. Everything else - including cutting the cord - can wait."

They cleaned Pebbles off as I cradled her in my arms. Eventually, Heidi cut the cord. Eventually, they weighed her and measured her and wrapped her in a cute blanket. But before all of that, I got to sit in the dim room, with angelic lighting, and marvel at the miracle of creation and birth and life. I didn't cry. If I cried, I wouldn't stop. The adrenaline prevented me from mourning the absense of Himself - only when it wore off would I profoundly mourn the one less-than-perfect part of Pebbles birth.

I felt good. (To be entirely truthful, I also felt a lot of pain - no one told me how many painful things happen AFTER the baby arrives!) I felt like I had made the right choice in birthing, the right choice in medical provider, the right choice in birth coach - and once again, I had drawn the right lucky straw in the nurse who spent the night by my side.

It will forever be one of the greatest memories of my entire life.

The experience made me realize just how much childbirth plays into the physical and emotional well-being of a mother, the bonding between mother and child and how empowering motherhood can really be. Motherhood isn't about being susurvient or losing oneself in dirty diapers, baby puke and sleep depravation. It is about holding hands with God, walking the fine line between heaven and earth for a few short hours. It is about creating and delivering the world's most precious resource. It is about being strong, believing in one's body and marveling at the miracle of biology.

It came from feeling empowered. It came from feeling in control and on top of the world. It came from the pain, the discomfort, the yelling - all centered in an oasis of strong, calm women - my village. It came from realization that there is an inherent bond among women when they experience childbirth together. It came from the sense of peace that flooded me as I held Pebbles in my arms - still warm and wet and sticky from her sojourn next to my soul.

For me, it was as close to the divine as I will likely get during my mortal journey. For that morning, I felt as if the veil drawn between heaven and earth was paper thin, and I was at peace.

The Martyr's Lament

This month's issue of The Atlantic has a "thought-provoking" (stab-yourself-in-the-eye-with-a-pencil-due-to-the-sheer-idiocy-of-the-argument kind of thought-provoking) article on the "outdated institution of marriage." (Side note: why must it always be referred to as an "institution?" - no wonder people are all for its demise. "Institution" sounds like somewhere youd send someone to be strapped to a bed and attended to by men in white lab coats, not something I'd actually wish to participate in.)

It starts by the author confessing to an extramarital affair. It then proceeds to detail her thoughts on how marriage is something best left to the 19th century agrarians where "it was considered to be a kind of trade union for a woman, her protection against the sexually wandering male."

People are entitled to their own opinions, though my brain is still sore from the verbal whiplash I endured as I bounced back and forth between her self-centered diatribe against stability, men in general and that venerable "institution": marriage.

The author, in the end, decides to get divorced, primarily because marriage takes (gasp) work - and while the author spends paragraphs assuring us she knows how to work (and is not afraid of it), alas, "Do you see? Given my staggering working mother’s to-do list, I cannot take on yet another arduous home- and self-improvement project, that of rekindling our romance."

Wait a second. So the thing that should be most important above all in your life is being flung by the wayside like a used tissue because you are too tired after being a working mother to rekindle the romantic spark? Clearly she had some time to kindle some kind of romantic spark, given that she's just confessed (to the world, her therapist and her ex-husband) to having a brief extramarital affair.

She then laments: "My domestic evenings have typically revolved around five o’clock mac and cheese under bright lighting and then a slow melt into dishes and SpongeBob … because yet another of my marital failings was that I was never able to commit to a nanny"

I'm confused. So her life would have been better if she had a nanny? (No offense to nannys or those who hire them - I, after all, do my part to keep a sitter employed) But you can't conjure up a better evening than mac-n-cheese and SpongeBob? She goes on to complain about pondering these things in the middle of the night while dodging the elbows of her grade-school-aged girls.

Wait a minute.
She appears to be trying so hard to paint a picture of herself as a martyr that she is inadvertantly painting herself as rather inept at life in general (or so it seems). Not that there is anything wrong with mac-n-cheese (my own kid loves it) or SpongeBob (at least according to Himself) or snuggling with the kiddos, but I see a self-centered woman who overindulges her children because she's too tired (or something) to parent and tosses away her 20-year-marriage over a fling because it's more work than she can cram into her "woe-is-me" working mother schedule.

Here I feel, in some ways, qualified to comment. I'm a working mother. I work 40ish hours a week, in an office. It's hard. It's tiring. It's something I'd rather not do for the rest of my life. But that does NOT absolve me of my responsibilities as a wife, a parent and a citizen of planet Earth. Nor does the sacrifices that being a working mother/wife require earn me martyr status. I am not a single parent, underemployed, working multiple jobs or on public assistance. Neither was the author (until she chose single parenting over the "work" that rebuilding her marriage would take). And her selfish pursuit of excitement, lust and the easy way (over-indulging the children versus having an adult relationship with their father) certainly does not qualify as either sacrifice or martyr status.

I can only imagine the shock and awe that would result from Himself if I waltzed in the house day after day and said, "Oh I can only manage to cook dinner from a box and stick Woodstock in front of the TV, because I can't possibly be expected to do anything more for anyone - I am, after all, a working woman." Never mind the fact that Himself (and the author's husband) are both employed as well.

Which brings me to the next portion of the essay in which the author joins a friend to rail against her friend's spouse (who holds a job, cooks, chauffers the kiddos and generally dazzles all of their friends), because *gasp* he is too "stable."

