I stopped updating this blog, and I stopped updating because in September I came down with something called “the first trimester of pregnancy,” which affects women in various ways and me in particular by giving me a severe case of “incapable of leaving the couch.”
It was, in a word, pathetic. And by that I clearly mean “full of pathos,” because what is more moving than the sight of a woman furiously in the throes of setting up her internal baby-growing infrastructure? What could inspire a greater sense of the commonality of the human race than witnessing a woman as she participates in its propagation?
Never mind that this all really looked like me occasionally lifting my head from my prone position and weakly asking my husband to please close the refrigerator because it smells and this might be the time I actually decide to throw up. What was really happening was that every single calorie I ate (of which there were few) went straight to my uterus, leaving none for my brain, let alone enough for my brain to put together a blog post from beginning to end. And, because I am prone to excuses and abandoning projects, rather than attempting to adjust my posting to my new condition (perhaps merely posting fragments of thoughts, instead of entire posts), I allowed myself to abandon posting altogether.
I then entered “the second trimester of pregnancy,” which for some women looks a lot like the first but which for me blessedly looked like a return to mostly normal, only with an increased appetite and vague notion that my clothes were soon not going to fit. At all. But I was busy! I had family to see and a wedding to help with and another wedding to go to and then I finally had a weekend home except then it was a funeral, and now it is December and I am making my first post in longer than I care to verify. Added to this was the fact that my husband has been home more often than he has not, which is generally a blessing but, as I was reminded of while reading Hemingway’s Nobel acceptance speech earlier today, makes writing very difficult.
Carving space out from your marriage and your other relationships to make yourself sit down and write is hard. And also another post. But it’s worth mentioning because, as previously mentioned, I am With Child, and so presumably it is only going to get harder.
I’m halfway through this pregnancy as of recently, and as we wrap up another military move and look towards settling in our new home inevitably the next looming milestone has become the birth of this baby. I don’t necessarily intend to turn this into a blog about being a mother, though clearly that is going to have an affect on the content (as you’re seeing right now).
(My husband wanders over, asks, “What are you doing?” I, in the midst of trying to figure out where the previous paragraph was going, say, “I’m writing go away.” My husband makes a sad puppy noise and wanders off. You begin to see the inherent difficulties here, and where the constant apologies begin. On the one hand, I lack a room and time and space of my own; on the other, he’ll be back in a more normal work schedule soon, and I won’t have him around whenever I need him. The balance of “treasure this time” with “what needs to be said now, before I forget it, before I leave this place where I am able to say this particular thing in this particular way” is not one I have managed well, to the detriment of words that need saying. Maybe this post is that other post.)
(Of course there exists an initial presumption that there are words that need saying, and need saying by me. But that’s the beauty of being a member of the Body of Christ; I may empty myself completely, but the words spoken through me will be said the way I say them, which is not the way Jesus would have said or even sounded when he said them. In Him I live and move and have my being, but I am still–me, not Him, and not somebody else, either, somebody he needs to speak in their own way. Marvelous.)
I meant to have this post be about how my husband’s main emotion towards the baby right now is pride, while mine is a fierce, overwhelming sense of protectiveness even as I pray to be like Mary and Hannah, able to give my child to do the Lord’s work. This baby is ours, but only inasmuch as He has given it to us (and Lord knows it’s a gift, as much as I may gripe and make startled noises and belch my way through this); and all things He gives us we are called to offer freely back. In that free surrender we find ownership, because of course one must surrender to Love in order to love and be loved. God has a plan for this baby; I know it in my bones, and can only pray that I’ll be able, in my own way, to do it justice.
For now, that means dinner. And then dessert. And then an after-dinner snack and possibly a before-bed snack. And lots and lots of water.
Hello, blog. It’s nice to be back.