Funny Business

Have a baby and you can't help but think of her place in the chain of being. At least I can't help but think it. (Ok let's face it--I've been thinking about deep stuff since I was a child myself. I was a highly sensitive child, or as my mom puts it, a "delicate flower.")

And I think my Uncle Jack would have loved to meet Lily, born 11.24. Unfortunately, he made his exit a bit before she made her entrance with a lusty cry and two wide open eyes blinking in the lights of the OR.

Jack was a baby magnet. Among his gifts, he had a natural ease with children that few possess. He held babies like some pro football players hold footballs. Like Serena Williams holds a tennis raquet. Like Pele with a soccer ball. Natural. Graceful.

For most of his adult life he was a big guy, so inevitably at any family function of our very fecund family (it's the Irish on my mom's side) you'd find Uncle Jack with one or two infants draped on the vast expanse of his chest. Inevitably both draper and draped looked content.

Miss you.

I've been fascinated with Buddhism since my 20's, and now I can say I finally understand it--at least a little bit. You hear often in Buddhist teachings about the importance of doing one thing at a time. In the modern world, this can seem suicidal. We're so overstimulated, constantly blogging (ha, ha), tweeting, multitasking, overachieving.

And I didn't really try following that Buddhist tenet too closely--until I had a baby. If anything, what drove the change is my newfound need to be understimulated.

After a third trimester spent mostly in the hospital and a 14-hour labor and then a c-section, I need light, romantic comedies, guided meditation on the ipod, low lighting, pictures of kittens, and decaf mint tea.

So I've begun doing one thing at a time. Feeding the baby is just feeding the baby, not watching tv and feeding the baby. Eating lunch is just eating lunch.

It takes practice. I'm not perfect and I don't do it every time. But I now finally get it. It's so deceptively simple, and telling you probably won't help until someday it hits you too, but only in doing one thing at a time can you actually be present. You can't do it, you have to be it.

If you're not doing one thing at a time, you're robbing yourself of the present experience. And why would you want to do that?

If you've read the baby books, which seems to be the way of the modern mother, you've heard about the "fourth trimester."

Back in my mom's day, she tells me, you didn't have any mamby pamby ultrasounds, and you didn't even go for your first prenatal visit until you had missed two periods and had been throwing up regularly.

There certainly was not a "fourth trimester," the time after the baby's birth when its former surroundings are recreated via swaddling, dim lighting, etc. In my mom's case, her fourth trimester after I was born consisted of taking care of her two young children while mourning the death of her father and permanently imprinting in my mind the vision of her in a green mummu with white polka dots.

I submit my own term: the fourth crymester. It's what the mom goes through postpartum. Our baby Lily is fine. I wish I could say the same for my emotions. Anything can trigger the post natal waterworks. While crying, I always recognize that my tears are essentially absurdist creations brought on by bodily chemicals.

There are perfectly reasonable explanations for this behavior, mothers, and yet, we cry on.
Grandma wants to buy the baby a new carriage? It's so thoughtful you could (and do) cry.

No snow yet? You mourn that your baby will never see snow. Why did you bring your baby into a world without snow? You're not sure, but it's surely worth crying over.

Baby's tear duct is blocked? Could there be anything sadder? Response: cry.

So as Lily sleeps peacefully in her crib--with dry eyes--I'm off--to swaddle myself, turn the lights down low, and have the tissues within arm's reach.

Irish Pregnancy?

So a friend told me about Irish pennants--what she called the loose threads that hang off one's clothing

Today I learned about Irish pregnancy. A woman who works at BI Needham told me her daughter has a 6-month old baby.  And  then the daughter got pregnant again! She called it an Irish pregnancy.

Sounds like the luck o' the Irish!

p.s.  No overly Irish names for our kid. No Finnns, Seamus's, or Declans. Not that there's anything wrong with those names. We're thinking more Swedish:
Lars, Anders, Soren...

Beating Heart!

We are  thrilled to have our first pic of Lars Nguyen. You can't tell yet what a good-looking devil he's going to be. The little blob has a fast beating heart. All is well. When I went outside the singing of the birds was so sweet. Feel so grateful.

Pre-natal yoga

Pregnancy can be lonely. I went to my first prenatal yoga class last week and was expecting to at least exchange friendly hellos with classmates, or  a few laughs. Instead, each person did yoga enclosed in what felt like a little bubble of self absorption. At the beginning we had check-in time and I was the only person who said anything honest. Almost everyone else said "I'm 27 weeks and I'm fine." Fine. Fine. Fine. What is fine? We have the most amazing miracle happening inside of us, and all they can say is fine? I'm afraid motherhood is starting to look like another way that women compete, instead of bond. Compete to be fine. Hopefully I'll meet some cooler expectant moms soon.

The Incredible Exploding Whoopie Cushion

Well, I know I have a big butt. I try to just keep it all behind me. And make sure that any photographs of me are frontal. I also tend to avoid those mirrors they have in dressing rooms that show one from all angles. I don't want to see myself from all angles! Let's face it--only some of them look good. I once worked out with a personal trainer for 3 months. We took measurements periodically to track my progress. It took a full 3 months of exercise to lose ONE INCH off my ass.