In one sentance she lauds his goodness: "More accurately, [she is] reheating dinner; the dish is something wonderfully subtle yet complex, like a saffron-infused porcini risotto, that Ian made over the weekend and froze for us, in Tupperware neatly labeled with a Sharpie, because this is the sort of thoughtful thing he does." Several paragraphs later, she gleefully skewers him for his faults, while at the same time absolving her friend's faults because she "She sees herself as a failed mother, and is depressed and chronically overworked at her $120,000-a-year job (which she must cling to for the benefits because Ian freelances). At night, horny and sleepless, she paces the exquisite kitchen, gobbling mini Dove bars. The main breadwinner, Rachel is really the Traditional Dad, but instead of being handed her pipe and slippers at six, she appears to be marooned in a sexless remodeling project with a passive-aggressive Competitive Wife."

As I see it, women have created (by and large) their own monster. We have begged, pleaded, groveled, yelled and demanded to be treated not as mere equals to men but AS MEN. In the process, we emasculate men, demand that they take on everything we can't possibly handle as "poor working mothers," and then whine because they turn into "passive-aggressive Competitive Wi[ves]" - who are probably leaving their partners without intimacy because they are TOO DARN TIRED TO DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT after a day of working, whipping up healthy meals and shuttling the kids to and from everything. Sure, they should focus on the relationship too, but if we're too busy crying "martyr!" and shoving everything into their laps, we hardly have room to complain.

Now, to be clear, I'm all for equal division of labor ESPECIALLY because I work. I want a partner in parenting, in household tasks and in life - in addition to someone who is also a romantic partner. But I'm not going to get that if I insist on whining about how rough my life is to be the main breadwinner, so therefore I cannot possibly be asked to do anything else. Isn't that the whole 1950s "Man gets home, gets pipe and newspaper ignores family" scenario that we as women have been campaigning against for some 50 years, only with the gender roles reversed?"

I want to know what is wrong with the "stable men" she rails against in her article. What's so wrong with being stable? Stable doesn't have to mean boring, and if it does, maybe she'd best look at herself as she critizes everyone else ... look where it got her ... at least now she can play the "woe is me, SINGLE working mom" card.

The problem is, she seems to confuse Love with Lust - which even a scientist would tell you are two completely different things - from a cellular level right on through your marital vows. That is never more clear than in her last paragraph, in which she states:

Avoid marriage—or you too may suffer the emotional pain, the humiliation, and the logistical difficulty, not to mention the expense, of breaking up a long-term union at midlife for something as demonstrably fleeting as love.

That just leaves me speechless.

I am Woman ...

I consider myself a feminist, in some sense. Not in the radical-going-to-burn-my-bra-maneater sense, in the "just because I'm a woman does not mean I'm incompetent, should be given less respect or fewer opportunities" respect. I view women and men as equals in the sense that both contribute enormously to society. Women aren't better than men. Men aren't better than women. We contribute equally to the good (and bad, sigh) of society - but in different ways. We are not the same, but that doesn't mean the same opportunities shouldn't be afforded us.

Yet, I think feminists did themselves (and the world) no favors when they failed to think their demands all the way through 40 years ago. They demanded they should be able to receive an education at the best schools, get jobs and wear pants. All wonderful things - things that have blessed my life enormously (especially the pants - especially in The Frontier in the winter). And society said, "okay." (after much persuasion, but that's beside the point).

So now, 40 years and several generations later, women get to go to virtually any college of their choice, have jobs and wear pants. Yet somehow, they forgot to negotiate, and are still responsible (in the vast majority of cases)in the eyes of society, culture, and, often, their homes - for nearly all of the domestic responsibilities and childcare on top of the expectations that they maximize their earning potential. In the demand to be liberated from society's view that women were inferior, they forgot to say, "wait a minute, no one can do everything all at once." Instead, women leapt to their feet, rushed out to try on their new rights, got caught up in all of the "things" their new found status afforded them and became caught in a cycle that leaves a generation of women more depressed, less healthy, more unhappy and less fulfilled than ever before. Radical feminists would blame men for "failure to see the obvious," but truthfully, the blame lies with us as much as anyone. No one told me I had to be superwoman - I just assumed it, and accepted the mantle without question.

This all came to mind this weekend while reading a pregnancy/childbirth book. A paragraph in it struck me. To paraphrase, it said that women's bodies were designed to bear children, however, they were not designed to bear children and function at the same level as they did prior to pregnancy. It went on to talk about the fact that now that more and more women are working full-time and living away from extended family, that they are expected to (and expect themselves to) not show a moment of weakness. They are expected to keep the same level of productivity at home and in the workplace, accomplish the same things - and to feel great while doing it.

It really struck me - on a day when I was feeling absolutely overwhelmed with the enormity of life. The entire chapter talked about women not stopping to care for themselves - ignoring their bodies - in pregnancy because they have been conditioned for years to not show signs of weakness. It saddened me to realize that society does indeed see pregnancy as a weakness - an ailment of sorts. It is something to be looked at as a temporary disability, a mere inconvenience, that will soon clear up allowing everything to go back to "normal."

Except, it doesn't. Pregnancy forever changes not only a woman's body (there are several body parts that will never quite look/function the same again), but a woman's heart, her mind, her ambition - her soul. It leaves an indelible brand that forever alters her very being. There is no going back to "normal" - nor a desire to do so - rather there is an adjustment to a new status quo.

