Gratitude

Alright, I'm officially over whining my way through this pregnancy. I am so grateful that you have all unflinchingly listened to my litany of sorrows, but honestly, enough is enough.

I am lucky.

First, with the pregnancy. Yes, I've had some aches and pains and so on, but I have not been placed on bed rest, have not had life-threatening complications, my blood pressure is something absurd like 98 over 59. My ankles are not swollen, my ultrasound looked great and the baby's heart rate has stayed at a constant and cool 140ish for the last month. He's a cool dude, with a nice left hook and a penchant for using my cervix as a trampoline. No underweight, NICU needing babe in this belly.

As this guy didn't listen to my plan for an arrival two to three weeks ahead of his due date, I've had some time to reflect. I am 39, which has given me some serious bouts of fear during this pregnancy. But what will be, will be. I think fear has been a bit behind my whining. But no more. I'm somewhat afraid that we haven't come up with the perfect name yet. Although we may have - we have to meet the little guy to know for sure what to call him.

Second, I am just plain lucky with my health. I've been engaging and hearty and long debates about health care with as many reticent conservatives as possible. I have on occasion shook with anger at the stories from people unable to obtain medical care or rendered bankrupt because of the cost of healthcare. I am ashamed that we don't take care of our citizens, that through the practices of our government we prioritize corporate financial health far above human health. Last night I was going through the last 5 years of medical and insurance records in preparation for kissing Anthem/Blue Cross as our insurance company goodbye. For as little as my family has needed medical attention, there sure has been a lot of paperwork and a lot of battling with our insurance company for coverage of those very few and minor appointments. This year I've seen my surgeon once and Sawyer had stitches and that's the extent of our medical visits (other than the midwives, of course). We have been blessed with great health, and we work hard at staying healthy. We've been lucky to not have major issues beyond our control. So lucky. But there are plenty of people who aren't, and who's to know when one of those people might be one of us. That fight for health care reform in our country is by no means abstract for me. It feels like it could be a life and death fight for any of us at any time. How lucky that we finally have a president brave enough to be pushing the issue to the forefront.

Third, I am so grateful for the life I have: two healthy children who make my heart swell with pride, a wonderful (and healthy) husband who always takes my breath away with my realization of love for him, and my sense of being a team. Employment. A home. Working vehicles. A wonderful community full of friends who never stop asking how they can help, never stop dropping off hand me downs or making me laugh. There is nothing in my life I can take for granted, from parents whose generosity in providing opportunities to celebrate together is constant and so appreciated, to siblings whose love and support is constant. Actually, I think I could take these things for granted, but I refuse. I am far too grateful, too aware of how precious they are and of how rare they are.

This little guy may take his time in emerging into this amazing and tumultuous world, but I am resolved to enjoy the last of it experiencing a healthy pregnancy, the wonder of new life inside of me, the anticipation of my children and community and family ready to welcome him however and whenever he arrives with arms and hearts wide open.

A week or two ago, Jordan was very frustrated with her brother at bath time and she marched him into the bathroom and into the tub and made him listen to her read the book "Peaceful Piggy Meditation." Pretty soon the bath and the book had them in a wonderful place and they left it half unread on the floor. I'm not sure what the inspiration was this morning, but as I was taking a shower, they came in and read the rest of it together. I realize so much of the amazing lessons and moments of wonder are given to me courtesy of my children. This is just the latest. From the littlest. My life is far more full of blessings than of troubles, far more full of comfort than of discomfort. And I am so, so grateful for it all. What joyful abundance.

What Not to Say to a Pregnant Woman

It's fascinating to be looked at in horror. When you're simply shopping at the grocery store. This expression is seen almost exclusively on the faces of men and teenagers.

Women wince. When dropping off children at school, stooping to get mail from the mailboxes on the corner. Especially ones who have been there. Such is the affect a woman in her final days of pregnancy has on other people.

It is a common belief that there is a significant amount of forgetting that goes along with delivery - you forget the depth of the pain or else you wouldn't have more than one. You forget the exhaustion and discomfort and indignities of pregnancy. But there are some things you just shouldn't ever forget: honestly - a woman who has given birth before should not for any reason ask an expectant mother "When's that baby coming?" Because you never have any freaking idea. And that one fact perhaps chafes more than any other in the final weeks. Unless you have a C section scheduled, that baby will come when it comes. Which is why I think of the final stage of pregnancy as simply giving in. Like the Wicked Witch of the East and her skywriting message of "Surrender, Dorothy", that baby will not come out until you relinquish any notion of control over the process.

