Mother's Day

For Shannon, still the best thing I have ever done. Thank you for every minute.

The first time I see my baby, a nurse brings her into my room, lays her down at the foot of the bed and says, “Well, here she is.”

A face. Pink. A hand. Also pink.

I stretch my arms toward the bundle, toward that face.

“Better not,” the nurse warns. “We just fed her and she’s beginning to fall asleep.” But she undoes the tight swaddling blanket and even the diaper to show me that this baby is, in fact, a baby girl.

“Beautiful,” I say.

I watch the baby’s arms tracing jerking circles and ask the nurse to wrap her up again because I can tell she’s cold. And the nurse takes her out of the room.

The second time I see my baby is a day later in the nurses’ break room. A group of mothers, all of us dressed in robes and slippers, sit on wooden chairs pushed into jumbled rows in front of a long table. On the table there’s a plastic bathinette, a pink plastic bottle of baby soap, two towels laid out and two baby washcloths. New Nurse bustles in, holding my baby in both arms. She stands on the other side of that long table, rocking my baby gently and I look at my daughter’s head resting on that white-sleeved elbow. With her other hand, New Nurse pats the rhythm of a heartbeat on my baby’s swaddled bottom. 

Then she shifts my baby over onto one arm, holding her like a football while she grabs a clear plastic pitcher and carries it to the sink. “You never want to wash Baby in the sink, because it’s too hard and deep and Baby is slippery,” she says over the gush of running water. She has her back to me and I crane my head forward to try to catch a glimpse of my baby but all I can see is the blanket wrapped tight around her feet.

“I can hold her while you do that,” I say, but New Nurse either doesn’t hear or she’s ignoring me.

“This is how you test the heat,” New Nurse dipped her wrist in the water. Then she unwrapped my baby and all the mothers oohed and ahed.

“That can’t be a newborn, look at the size of her!” one of them giggles.

“She weighs nine pounds eight ounces, and she’s 22 inches long,” I say. 

“She’s yours?”

“Yes. She’s mine.” I watch my baby slip into the water, eyes wide open, mouth shut tight, her arms waving and her head moving from side to side like she is looking for something she’s lost.

 

I should just walk down there and look at her. They can’t stop me from doing that.

 I’m sitting in the hospital bed trying to convince myself that seeing my baby would be just that easy when Dr. Baker, the pediatrician, comes into my room and perches on the edge of the bed. “Elizabeth. That’s some baby you had!”

I nod, ready for him to start talking about how great adoption is. If I had him for a husband, a handsome and rich doctor with straight white teeth and blue eyes, no one would be talking adoption. 

“She’s gorgeous,” he says. “Are you breast-feeding?”

“I haven’t even held her yet.”

 “What?”

“They won’t let me hold her.” The tears start and I gulp hard against the tightness that spreads from my throat into my chest.

“Who won’t let you hold her?” He leans toward me, his hand on my arm, his forehead bunched in a way that makes me wonder if he thinks I’m crazy.

“The nurses.” Not crying is impossible now.

“Well, that’s bullshit!” And he’s off the bed, out the door. The sudden shifting of the mattress sends a jolt of pain so fierce I have to grab the pillow and press it hard against the thirty-two steel clamps in my belly.

A minute later I hear New Nurse practically shout. “But Doctor! Doctor!” Then it’s her voice then his voice and the footsteps coming closer.

He stands in the doorway for a second, holding the tight white bundle that is my baby firmly against his chest and I wait for him to keep her there just out of reach, ready to have him not hand her over to me. “You’ll be more comfortable with your back against the pillows,” he says. I maneuver myself, moving fast in spite of the pain, and he puts her in my arms then walks out without a word, pulling the door shut behind him.

Solid. She is so solid. She’s twisting her head in a kind of figure eight and I can feel her arms move under the blanket. I lay her on my legs, unwrap her the way I’ve seen the nurses do it.

A halo of strawberry blonde fuzz swirls across her skull and there’s a bruise on her left cheek. I lift her closer, press my lips as gently as I can against the purplish splotch, feel the tickle of her hair on my cheek. She makes the tiniest squeak ever and I hold her closer, inhale the smell of her—sweet and salt and something I have always known but cannot name—and that smell is so so good, so much better than anything I have ever smelled before.

