On Being Pregnant...

Six weeks ago I found out I was pregnant. My world came tumbling down. You see there were so many things that I still wanted to do: places that had been calling my name for years, that I had yet to touch. There's Greece, with its white washed buildings set amidst blue skies and sea. There's the great expanse of Australia calling me to it, to live in its outback for a few months or years. And most importantly, I had envisioned myself so much farther on the course of the trajectory of me, by now. So sadly, nothing in me screamed Hoorah for baby X. All I felt was fear and a feeling akin to being at the top of a roller coaster before it descends down a great and turbulent hill. Everything in my body says, "no!", but it's too late, the damned thing won't stop and let me off. Well, not just yet. I will have to scream and cry down the entire harried path before it screeches to a halt as it enters the unloading zone. The main difference between this and my reality is that I have to elect to get on the roller coaster. I did not elect to be pregnant. Not now, at least. And, aside form the obvious, having sex with husband, I implemented all the proper procedures and precautions to no find myself knocked up at 32. I know, I know, I'm no spring chicken and I should be more than happy to start a family at this stage in my life. The problem is that I thought I would be speaking Italian, Spanish, French and Korean by now. I thought that I would be playing the guitar and violin, composing music and writing books: the first couple published a few years ago. You see, I thought at 32 I would have it together, be so much farther in my life, and feel on top of my game...ready to be some one's mom. But instead I find myself feeling frightened and robbed. I still have to call my mother and talk to her as I process my life. I still need her to tell me that I am her baby girl and the joy of her world. I still need her to tell me that my dreams will come true and that I will dance with them and hold them with my hands one day. I still need her to tell me that my destiny is assured: that I will live the life that God and all of heaven intended for me. I need her voice to tell me that I don't just take up space, but will accomplish everything that I was born to do!

How can I be ready for motherhood when I need my mother so desperately? I thought that by my age I would have reached the illustrious impasse of motherly need and have more adult breezy interactions with her. You know, telling each other of days activities and plans, financial strategies and future savings. But instead, The bulk of our conversations still drenched in warm love, acceptance and the power of a believing mother. So I guess my fear is that I am not enough. That I am not enough, right now, for this child that grows with in me; For I have yet to rise to the level of my own precious mother. You see, I know how I view her: she sets my world straight. She is the only person who has ever made me make sense of myself in this world. She has been the loudest and most consistent voice affirming my value and power. And, frankly, I shake at the thought of being this person to my unborn child. For I know that he too will need this voice, as I have, throughout my life.

In six months I will have a child. In six months I will be a mother. In six months I will start the life long journey of being the greatest supporter my child will ever know. I'm frightened. But, I am already on the ride. So with white knuckles I grip the bar of life, hoping that what my mother freely poured into me will gloriously flow out of my soul to my soon coming son. Who knows, six months is a good bit of time, maybe by then my guitar playing will begin to sound like music (and not just noise) and I will be able to cross it off of my life list.

Tumble Me a World

So to say that my father was a philanderer would be an understatement. I am my father's only child in marriage, yet he has 15 children. That's right, 15 children in a world that's bursting with nearly 7 billion people. Not the "be fruitful and multiply" days where children worked the farm to help ma and pa~but these seem bursting days where it cost a million dollars to raise a child to 18. To not be misleading, I must tell you that he had 4 of these children before he met and subsequently married my mother. Now, she knew of only 1 child, but that's for later in the story. So I hope you now see why philanderer is much to soft a term; it's too gentle, too soft, too proper and neat. For the word still gives the impression of purpose. One is operating with purpose, much like a philanthropic wealthy man sits back and chooses a good charity which to donate an ample sum of money. He makes this decision with calculating assessment and chooses the organization he deems fit for the current stirrings in his heart and global need. Do you see the organization and precision enlisted by this guy? Well this is the same precision enlisted by one who philanders. My father had no such precision. He just went where the wind blew. The wind seemed to blow him a lot. It always blew him into the bed of a woman I did not know, and if I did I wouldn't want to be anything like. I don't say this out of bitterness, because I'm really not...Anymore. I have met some of these women throughout the years and I maintain that I wouldn't want to be like any of them. So like I was saying philanderer is too many clicks to the right of to fully hurl to your heart what my father was. I have thought a lot about this through the years (I'm now 31); my father is a thief. He single handedly stole parts of who I was to be. I have since replaced those parts with good stuff. Really good stuff. Stuff that I wouldn't have know existed, but for the theft and the residual vacant spots where these things (stuff) once were. So don't cry me a river and don't hate him as I once did. For though I have no idea of who I would be if enlisted as my father were Bill Cosby instead of Al Capone, I like who I am becoming. The excavation process has proved itself priceless.