I told Himself several weeks ago, "I firmly believe in woman's role in creation and childbearing (and rearing), but I also firmly believe that my body (or mind) was not meant to bear children while balancing the entire known universe on her laptop." Pregnancy is an breathtaking (sometimes literally!) experience that even at its worst points of discomfort (or sheer agony), is a celebration of a loving Creator - of life - of miraculous biology that leaves one in continual awe that her body is accomplishing such an amazing feat.

And yet, after a long day at the office, facing even longer hours at a second job as "Domestic Goddess and Wife", it's hard to remember the sheer miracle of life growing inside of one's body. It's hard not to curl up with a dozen pillows in the fetal position and will this to be over already so one can get on with life.

It is a sad state when the creation of a new life means so little as to be written off as an "inconvenience" that one should just "buck up" and "soldier through," without thought as to the cost. I'm not asking for bon bons and daytime soaps - I'm asking for a little slower pace, an afternoon nap and an understanding that creating a new little person is the equivalent of a third full-time job - one that comes with a single chance to get it right and has the potential to affect generations to come.

We might have won the battle, but I feel as if women are losing the war.

I See My Mother Kneeling...

There is a children's church song that was one of my favorites when I was a child, "Love is Spoken Here." The first verse goes:

I see my mother kneeling with our family each day.
I hear the words she whispers as she bows her head to pray.
Her plea to the Father quiets all my fears,
And I am thankful love is spoken here.

As a child, a teen, an adult, I generally thought of the "her plea to the Father" as one of those of the "Father, please keep my children from driving me insane and selling them to the gypsies" variety.

This morning found me with those lyrics running through my head as I knelt in the middle of my bed, pleading. Only my pleas weren't of the "please keep my child from driving me insane and selling her to the gypsies" variety. I realized about halfway through that I really hoped this was one "plea to the Father" that Woodstock wouldn't hear, because what mother wants to admit she's pleading to be as good as her child?

It sounds, in words on paper (in cyberspace), ridiculous. But I have a strongly held belief that until the age of accountability, children are, in essences, perfect spirits. That, combined with Woodstock's utterly gentle, loving nature, makes me want to weep at how much she's taught me. It hardly equates with me teaching her the letters of the alphabet or that big green harvesting machines are called "Combines" (she's really into trucks at the moment - obsesively into trucks, I might add).

Yesterday was a no-good-horrible-very-bad-day, for a dozen of little reasons. I kept it mostly together all day. Shortly before Woodstock's bedtime, I began fighting off tears. Tears of hormonal pregnant insantiy, to be certain, but tears nonetheless.

As I rocked Woodstock before bedtime, tears pooling in my eyes, she looked up at me and said, "Momma sad," and snuggled into me, resting her little blonde head beneath my chin. As I put her down, for the first time, unprompted, she said, "Love you Momma."

This morning, after the emotional fog had cleared and I was again thinking with some form of rational process, I struggled to express myself to my own Father - who has certainly never felt that I was better than He - He whom I must have disappointed thousands of times over and over. How does a mother, four days before Mother's Day, pay homage to her Father for the gift he has given her that has opened her heart to so much goodness, so much love, so much clarity? How does one say "thank you" for a little person's wisdom and insight? How does one plead with her Father to help her refrain from screwing things up as she tries to protect the love and goodness inside the snuggly lump of purple fleece in the other room?

How indeed.

This Mother's Day, I want to thank Woodstock - for teaching more than I could ever hope to teach her.

Soap Box: Marriage

My parents and I tend to have a lot of conversations regarding life, religion, politics, women, education, etc. I like this about my parents, especially since they don't automatically hate me if I have a different opinion. And because they raised me to have an opinion.

On a recent visit to The Parents', we had a conversation about Marriage as a destination vs. a process. Earlier today I read an article that referenced a similar thought, it made my fingers itch to analyze it on a keyboard. (Disclaimer: By nature of my fundamental beliefs about life, families and so forth, here's where I get slightly religious).

We believe that families are forever - that two people can be married by one with the proper authority from God (in the temple) and that they, and any offspring born to them, are linked forever in the eternities. Heaven would be a very sorrowful place to spend by oneself.

As a result, we teach our young women (I can't comment on the young men side, I am never was one, nor have I taught them), that Temple Marriage is the key to eternal salvation. In a matter of speaking. The problem is, here's where doctrine and culture get all mixed up. Doctrinally, yes, eternal (ie temple) marriage (regardless of when it happens) is a key tenet to salvation. But it is not a guarantee. It is not the end of the road. Culturally, however, we teach it as such. People sigh and think happy thoughts when someone is married in the temple, saying, "Oh good. They've made it."

In reality (and doctrinally), marriage (of any kind) is NOT a destination. It is a stepping stone in the process of life. I fundamentally believe that a temple marriage DOES provide extra support and strength to weather the storms of life (internal to, and external of, the marriage). But it does not mean "you've made it."

I have been particularly alarmed of late noticing that young women see marriage as an endpoint. An "arrival" where all will be well if they have the right kind of marriage ceremony. I see those with whom myself and my siblings were raised - with variations on the same theme - and see a staggering pattern of young women who view marriage as a dependent relationship and as their ultimate life's goal.