With one arm I wrap her close, run my hand over her right arm, squeeze lightly, my mouth following the path, tasting her skin, memorizing her flesh, the suggestion of bone so close to the surface. I press my fingers into the hollows of her ribs and can feel her heart flutter against my fingertips.

I feel her legs, check her toes, discover the wonder of toenails, kiss the bottoms of her feet.

Say something.

I want to tell her that I am so happy she is here.

I want to tell her that we are going to be okay, she and I.

I want to tell her that I will be as strong and brave for her as I know how to be.

I want to tell her that I will love her forever, no matter what.

I want to make sure that I say the right thing.

“Hello, baby,” I whisper.

She stops moving her head and I look into those eyes that still have all of heaven in them. ““Hello, Shannon, I’m your mother.”

Snow Boulder

I’m sitting in “my” studio at Vermont Studio Center, a snug room in a sturdy, no-nonsense building that will, for me, always “mean Vermont.” Through the ample window—about six feet tall, four feet wide—I look out on a view of a determined ice-rimmed river; on the other side, on the broad swath of lawn between a building that houses the studios of artists (not writers), a group of five hale and hearty writers and artists are grappling with an enormous snowball. Another artist, the one who has set all this in motion, circles this endeavor taking photos.

I am waiting for the moment when the snowball succumbs to the pull of gravity and tumbles down the slope of the lawn into the river. From here, this seems an inevitable thing, though I cannot be certain. Some of the snowballers kneel in the snow that has grown wetter and heavier in the January thaw that has set this part of the world dripping. The others lean into the work of pushing and, together, they all move the snowball (growing bigger with every rotation) a few inches then regroup and approach it in different configurations. In the last two days of (relative) warmth, some of what had been a lid of thick ice—marbled, translucent, beautiful—has broken free and been carried along the surface of the narrow of open water. There is a point where the river curves and narrows; these ice floes are trapped by some coincidence of shallows and more adamant ice. Below this winter-made dam, the river water has been freed by the warmth and I can see it’s rocky bed.

Through the window I hear the shout I’ve been anticipating—triumph! I look out in time to see the snow boulder teeter then speed down the small hill and I think, “Oh, it will splash! It will break that ice dam!” At the bottom of the hill, though, is a plateau and the snow boulder halts abruptly.

The workers rush down the slope and begin grooming their creation, patting and smoothing it as if it were an animal for which they have been caring. Then they climb back up the hill and a few—the men—begin to pelt the boulder with snowballs. The artist who conceived of this project, hands off the camera, slides down the hill and poses with the boulder, fending off, then trying to catch some of the snow balls. Everyone loiters, pushing snow with their booted feet, peering down toward the snow boulder that is now planted in a spot that would, in summer, probably be ideal for a picnic. 

The snow boulder with "my" studio (second window on the first floor) in the background—courtesy of the artist, Anneke Muijlwijk.

I can’t wait to see how this thing, this shared act of art, turns up in the work.

One Year Later

In honor of the first birthday of the Wondergrandson, I offer this repost:

No Ketchup

One waits, the waiting accompanied by a pulsing of anticipation/excitement/worry.

Seven months ago I waited for this to be done:

Once the snow melted, I began to wait for these:

Today I waited for my grandson to be born.

This was different than when my granddaughter was born. Sixteen years have passed and life has changed, of course. On that day I was an active participant in the birth and while the pulsing was certainly there, my attention was on my daughter, my focus was keenly on her and the incredible ordinary magic of the process.

Today I waited. I sat on the couch in my living room working while the dog and cats slept nearby, the historic heat pressed its estimable weight on the world and, a few short miles away, my daughter once again labored through the incredible ordinary magic of giving birth. The pulsing this time was nearly deafening, pulling my mind and heart away from the work at hand. When the pulsing overwhelmed, I called friends and talked until it was just a hum in the background.