I recently learned I'm pregnant, so I'm blaming my expectant state for what happened yesterday on Easter.  Even in my first trimester I've gained some weight. It's bloat--not baby. At least that's what the charming book WHAT TO EXPECT WHEN YOU'RE EXPECTING tells me. (They're also kind enough to point out that during the first trimester you''ll pass more gas than a frat boy.) Apparently my ass has expanded along with my midsection. I was playing with my 5yo niece Annika. We were putting a whoopie cushion on the chair then sitting on it and laughing. First it was Annika's turn. Then I sat on the whoopie cushion hard, because the first time I did it the cushion just gave up and hissed out the air in sad defeat. There was a noise like a car backfiring and I exploded the whoopie cushion. I picked it up and there was a jagged hole in it. It will never fart again. My ass is a lethal weapon. So you better be nice to me! Or I'll sit on you!

The latest chapter: The Agnes Diaries

Well, as usual there was a snowstorm as I made my way to Allerton House to see Ag and continue her memoirs. I asked her if she wanted to work on them, and reminded her that we left off at the Great Depression. She flapped her hand dismissively. "The hell with it," she said.

Introducing the memoir-double (like a body double, but more garrulous): Virginia. Ag didn't have much to say, but Virginia was in dire need of conversation. In just a few short moments, I learned:
-she's 85
-she has 3 brothers
-she grew up in Quincy
-she nursed her mother, who has Parkinson's, to her death, for 16 years
-she still misses her and would take care of her all over again
-she never married
-she worked as a legal secretary but they let her work a flexible schedule to take care of her mom
-she's honest and made up every minute she took off
-she has a niece who is an editor in Colorado, who wants to become a lawyer
-she is a righty, but sews with her left hand
-she passed out from dehydration and someone called 911 and that's how she ended up in Allerton
-she has no memory of that week

Virginia: Are you available next week?

The Agnes Chronicles-sounds better

I drove to Locust St. today. It is so close to our condo but so far from what is familiar. True to form, I found myself nervously checking for muggers or armed assailants.  I found only 141 Locust street, the last house in the row of row houses that formerly stretched to where the cars roar by on 93. My mom didn't live at 141. But one that looked just like it. The house is red brick. The trim has architectural flourisheds that look unchanged. The back is a white concrete scar, like the rest of the of the houses were sheared off by a giant hand. It's freezing. I open the gate, mount the stairs, and knock on the door. Fresh snow has been undisturbed before I stepped in it. Nobody answers. I ring the bell. Nobody. What would I ask if someone did? Probably: what did this street look like 50 years ago? Did you know my mother? My grandparents? The house does look quite old, like next to it is H and H Builders, Inc., General Contractors. I called a few times to see if they own 141 Locust, or know any history of Locust, but nobody answered. I called today and a confused woman said she was new (she didn't seem to know that Locust Street exists). I asked her who I should speak with and who the owner of the co. is and she said to call tomorrow and talk to the company owner, Rich.

The cross street is Buttonwood. The word has an intriguingly old-timey feel and I learn that it's another name for a sycamore tree that grows in the northeast. I love that every street has a name for a reason. I love picturing the street, now covered in dirty gray ice, sheltered by tall green buttonwoods, their spiky seed balls rolling and crunching under your shoes. Locust needs no definition. It's 100% Old Testament wrath, as in a plague of insects that devours everything. I wonder what my mom's life was like on Locust. Was it happy? Or did the association of the word cast shadows? They were Catholic, after all. To get to Locust, I took a left on Theodore Glynn Way. Of course I'll need to find out who he was. I take a few pictures of the house from a few angles and I'm surprised someone doesn't come out with an attack dog or even just to ask why I'm taking photos. I could be a bad guy--a tax man, a real estate lady. But I'm not. I'm just someone looking for more clues to who I am.

Mostly now Locust seems to be a place to turn your car around. I watch the trajectory of a plane taking off at not-too-distant Logan Airport. Driving off I ask two women  smoking in the cold if they know who owns 141 Locust, or if they've ever seen anyone going in or out. They say they don't know who lives there.
Next stop: The Strand Theatre in Dorchester. Someplace my mum and aunt went.

The Agnes Project

My next stop in researching the Agnes Story (god help me, I really need a new name for this project. I started out with Daughter of Dorchester, but then my mom pointed out that Ag was really a Daughter of Southie, and that didn't have the same alliterative ring) will I think be to visit where my mom grew up. Her house is no longer there in the semi industrial sprawl that runs along route 95 near Melnea Cass. But she did say that one house of the row houses (one of which she inhabited), is still standing. If there is anyone at all there, I intend to knock on the door, and find out what I can. My mom said that growing up, where route 95 now is, was a big field where she played. I try to visit and photograph one historic spot a week related to Ag and our maternal ancestors. 

I finally looked up St. Margaret's Hospital, where I was born, and it shut down in '93. What's left has been taken under the larger wing of St. E's in Brighton. I intend to visit St. E.'s/current St. Margaret's to see if they have archives of St. Margaret's. It was a hospital devoted to maternity. I'd like to find a picture of how it looked when I was born there. I'll also go to 90 Cushing St. in Dorchester, where St. Margaret's used to be, to see what's there now. I love this project. Every day I wake up consumed with excitement over what I'll learn next.