There is nothing wrong with marriage. There is nothing wrong with having a goal to be married. What scares me is the view of a marriage relationship as a dependency and as THE one and only goal. Should it be a goal? Absolutely! But it shouldn't be the culminating goal on a life's "to accomplish list" - it marks the end of a solitary journey and the beginning of a journey together, which should bring with it an even longer set of dreams, hopes and goals - and work.

Case in point: My youngest brother knows someone whose sole desire in life is to get married, at all costs. In her early 20s, she is desperate to get married. Rather than putting energy into improving herself and building a life (and a persona) that is attractive to men, she dropped out of school, works a dead-end job and lives at home - and concentrates on pushing marriage on every person she dates.

She will achieve her goal of marriage - and probably even temple marriage - but I wonder what kind of marriage it will be? Where does she go from there? What does she have to offer her husband, future children, society? It's not just a lack of formal education, but a lack of life education - the inability to cook, be independent, take care of a household. Yet everyone will cheer for her success and say "all is well," because "the goal" has been reached.

Marriage is hard. It is wonderful and sustaining and fulfilling, but it is hard. It takes work. Neither love (nor a temple marriage) is enough to sustain a relationship. An enormous amount of love combined with work, mutual goals, continual improvement, charity, long-suffering, patience, more work, selflessness, tolerance, acceptance, companionship, and so forth make up a marriage, a long with a good does of reality, forgiveness and a sense of humor.

I cringe to see young women (and young men) enter into one of the most sacred, complex unions completely unprepared. One can never be perfectly prepared, for that would require one (and one's spouse-to-be) to be perfect. Yet, there is an amount of preparedness that one can achieve prior saying "I do" - in preparing oneself to be able to take care of, and provide for, oneself. Some are ready very young. Some are not. Marriage is not a surrender to "here - take care of me forever!" it is a joining of two souls with mutual goals and aspirations, vowing to care for, love and support one another.

I'm by no means an expert. I've only been married five years, and Himself and I are still a work in progress (something akin to how I see Jackson Pollock paintings). But as the number of marriages that fail continues to rise, as the world screams "if you don't feel butterflies, it isn't love," I wonder what kind of disservice we as a culture and society are doing to teach our youth that marriage is a destination, implying that what follows are years of effortless perfection, bliss and butterflies.

I pray I don't fall into the same unintentional cycle as I raise Baby Girl.

End of rant. Off my soapbox.

Speechless

Last night, my new neighbors - the women from church - threw me a baby shower, hosted by an elderly woman in the congregation who picked up on my love of food and my pending delivery and "adopted" me - her husband (now suffering from alzheimers) was a professional chef and she has a long-distance great-grand-baby due to be born the week after Baby Girl.

I walked to the shower, excited at the prospect of getting to know these women a little better - maybe well enough at some point to count them as friends.

I left, stunned. Completely overhwelmed at the generosity of women who have known me only at a distance for 8 weeks or so. My sister and best friend from high school threw a shower for old friends a few weeks ago, organized a month prior. Most didn't come - life is pretty hectic for twenty- and thirtysomethings with kids. Last night, a week after invitations went out, there were about 25 women there - some I didn't even recognize - none of whom I knew more than on a "Hi, how are you?" level. I left with armfuls of beautiful things for Baby Girl - many of them hand-made.

The talent, the generosity, the love that filled the room was almost too much for me. I hate being the center of attention and I'm not good at dealing with emotion. I almost didn't know how to react other than to repeat over and over, "I don't know what to say ..." Everyone left saying, "Please call us when she arrives - we can't wait to meet her." Baby Girl is loved by a group of women we will grow to know together.

I have friends who chafe at organized religion. I've had people who have tried to "save" me from being brainwashed. To them I would say, "if this is being brainwashed, I will take it." One of the greatest comforts in my life is knowing that wherever I go in the world, there will be a group of people who will welcome me with open arms, a group of people of a like-mind, a group of people with whom I can begin to forge friendships in each new place I reside. The congregations are composed of individuals and are all different in how they "adopt" new members into their midst, but there is genuine good and caring in each one.

People ask how it is that I have moved cross-country or to a completely new area or city multiple times. If they knew how truly introverted I am by nature, they would scratch their heads even more. It is because I know that no matter where I go, I will find someone who shares my outlook on life. Where I find spiritual substence, I will also find food for my soul - nourished by a myriad of activities, events and opportunities to reach out.

My greatest fear was having Baby Girl and knowing no one.

Right now, my greatest fear is not being able to adequately express my gratitude for a group of women - most of them old enough to be my mother or grandmother - who reached out last night to figuratively hug me and welcome me and my little girl "home."

My Favorite Lady

You would think, knowing what I know about life and death and all that, that having someone die would be a momentary sadness, tempered by time and the comfort of knowing I belive in eternal families.

But I still miss my Grandmother. Every single day. And it's been just over three years.

Last night, in an attempt to have clothing on and still maintain some semblance of cool in the Hobbit Hole, where it was a raging 90+ degrees, I had on her old "summer robe" which I snagged when going through her effects after her funeral. I don't wear it very often, but I was desparate last night. I sat, sweating buckets, and all I could think of was how much I missed her.

