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I’m going to take you back to an earlier time in my life, a time before I committed to buying coffee only from local shops.
I used to stop every other day occasionally at a particular Starbucks in my town, specifically the one on Wards Road in Lynchburg. It wasn’t really in my neighborhood, but it was near some places where I shopped, and I was willing to hold out until I arrived there because of a barrista that worked there. I’ll call him Sam.
On of the first times I saw Sam, he greeted me like an old friend. He smiled warmly and said, “Hi! How is your day going so far?”
His eyes twinkled and the corners crinkled up and he was just so adorable I had a moment of excitement thinking, is he flirting with me?? Though he’s at least ten and more likely fifteen years younger than I, I refused to back down from my belief that he might find me pretty and might also be thrilled with my un-complicated order of a venti, half-caff, peppermint, extra-hot mocha.
I smiled back and answered that my day was lovely, thank you. And then, I couldn’t stop smiling. This kid had looked me in the eyes, grinned, and spoken to me in a familiar way. He was cute and more importantly, he was polite, attentive, and friendly, and that and five dollars will buy you a…well, I’ll tell you what it will buy you.
It will buy you a customer who drives out of her way to spend too much on a cup of coffee. It will buy you a customer who tells her friends about the really nice people who work for you. It will buy you the best kind of advertising there is – personal recommendation.
I left the store that day feeling a little lighter, and way happier. I’m not a sappy type, but having someone genuinely seem interested in me was refreshing and the rest of my day was made a little better for it.
Not long ago, my teenage daughter wanted to stop there so I pulled up and let her run in. When she came out, she was grinning and her eyes were all sparkly. When she sat down beside me I said, “He was in there, wasn’t he?”
“What are you talking about?” she answered.
But I knew why she was smiling. And I smiled, too.
Two years ago, in my one hundred year old house with no air conditioning, I was waddling around nine months pregnant and thankful that the summer’s humid heatwave had broken a bit and we could use the whole-house fan to draw in the cooler air. It was still damp, but not hot.
I had just gotten my little guy Ethan down to sleep, nursing him and holding him and wondering how much longer he would be my only son, how much longer before this new person would enter our lives. While nursing him, I’d felt the twinges of Braxton-Hicks contractions that were the norm now, but I had gotten past hope that it was labor starting. I just assumed it was more practice.
I lay down next to my sleeping husband sometime after eleven, around the same time it is right now as I write this. I tried settling in on first one aching hip, then the other, and felt something not like a contraction, but more like an ache in my cervix. It was odd, different than what I’d experienced with my prior two labors.
Unable to get comfortable, I got up and walked around. I just wandered from room to room, restless, not sure if this was the beginning of something or just the groanings of a woman tired of carrying around extra people all the time. I took a bath and tried to be quiet.
My husband had to leave for work at 1:30 a.m. and I didn’t want to wake him unnecessarily, but after a while I realized this was probably labor starting. When he finally awoke, I told him I thought this was it, but to go ahead to work, since my last labor had been so long and slow. Though I was torn about it, I watched him leave, thinking I would be calling him in a few hours.
I got back into the bath and decided I should call my midwife just to tell her things were happening. My contractions were difficult but not overwhelming, and they were growing rapidly closer together, but because of our last seventeen hour experience together, she told me I should see how things go for an hour and then call her back. This was around 1:45 a.m.
I called her back at 2:00, beginning to panic a little bit and feeling like things were happening so fast. There was a moment in which I felt my fear rising at being alone with this difficult task, and I remember telling myself that I could do it by myself. That this would prove I was strong. I called my husband to turn around and come home.
I don’t even know who got there first, but I was so relieved to see my “team” I think I plunged right into transition. I don’t remember much of the beginning. My husband filled the birth tub, and I got in as soon as I could because I was using all my energy to cope with the powerful contractions.
Not long after Leslie (the midwife), Mary Frances (her assistant), and my husband got settled around me, I was in the tub and feeling very much like pushing. I remember saying, “I feel like pushing and it’s too soon! Why do I feel like pushing?”
Mary Frances asked if it would make me feel better if she checked me, and I said, “Yes!” with what I’m sure sounded like huge relief and hope.
When she said I was complete, I got really excited about how fast it had been. Really only an hour and a half or so, which for me was amazing! But the hard work was only beginning.
I have big babies. Not like, super huge or anything, but when you consider my size, they are big. Ethan weighed eight pounds, eight ounces, and I pushed for five hours with him. That’s nearly unheard of, and it’s likely that if I’d been in a hospital, I would have been bullied into a C-section.
So I was geared up for the pushing this time, but also afraid. Afraid of getting stuck, afraid of having to last for hours. I was determined to be effective and strong.
And boy did I try, but this nine pound, six ounce baby took a lot of work to get into the world. Leslie had to ask me to change positions a few times to help bring him down, and finally, squatting and gripping the edge of the birth tub, I was able to do it. It took everything I had to give. Every time a contraction came I looked desperately for Randal and held his hand. Mary Frances kept cool cloths on me, and I just worked. I worked hard. And finally, when Leslie told me to reach down and catch him, I couldn’t even let go of the edge to do it!
But then he was here, and I was holding him, and he was mine. And he was beautiful, and still is.
And Beckett, sweet pea, I wanted to write your story first because I fear I’ve given you too little of everything so far. I fear you’ll remember in some part of your heart that the worst year of my life was supposed to be the best and easiest of yours.