But my surrender is only to the process and the baby. What I will not surrender is my right to punch in the face the next man who tells me "Whoa! You're gonna pop!" (Gee, thanks. I was feeling so svelte.) If I could pop, that might provide instantaneous relief. Instead I know ahead of me lies hours of contractions. Followed by pushing from a rather small place in my body a rather large being. Rarely a "pop" to be heard unless some kind soul has provided bedside champagne service. The sound of breaking a man's nose with a loud, satisfying "pop" would allow for a modicum of relief, however. And if tried pregnant, I can't see a male judge (afraid of what might make the belly actually explode) or a female judge (both estrogen and empathy begin with e) rendering a verdict of guilty.

So please, don't ask me if he's coming soon because not soon enough is the only right answer, and people like to associate a big round belly with being jolly, not with being snippy and bitchy. Don't ask me how I feel because the only answer is pregnant. (I always feel a bit more honest in the negativity of my responses around teenagers as I feel it provides them with birth control motivation versus that fairytale falsehood they sometimes imbue pregnancy with.) And it doesn't come out sounding positive. Don't tell me I'm going to pop, point out that I'm huge, or make a face or do something you think might make you seem funny and witty like step back with your hands up and a look of horror on your face. I love the honesty of women who allow me my grumpiness and discomfort. I can't stand the women who told me how much they loved being pregnant.

I of course never mind the women who tell me I look amazing or beautiful and that the only place I've gained an ounce is my belly. If you tell me the baby hasn't yet dropped I am liable to drop on top of you to see if it might change your mind. If I have never met you before, it is not your place to recommend stimulating my nipples to me while gesturing at my chest with your unfamiliar hands. Nausea and vomiting can occur in the last trimester after all. Don't tell me I've picked a lousy time of year to have a baby because it's not like I can change it and it's also not true - there's not a bad time to have a baby. Don't tell me that your neighbor almost died in childbirth, in detail about the horrors of each of your births with the attitude that no one has ever suffered as much as you did. Remind me of the joy of the new baby, laugh with me at the indignities of the process, and tell me you are certain it'll all go smoothly and quickly. I might just let you live.

Disclaimer: I've been told the humor in this entry may be somewhat harder to find. I love it (for real) when my friends and family make jokes about my pregnancy, my size, etc. THey are excluded form What Not to Say. After all, it was my very own daughter who told me a couple of months ago, " It's funny, mama, but it kinda seems like when your belly gets bigger your bootie gets bigger, too." xoxo

The Best Dog Ever

This is a post I don't want to write, never thought I'd ever have to write. After all, if you are lucky enough to have the best dog ever, you kind of think that immortality is one of the conditions. But what's always made Austin so special isn't some collection of superpowers but just his basic, well, humanity. He turns twelve in December and we thought he'd last a few more years beyond that. He spent about seven or eight years as a puppy, after all, and didn't start showing his age until this year. He's such a big beauty of a dog that his declining health is deceptive - his thick, lush coat that I cursed at often enough during the twelve shedding seasons a year hides weight loss stylishly. And he's always been mellow, so when he got really, really mellow it didn't seem so dramatic. Mostly, though, our inability to really see his deterioration has more to do with denial than anything else. Life without Austin has never been conceivable since life with Austin began.

When Tom and I had just been dating for a few months, we still lived in separate places. He was visiting me in LA and we made a rare trip to a mall, this one in Santa Monica, to buy him some new clothes. An unusual experience as anyone who knows Tom will understand. Up on the second floor of the mall we were drawn to a woman petting a puppy in a milk crate on a bench. We approached and she told us that a homeless woman owned him and told her she was going to take him up into the hills to let him live with all the other animals as he was getting too big to hide in her backpack when she went into the shelter at night. This woman, Jenny, was trying to convince the homeless woman (whom I recognized from the street outside the bar where I worked in Santa Monica) to give her the puppy. She didn't want another dog, but she didn't want this one to be "set free" in the mountains, either. One look at the damp puppy in the crate told why: clearly underfed with mange evident on his ears and a candy necklace for a collar, he'd be a quick snack for a coyote or a mountain lion. He cocked his head to one side with one ear up and one folded down, and looked at us with his huge eyes, and that was it. He owned us.