My Grandmother was the best friend I've ever had - the woman who influenced me more than any other person outside my parents; the woman who was more like me than anyone else in my family; the woman who is responsible for many of the things I love in life. She wrote to me faithfully in her spidery handwriting, nearly weekly, when I moved away. Since she died, I've not received a single letter (cards excluded) from anyone. Every time I came home, I begged her to visit my parents, so I could see her. The last time I was home before she died (8 months), she had a commitment and couldn't come. It had been 10 months since I had seen her when she died suddenly of a massive internal infection. She had plans to go camping with us 6 weeks later, which made it even worse.

My Grandmother was raised dirt-poor on a ranch near the Arizona Strip. During the school year they lived "in town" - a small cowboy community (to which she and my grandfather relocated after retirement) in southern Utah. She was the oldest of 5 children and the strong-willed one who dreamt of something bigger than her childhood existence (just like me). She was tough, wore pants and chafed under the different rules set for boys and girls.

She couldn't afford college, though she longed to go, so she took a job with the railroad concessions and eventually met my grandfather, the son of a wealthy textile merchant from NYC. Their two worlds couldn't have been further apart, but they had the strongest marriage I've ever seen. In lieu of formal education beyond high school, my Grandmother was determined to learn all she could. She had a passion for fine art, good food, good books, poetry, writing, sewing, painting, drawing, throwing dinner parties, the Old West, crossword puzzles, travel, "going out into the hills," hiking and her grandchildren.

She taught me to paint and draw, instilled in me a love of poetry (especially Walt Whitman and Longfellow), taught me how to appreciate art of all types (and accompanied me to any art show within an hour's drive as a child), ignited my passion for food and cooking and dinner parties, taught me to quilt and passed on her obsession with crossword puzzles - specifically the New York Times puzzles.

She chided my East Coast all-black wardrobe, and encouraged me to be daring enough to try color in my clothing. She didn't believe in "frumpy" clothes, and dressed primarily in suits when going to church or a formal function. Since we were about the same size, I inherited some of her clothing when she died - and gained two beautiful suits (not in black) as a result. She was reserved in crowds, as I am, but had a great sense of humor and an even deeper sense of compassion. Until the very end - at 88 years old - she was still "visiting the old ladies," many of whom were decades her junior - she took them meals, read to them, did their hair and sat and talked.

When she was inside, she was every bit the lady - always wearing shoes, always proper, never used paper plates for a sit-down dinner. When she was "in the hills" she was every bit the child who had grown up on the dessert prairies - wearing men's jeans (they fit her long legs better) with a floppy hat and a walking stick, talking of adventures past and yet to come and longing to be "out" for as long as possible.

She believed in a woman's divine nature and their critical role in bearing and nurturing children, but she also believed in independence, in having an opinion and sharing it, in being equal in her role as wife. She could be stubborn, strong-willed and adamant, which made her all the more charming to me. She believed in wearing a hat when outside, investing in good toilet paper and shoes (though she always bought generic tissues for some reason), eating good food, letting the linens air out before making the bed and the importance of memorizing things to keep her mind healthy. She loved to play Yahtzee! and cards, write stories, poems and essays, go to the symphony and read to us when we were small. Best of all, she adored having her grandchildren come to visit, and always made it special.

It is no wonder that I too developed a love for fine art and music, a love for good food, dinner parties, crossword puzzles, reading, poetry, card games, learning, writing and being outdoors.

My greatest joy will be getting to see her again. My greatest sorrow is that Baby Girl will never grow up having the chance to know the woman who so strongly influenced her mother. I have a feeling I will miss her even more upon Baby Girl's arrival.

Obviously, You're Not Talking About Me

This wasn't going to be today's blog post, but I am too aggravated to not comment on it, and I'm the only person at The Factory who is in the office today, so there is no one with whom to have a conversation.

Today's Salt Lake Tribune ran the following article: "Who Will Replace Faust as Counselor to LDS President Hinckley?"

Obviously a slow news day, even for Salt Lake City, given the fact that it's not like anyone is out there truly obsessing over it, nor is it like choosing the next Pope - with clandestine meetings and smoke signals and large crowds waiting outside. The article gives an interesting history of succession and some tidbits about the lives of "potential candidates." There, lying in the article, is one explosive sentence: "There is only one rule for choosing a member of the First Presidency: no women." Not exactly true, but guaranteed to keep people talking about the article while the Trib thinks of something else to be newsworthy.

It's The Frontier, what can one expect?

Knowing that the comments section is ALWAYS full of ridiculous fodder, I was still dumb enough to actually read them. All was fine, just benign observations until I read this:

There can be no women because, regardless of what Mormon men say about women being being "special" because of their ability to "give life" the life of a Mormon woman is ultimately one of subservience. It might not seem that way to them, and it might not be the general goal. But it's so much a part of the Mormon culture that it's become second nature. Regardless of how smart or how "good" a woman is, she's told that she cannot reach the kingdom of heaven without a man. Anyone with critical thinking skills is just not going to buy that for very long.

And that's when my blood pressure rose and Baby Girl kicked me in the ribs, not because it disagrees with my whole outlook on life, but because it is so patently untrue - at least for this woman.

My favorite, chuckling, moment came with the phrase, "It might not seem that way to them." It certainly makes me happy that someone is so dilligently looking out for my welfare by insulting my intelligence - assuming that I'm not smart enough to figure out my sation in life. Again, my intellect is insulted when the author continues, "anyone with critical thinking skills is just not going to buy that for very long." I'm not even going to go there. I'm not sure I'm smart enough.