In the evening family assembled—my daughter's sister and aunt, my husband, Florida Freddy. We ate pizza, we laughed, we talked. We waited together. Then a point came when I knew I had to go to the hospital—worry had overwhelmed all the other elements of waiting. I drove the few miles, walked in to the labor/delivery room, checked out what was going on and, after a little while, came home again.

Two hours later my phone buzzed. "Baby's here. Shannon says Wendy's, please."

We all piled into one car and headed for the drive through. I spoke into the intercom, gave the order. "A #1 with cheese and no onions."

"No ketchup?"

"No. No onions."

Shannon's aunt said, "Where did she get 'no ketchup?'" 

We all laughed, releasing the swirl of anticipation and excitement (no more worry). We laughed again when the two giant cups of soda were passed out of the drive through window. We laughed again when we saw the sign proclaiming that ketchup and salt were available by request. We even laughed when we got stuck behind a man on a motorcycle following the white line on the right side of the road at 10 mph in a 35 zone—though our laughter was once again tinged with worry.

In the vestibule we had to wait to be allowed in—a group of five giddy adults carrying tubs of soda and a paper sack redolent of grease and salt, surrounded by a pulsing halo of excitement and anticipation that was surely visible.

Down the hall, the nurses calling congratulations from their station and then the waiting was over and there was this:

Look at those eyes. Look at the old soul peering out from inside.


When I held him for the first time, I felt a pulsing made of wonder and gratitude and the incredible ordinary magic of love.

Oh, Joy

I've been a little blue lately—a convergence of situations, the alignment of the stars, some physical challenges—which has, of course, made writing hard so I've had no energy left for blogging. The last three days, however, have been a tonic.

Sunday The Total Package and I went with friends to one of my favorite restaurants (Skappo) before going to hear two of my favorite musicians in the world—Cory Chisel and Ade Denae—play in a very  small club in New Haven, followed by the second course with some wonderful wine and incredible, deep, soul-nourishing conversation (at 116 Crown).

Monday I taught then drove to Mystic for dinner with one of my favorite people in the world, Baron Wormser, and a new friend, Thom Bassett. Both Thom and I were lucky enough to have had Baron as our mentor (at different times and at different MFA programs)—now I'm lucky to have found another friend who is deeply engaged with writing who's willing to share work, insights and advice, and who has a wicked good sense of humor. Every time I have a chance to talk with Baron his wisdom, generosity and writing makes me want to try harder to be a better writer and a better person. (Of course there's a link to follow to learn more about Baron's extraordinary work; check it out and you'll see what I mean.) The conversation ranged from Faulkner and Hawthorne through country music and Emerson; more nourishment for the soul, plus a side order of inspiration—all three of us teach and Baron reminded me about what a privilege it is to be able to do so.

Today was all about connections—with The Total Package, with friends, with Nature her own self. I went to teach my class and found the gift of a former student visiting—a reminder that teaching is another form of connection.

The WonderDaughter and the WonderGrandchildren are returning from a week away and I can't wait to see them, so I was excited to be done with class. The drive home along back roads felt like an adventure—the way driving at night felt when I first took my place behind the wheel. "Yes," I thought. "Yes, I am lucky."

When I pulled in the driveway The Total Package came out to greet me.

"I think we have to go to the grocery store," he said. "The dog got skunked."

One vinegar-infused bath and countless sprays of various aerosols later, the dog is in his crate (in the garage, poor lamb). The house stinks beyond description. The "kids" are on their way from the airport. And I am beyond lucky, I am blessed.

Live Psychic Live!

I just checked a website that one of my students used for a research paper and found an ad for live psychics—on camera, waiting for my call, drinking off-brand colas, hollering over a shoulder to someone in another room, surrounded by statuettes proclaiming someone The World's Best Mom.

All I had to do was click on the image and I could have signed in, gotten news from the Universe.

The thing is, I don't think I want to know.

Flash Something XII—Not really a flash at all

Lee Bessette has called for today to be the Day for Higher Ed and asked for academics "to actually record, in minutia, what we do as professors from the moment we wake up to the minute we fall asleep. All the work we do that contributes to our job as educators."