A mall security guard emerged and began harassing the homeless woman, and in her paranoia she grabbed the milk crate and fled. We'd been at the scene for an hour or so and all three of us followed the woman out into the dampness of an early February day on the open Santa Monica walking mall. Jenny told us she was going to follow the woman and try to get the puppy from her. If she was successful, she said, we could pick him up the next day at the animal shelter.

Having been somewhat non-committal about everything in our lives 'til then - we were after all an actress dating a seasonal river guide - this was a big deal. We showed up early at the shelter and were disappointed to not have the puppy listed anywhere on the intake sheet. Turning to walk out we saw a sign: "Heather and Tom: Call Jenny: 999-9999". We looked at each other, took the sign and repaired to the tailgate of Tom's truck to talk about it. After a half an hour spent listing all the reasons we shouldn't do it, Tom said "Oh, who are we kidding. If we weren't going to do this we wouldn't have spent all this time talking about it." We drove to Jenny's and when we walked through the door, Austin looked up at us and promptly peed all over the floor. We were in love.

We shared custody of Austin that spring until we moved in together in Groveland. We had a crate for him in Los Angeles and a runner on the deck of the Groveland Guide House. He had a penchant for chasing deer and eating cow poop. He would have graduated first in his dog training class but missed the last session after being hit by a car on the highway, crossing to get at a deer carcass on the other side of the road. Tom and I were both runners, and he was the perfect running dog, tireless and joyful and always game despite the weather. He trained with me for four marathons and when I got pregnant with Jordan when he was five he suddenly became protective of me, standing in front of me rather than behind me when a strange dog or person approached. He paced outside or lay as close to me as he could during the birth of both children, and so it's been unusual for him not to be following me around this time.

Austin was the first real grownup thing I did. And twelve years later I sit in the house I own with two children and one on the way, a business we own, and a whole trail of adult decisions I've made and commitments I've kept lining the path to this point in my life. Austin taught me to be an adult because he was the first thing I committed to in my adult life (Tom was a given - we were in it together from the beginning whether we admitted it or not - Austin was the fist clear evidence of this). He was the first thing I really had to take care of and take responsibility for. I remember in that conversation on the tailgate of the truck Tom saying "Dogs live for a long time. This is a long term commitment." And now it seems not nearly long enough.

Maybe it's because of his presence all through my "real" adult life that I feel sort of scared looking at the rest of it without him. He was there for the birth of Jordan and Sawyer and now will likely not be here for the third child. He taught them both to walk and endured plenty of abuse at both their tiny hands without ever treating them with anything but gentleness. He spent five years living at a campground near a river and now that our home is a couple hundred yards down the road, he thinks it's still his home despite the "No Dogs, No Exceptions" signs.

He's accompanied us on river trips, camping trips, hiking trips, road trips. I was looking for pictures on him in my computer album and was somewhat amazed: there were lots of pictures taken of him until we had kids, then fewer and fewer. But in every picture we do have, Austin is always in the background. Even if you can't see him in the picture, you know he's there: just off to the side in photos of the kids playing outside or at the park, lying somewhere close while we open Christmas presents. He's there in every one. And I hope that's how it feels when he's gone. Because his absence would be unendurable. I want him always just off to the side. His gentle, loving presence always a part of our family. I know he'll be with me on every run or walk I go on.

Update:

I was of course sobbing my heart out when I wrote this post, the vet having told us not to wait too long to bring him in to be put to sleep. But then he began to eat lunchmeat, his dog food prepared the way we made it when he was a puppy recovering from the health horrors of his early months: with egg, milk and olive oil added. He began first to wag his tail just a bit more, to gain a little weight, some of the redness in his eyes to reduce, and to want to go outside in the full moon to bark at the phantoms. He's following me around and keeping Nala in line, and we are so grateful to have him with us for however long we're granted this reprieve. It's taught us a good lesson of not taking anything or anyone for granted, for taking the time to give the ones you love a little scratch behind the ears. It's made me more gentle in training Nala, and more grateful for all the blessings I have in my life. Maybe Austin does have superpowers after all.