For me, my religion is a way of living, but that certainly doesn't mean that I signed a form waiving my right to have my own thoughts, opinions and agency to live. And I consider myself reasonably intelligent - I'm no nuclear physicist, but I can hold my own in intellectual conversations, when given the chance (and when not pregnant - Baby Girl is slurping up my brain cells with every week gone by).

I had to laugh though - I wanted to tell Anonymous that he or she should speak to Himself regarding my subservience. Ask HIM what kind of trodden-down, always-defer-to-you, eyes-cast-downward woman he married. I daresay Himself would die laughing before he'd even be able to describe how (for better or worse - not always proud of how my fiercely independent streak manifests itself) his wife is pretty opinionated and isn't afraid to let him know how she feels.

He would also tell them how I supported him financially and emotionally through two bachelors degrees and a startling number of career paths. Then would come the bragging (it is really embarrassing) about my career, what I've done, and how smart I am. And how I'm the best cook he knows. And that someday, life events willing, I really want to go back to school for my Master's. I know, because I've heard him. Many times.

Then would come the discourse on proving that I couldn't possibly be mistaken for subservient, because I make HIM mop the floor, pick up his own clothes and make him check is own pockets before clothes go into the laundry (resulting in two ink explosions, a bad experience with an entire package of gum and several billion tissue particles he had to pick off his scrubs - you would think one of us would learn!). He would explain how I am a horrible housekeeper and would rather adventure than clean. He would tell them that I said "No you may not visit your father 3 hours away," when he proposed the idea (twice) 3 1/2 weeks before I was ready to give birth, and then proceeded to tell him that if he thought it was a good idea, then I was capable of making his life more miserable than any ex-wife ever would (prompting both of us to dissolve into laughter).

He would say that just because he doesn't want to do something, doesn't mean I forgo it msyelf. He'll remind them that I comfortably go to art museums and the opera by myself because he doesn't enjoy going, and I'm not sitting home hoping he'll change his mind.

He would comment how, even though I get up before him and he leaves later than I do, I don't ever cook him breakfast, except on the weekends, because mornings are "my time." He would let them know that I come home from work every night and cook dinner because I LOVE to cook, not because I think I should be expected to. He would make sure they knew that I ruled the checkbook with an iron fist (or try to), that he has to pack his own lunch, that he has two dress shirts that go to the cleaners because I don't iron, that I don't sew, loathe crafts, use my maiden name in conjunction with my married name because I love it more than I love my first name, had the nerve to tell my mother I didn't want children at one point and instigated a campaign against a senior-level executive at a former company for sexist behavior and treatment. He would also continue with how if you ask for my opinion, you'll probably get it, even if you disagree with me (and that he doesn't even have to ask - he just gets it unsolicited!).

Lest I paint myself as an inept, horrible hag, I have to say he would also say that I am fiercely loyal and will defend him to the ends of the earth, that I have my own unique way of showing love, that I am head-over-heels in love with both Baby Girl and her father and secretly loathe the fact that my primary mission this month is to find someone else to love her while I'm at work. He will also say that my family is the most important thing on earth to me, and that I would give everything up to save any one of them.

Maybe that is what makes me subservient. If it is, go head and call me that. I won't even disagree.

(And, for the record, I'd like to point out to Anonymous that men cannot make it to the kingdom of heaven without a woman, either. We're pretty much all in this together).

The Alarming Confession

Two things spark this lunchtime post (sitting here in my almost-bare-naked office, waiting for help schlepping my stuff to my new digs):

1. A conversation I had with my mother a couple of weeks ago and another conversation held at my home with Himself and the bishop last night. (Our first visitors to the Hobbit Hole!)

2. This article posted on MSNBC.com.

It's no secret to anyone who knows me well that I am not what one would term "natural mother material." I would go so far as to say there is not one maternal bone in my body. (Okay, maybe at least one, I did conceive Baby Girl on purpose). I didn't play with dolls (but my teddy bear did have clothes, thanks to my lovely grandmother). I didn't like babysitting (perhaps that had something to do with the fact that I was always volunteered to watch the charity kids - the hellions whose parents couldn't really afford to pay me anything). I firmly declared in high school and then again in college that I didn't want children (partially to watch the slow, glazed look of horror creep into my mother's face, as she tried to decide if I was serious or not).

It's not that I don't like kids. I do. Mostly. I am positive I will adore Baby Girl, because she represents so much more to me than anyone else's child does. I particularly like babies. But I don't get all gushy over them. I've never felt the need to sell my soul to have a child.

The woman in the article had a friend put her hand on her stomach and ask if she was pregnant yet. I haven't had that happen, but I have had random people, almost strangers, really, ask why I hadn't had children yet (once coming only weeks after a miscarriage where I wondered if carrying a child would be as difficult as potentially conceiving one - the timing couldn't have been worse). I have had people tell me that I was selfish for waiting so long to have children (as if they knew for sure it was my choice). And other such absurdities.

But those who knew me well kept mum for an entirely different reason, apparently. A couple of weeks ago, my mom confessed to me that she was a *little* bit worried about my bearing a child, and not just for the page-long list of medical reasons I could give. "You know, she said, you really aren't naturally maternal..." and launched into the list of reasons I listed above, all of which had previously crossed my mind.