So, here goes: I am an adjunct professor, teaching part time at three different schools—I teach different courses at each school and have approximately 20 students in each of my four classes. I have no benefits, no paid vacations, no paid sick days, no certainty that I will be rehired at any of these schools next semester.

6:15 a.m.: Wake up. On Mondays, I teach only one class at 8:30 a.m. While I drink my first cup of coffee I check the bag I've dedicated to this school (I teach at three so let's call this School #1) to make sure I have everything I'll need packed and ready to go. That means I do an inventory of whiteboard pens, extra assignment sheets (all of them, from the beginning of the semester), the portfolio a student from two semesters ago has asked me to return to her. I have no office at this school so I have to store student portfolios (a semester's worth of work) in my home office for a full year because that's policy.

6:30 a.m.: Second cup of coffee. Log on to email for School #1—it's a contractual requirement that I check this email at least once a day but I always check it three times a day because when students send emails they usually need a timely response—no new emails. Log on to email for School #2; there are eight new emails from students since I logged on last night before bed. Answer the questions, one student can't find a book he needs for his big project so I agree to lend him my copy (which I agree to drop of later in the day) and, since I'm delivering that book, arrange to meet with students later in the day (though I don't have office hours on days when I don't teach at School #2). Check email for School #3; no new emails from students but some administrative tasks to handle. Look for book and realize that I loaned my copy to a friend; log on to School #2 bookstore site to see if they have book in stock.

7:35 a.m.: Shower, dress, grab a bottle of water and my class bag, drive to School #1.

8:05 a.m.: Unlock classroom door, boot up computer and write notes on white board to supplement projected notes on the day's lesson. Because I have no office here, I try to get to class early enough to meet with students; few of them email to arrange for this so I simply make myself available.

8:30 a.m.: Lots of questions about the projects that are due next week. Because only two students have read assignment I alter teaching plan for the day—while they read the shortest of the stories assigned and journal their responses, I return previous assignments. There are 24 students enrolled in this class; I spent approximately six hours responding to the assignments I am returning now. I spent an additional two-three hours preparing my lesson plan.

10:15 a.m.: Some after-class discussions with students (always awkward since there is no privacy) and a visit from a former student who wants to advice about where to transfer. We walk and talk so I can put the portfolio from two semesters ago on a shelf in faculty services (where its rightful owner can retrieve it), then walk and talk some more.

10:30 a.m.: Drive to the appointment I made for 11 thinking I'd have time to pick up a smoothie or something en route—the drive takes 25 minutes so no smoothie for me. Get a text asking if I can meet with a colleague at School #2; feel lucky to be able to say I can meet because our schedules do not overlap and it has been months since we talked.

1 p.m.: Go to bookstore to pick up book, pick up lunch which I hope to be able to eat in the office I share with two other adjuncts at School #2 before the first student I'm meeting with arrives for our meeting at 1:15. Drop book in my mailbox with a note for student. Back in office, log on to email—there are six new emails from students that I answer while I eat. Print out submissions for writing contest I'm helping judge.

1:45: Student never showed. I meet with colleague.

3:00: Back in office; have email from 1:15-meeting student apologizing for forgetting our meeting and asking if we can reschedule for 1:45. The email is time-stamped 2:30. Answer four more emails from students.

4:00: Pack up writing contest submissions, drive home. Check emails for Schools #1 and 3. Check bag dedicated to School #2 to make sure I have all the papers I've graded/commented on, handouts, and other necessary materials for classes tomorrow.

5:00: Read book that is assigned for class at School #3, make notes for lesson plan.

6:00: Realize I have made no plans for dinner. Family decides diner is best option.

8:15: Back from dinner, log on to School #2 email, answer two new student emails. Log on to School #1 email, answer one student email; log on to School #3 email, answer one student email.

8:30: Realize I have not written anything today. Read Sonya Huber's terrific blog about her day of Higher Ed and figure this is as good a thing to write about as any.

10:00: Begin writing this blog entry.

11:30: Finish writing this blog entry.

Missing in Action

No new posts for days because Mr. Handsome Man, my beloved cat, had a health emergency and there is no writing in that circumstance.

He is better, for which I am grateful, but this is going to be a "thing."