I want to tell you that when I held you tonight and watched you fall asleep, my heart ached with all the mistakes I’ve made. Tonight, I’m making you cupcakes and telling your story. Tomorrow, you will open presents and blow out candles.
And for the rest of our lives, I will love you the best I can, and hope that it’s enough.
I was looking for something specific, something not related to food at all, but as so often happens around this vast pseudo-informational wasteland, I ended up with this.
People who are good at making up funny song lyrics should always make videos, too. Hint, hint.
Now I’m off to make some tabbouleh with the tomatoes from my garden. Enjoy.
I just got this idea off of Delicate Flower and decided since I’m trying to prepare for Indie Art Market I better find a lazy way to post. Like you didn’t already know too much about me, here goes:
Rules: 1. Respond and rework; answer the questions on your blog, replace one question that you dislike with a question of your invention, add one more question of your own. 2. Tag other people.
What is your current obsession?
-My children falling from great heights into fast-flowing water. Oh, wait – you mean like a fun obsession? I would say it’s iced chai tea with soy milk. And nuno felting. More on that later.
What did you wear today?
-My pajamas. Or at least, the clothes I slept in, which is just a black v-neck tshirt. And I did manage to add yoga pants before leaving the house. The shirt was clean when I put it on, and my body was clean too, so it’s not as bad as it sounds. Okay, yeah. It is.
What’s for dinner?
-Tonight it’s “whatever husband can go out and purchase.” Most likely Chick-Fil-A. I am speaking about doulas at tonight’s Birth Matters Lynchburg meeting. You should come.
What would you eat for your last meal?
-Ecstasy. Sorry, husband. I’m dying anyway, right?
What are you listening to right now?
-The sound of one house clapping about the children being gone for the morning.
What language do you want to learn?
-All of them. Seriously. But in order of immediacy, I’d have to say: 1. Spanish (I already know some) 2. Italian 3. German 4. French (I can read a fair amount of French already) 5. Japanese 6. Russian 7. Chinese 8. Zulu. I pick up languages fairly easily, and in fact taught myself Spanish. I had three years of French in high school but can’t really converse, though I can, as noted, still read some.
What do you love most about where you currently live?
I can walk to a park, a bookstore, a gourmet deli, a college campus, a bike trail, a river, my favorite coffee shop, the house I grew up in, downtown, and some of my good friends’ houses. And I can hear the trains thundering through all day.
What style is your current home decorated in?
-Early American-Swedish “Family of Five on One Income” (lots of Ikea, which looks really funny in a 102 year old house)
If you were a time traveler what era would you live in?
1920s-1940s. I would be a flapper, of course, to start with. A wildly inappropriate woman who likes to have fun and do the jitterbug. And actually, that description fits me now.
What is your favorite color?
You know that color you sometimes see at twilight when the sky isn’t completely dark yet but it’s a deep, deep blue and the trees are all silhouetted black against it? That color. And also, aubergine.
What is your favorite piece of clothing in your wardrobe?
-Can it be shoes? My Sketchers oxblood, shit-kicker boots that I got at the Goodwill last year. They almost make me wish it would get cold again. Almost.
What are your favorite films?
-I love violence. I do not know why. So here they are: 1. Wild At Heart 2. True Romance 3. Very Bad Things 4. Burn After Reading 5. Memento 6. Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels And also some that aren’t so violent: 7. Princess Bride 8. Ever After (embarrassing, I know) 9. Mo’ Better Blues
Your favorite books?
-This list would be entirely too long. But here are a few 1. One Hundred Years of Solitude 2. Like Water for Chocolate 3. Cold Mountain
Do you collect anything?
Yes. Phobias. And also, turtles. But not real ones.
Okay, that’s enough. I cheated and cut out the questions that would be too boring for you to read my answers to. Plus, some crafty goodness awaits me.
I love to garden. I mean, I love to grow things, I don’t actually enjoy all the hard work. I might be the world’s laziest gardener. But I don’t mind getting dirty, and I adore looking at the little blossoms, watching everything turn all lush and delicious.
And I do like being environmentally responsible and so I recycle and compost. Once, I even bought some worms to have a worm bin.
The worm is a marvelous creature. It eats what is essentially garbage, and shits out this gorgeous, rich stuff that makes plants go wild. It’s like the Spanish Fly of gardening. Worm castings, it’s called.
So anyway, I ordered a shipment of these worms that you can put in a bin, toss in some damp newspapers, and put your food scraps in. Said worms will eat the whole smorgasbord of stuff and you’ll be left with the castings to toss on your garden. Fabulous.
However, I am not a good planner. I have little to no foresight, and rarely look at my calendar. Which doesn’t matter too much, since I also rarely write things in it.
So I ordered the worms – living, wriggling little creatures – and promptly went out of town for several days.
My neighbor offered to bring in my mail, which was wonderfully kind of her. I came home to find a neat stack of mail and one small package. Oddly, there were also small, dark brown squiggles all over my floor, which, on closer inspection, proved to be the bodies of dozens of dehydrated worms.
They made a break for it, and paid the ultimate price for their freedom.
Now, more than a year later, I still occasionally find a little brown squiggle stuck to my floor in some remote corner. I’m amazed at how far some of them made it. I had no idea worms could be so determined, especially since when your shit is worth its weight in gold, you are likely to have lived something of a privileged life.
So that’s my worm story, and the reason you should never send me a living creature in the mail. Just in case you were considering it, I mean.