It might have made someone else mad. But I already knew that. It just underscored the fact that I am probably insane for having a child mere months after other life-changing events, but who really times these things anyway? Then, for reasons known only to him, last night Himself brought up the same conversation with the bishop of all people (who was visiting us to welcome us to the neighborhood). Had I not been sitting across the room from him, I would have kicked him. Hard.

He said, with all the love in his heart, "Sara isn't really maternal. She and her sister are complete opposites. She's the driven, career-minded, independent one. Her sister is the Martha Stewart mothering type." It was slightly relevant to the conversation we were having, and Himself did say it with absolute love and pride, but I still wanted to kick him. It, of course, prompted a concerned bishop to ask what I planned to do with Baby Girl upon her arrival - as if he expected me to say, "Well, you know, once that is over, I will just return her." As if! I tried to do damage repair on my already bruised reputation, but I'm not sure he believed me. I wasn't as innocently convincing as Himself had been.

I will confess: Baby Girl has only a carseat and a stroller, thanks to grandparents, and a few clothes, thanks to friends. She has nothing else, because I don't seem to find the same thrill in baby gear shopping as other women. I would happily send Himself to buy the necessary items if I wasn't convinced he'd buy the store out and spiral us into bankruptcy in the process.

I don't think Baby Girl will change me into some mushy, motherhood-crazed being, like the article's author described. Because I have some of the same gripes she does - I get tired of the implication that I'm somehow imperfect for not being the queen of maternal instincts, for one. I wanted to hug Himself last night as much as I wanted to kick him - because he doesn't find me lacking. He's proud of me - crazy, mixed-up, psychotic hormonal pregnant-with-no-nurturing-instinct woman that I am.

Truth be told, on the days I'm not ridiculously scared out of my mind about this motherhood stuff (and the stuff that has to come to actually produce Baby Girl in the flesh), I'm head-over-heels-in-love with Baby Girl already. To me, she already has a personality, and I revel in the quiet moments I get to spend with her headstrong self every day. In my own way, I am maternal.

It might not win me any accolades from those concerned about my eternal welfare, but for us it is enough. Baby Girl is loved by both her crazy mixed-up, imperfect parents. And that is all anyone can ask for really.

Having it All

Yesterday, I had an epiphany on the way to work, a not uncommon thing, since I actually enjoy my commute now - 12 minutes of no traffic, zipping along at 40-65 mph (my favorite thing about the Frontier, other than the dry heat).

I am listening to a book on CD "Saboteur" about a small-town guy turned OSS spy in WWII France (**Sidenote: my absolute favorite genre is WWII spy fiction or non-fiction, for reasons entirely unknown). My ephiphany had nothing to do with the novel itself (no worries - no desire to be a spy here!), but had to do with the conflict of a woman in the story, Whisper Harris, and her deisre to marry, raise a family and keep house while her friend, Adele, just wanted to BE somebody - in her opinion, a totally different path altogether.

It made me think of one of my favorite pieces of Americana - the "I wish I were a man, I'd join the Navy" recruiting poster and the Rosie the Rivters - the women who joined the workforce in unprecedented numbers, started wearing slacks and (gasp!) blue jeans, and learning they could indeed make the world go 'round while the men were off soldiering. The women who taught their daughters there was more to life than housedresses and three meals a day, who grew up to teach their daughters that they could "have it all."

And that is where the epiphany came in. After years of wanting it all, and firmly believing it was possible, I've come to realize it is the greatest myth perpetuated to women. For a second, I longed to be Whisper Harris - to know what was available to me - to know what expectations existed: Marry. Have children. Keep house. Hold the family together.

Of course, me, the idealist, longed for the June Cleaver or Donna Reed version, not the version where one slaved to the whims of the man of the house, who came home at the end of a long day, sat in his favorite easy chair, read the paper, smoked the pipe, demanded dinner and then retired to bed while the wife cooked, served, ate, cleaned up, bathed and entertained the children and put them to bed, before getting ready to start the whole thing over.

I realized that somewhere in our campaign for equality of opportunity and equal treatment and respect, we failed to realize we were just asking for MORE, not something in exchange of something else. Society (albeit slowly) gladly heaped more and more upon women - "Okay, you want to work? Sure. Here is a job, then here comes inflation, things to make your life easier, convience items, luxury goods - now you have to work, but wait ... who is going to take care of the children? You can't shirk those duties, you know."

My epiphany is a "grass is greener on the other side" kind of thing - I realize that I am fortunate in so many ways for the opportunities, the education, the respect ... but at the moment, I'm so overwhelmed at having to do it all, that a tiny part of me wants to be able to be the pregnant woman who isn't allowed to do anything, who stays at home and nests, who has no expectations beyond caring for her family and the house. A big chore. Exhausting. But limited in scope. Finite.

Because guess what? I'm the primary breadwinner, and I still care for my family and the house and everything else. I still find msyelf feeling the need to be doing everything (like many, many, many women). Himself does a lot, to be sure, but it is still that unwritten "expectation," that I also be the nurturer, the caretaker - provider or not. Because society, while telling me I should be independent and liberated and look out for myself, doesn't make provisions for everything else women are.

It doesn't make provisions for days like yesterday when I couldn't keep food down and was tired and hurting and really just wanting to spend time with Himself, whom I've seen for a few hours in the last four weeks. It doesn't make provisions for providing for women who are growing or raising children who, like me, can't take time off or it takes away from the little paid time I get when Baby Girl comes. And I was mid-stream on a big project, but I couldn't concentrate.

I sat and realized I HAD everything (except a husband who has a job, but who's beeing picky?). An education. An ability to take care of myself. A career. A husband. A daughter on the way. A decent apartment, even one named The Hobbit Hole. A car. Stuff. Potential.

But I also had everything else: A realization that I HAVE to work. I have no choice, therefore Baby Girl will be with someone who is not a parent 5 days a week. A realization that I have two laundry baskets full of laundry. Boxes galore to be unpacked. Two weeks' worth of menus and a grocery list on the fridge. A stack of bills to pay. A realization of the finite resources in the checking account that will possibly tide us over until Himself finds a job. A husband to be a wife to. Sooner or later, church responsibilities. That I am not going to get a paycheck in September. That I won't get a paid day off between having Baby Girl and May of next year. And on and on.

I want to be a great wife, a great mother to Baby Girl, but I wonder how we as women got ourselves into the "have to do everything" mindset and failed to realize why it was a really dumb idea. Sometimes, it's so overwhelming. Sometimes I wonder if I'm missing out, if I actually resent being pregnant, deep down, because it limits me physically, emotionally, mentally - and it shows the cracks in my super woman facade. The facade I've worked for years to build.

The recruiting poster may have had it right - "I Wish I Were a Man" - if I were, I could join the Navy, sail away and leave someone else to handle the world and play superhero. Somehow, it sometimes looks like they got the better end of the deal.

Yes, I HAVE it all - but I realize, at the ripe old age of a late twentysomething, that I'm pretty sure I don't want it all, and I'm even less sure of how to give the unnecessary stuff back and start over.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Adulthood

My expectation of becoming an adult was very different than that of almost every person I knew growing up. The image of the "adulthood" dream was born of childhood stories told by my grandfather of his formative years spent amidst the glamour and wealth of New York's Jazz Age, fueled with scenes from countless books and a summer spent in the Mid-Atlantic suburbs.

I longed to move. I longed to shake the fine red dust off my heels, throw off the confining expectations of small town life, don a suit and high-heeled shoes and conquer the world. (Funny how my imaginations of adulthood never included the flannel pajama bottoms I find myself wearing with alarming regularity on the weekends).

Everything I did in my formative youth was directed toward that dream. Everything. Every extra-curricular activity I participated in. Every school assignment. Every motivation behind choosing a college.

I wanted a life no one I knew had. I wanted to break free of small town mediocrity, of a life of "average" and live somewhere, do something, be someone extraordinary. I was calculating - I new how to get where I wanted to go. I knew I was painfully shy - so I joined the debate team. I wanted to be cultured, so I absorbed every piece of information my grandmother taught me about art, music, literature. I wanted to be able to talk about the world - I joined a competitive geography team, studied maps and poured over National Geographic. I wanted to be refined. At 15, I began my 10-year subscription to a news magazine. I read the paper every day.

I launched out as far as my fledgling wings and limited finances would take me - and fled to the sophistication and the urbanity of the East Coast at my first opportunity. I pursued my education like someone possessed. I dated stockbrokers, investment bankers and one hapless pre-med-turned-eternal-student-guitar major, who was the wrong fit from the beginning, but offered a certain-well-roundedness to my otherwise stringent requirements.

I ran the quiet, tree-lined streets of Chevy Chase, Md., and dreamed of living in one of the stately brick homes with a foreign SUV in the driveway and a healthy bank account. A year later, I boarded the train daily, mixing my $10/hour intern self in with the rising power elite of the other suburbanite commuters. I walked proudly into my downtown office every morning and sprinted to catch the 5:07 train every evening. It didn't matter that I left home and arrived home in the dark. I was becoming the adult I wanted to be. And so it went for years.

And then, a funny thing happened; it all came crashing down. In bits and pieces the life I lived - the one I was certain I wanted - first developed fissures along the foundation and then, over the course of several years, began to disinegrate piece by piece.

The last brick tumbled to the ground nearly two months ago, sitting in the dreaded HR office, when the news was handed down that in 5 hours, I would no longer be employed. Baby's pending arrival meant taking Option 2 - a medicore, less-than-fullfilling opportunity at the same company, that now has me temporarily working in Outer Darkness, wearing sneakers to work and improving my Spanish.

With the collapse of the reality I had worked so hard to construct for the past 18 years, I realized that everything I had ever done in my entire life had been to get to the point I was at 30 minutes prior to the News. And in mere seconds, the entire thing dissolved, leaving me to wonder what was left. I had been so focused, so determined, so passionate - I had left little room for anything else.

Himself claims I have no hobbies. I have almost no close friends that I see on any sort of regular basis. I don't like to sit and contemplate. I schedule everything. And, falling short of what I thought I absolutely wanted, but hadn't yet attained, I sunk into "dark and twisty" territory. I had left the only two permanent things in my life - Himself, who was my greatest champion in my sprint to my version of adulthood, even though it was far different than his own and Baby.

I stand now, on the brink of my 30s, at the brink of motherhood and wonder where the next version of "adulthood" will take me. Who will I become? Will I construct something from the rubble of my childhood visions or will Himself and I build a different version? Will my identity become as consumed as 'Baby's Mom' as it was by 'Current Job Title Here?'

I'm closer than ever to returning full-circle to the vision of adulthood I was desparate to flee from as a child. Adulthood has a funny way of being interrupted by reality.