Wolfpeople

Wednesday, May 1, 2013

Opossum Magick

Dear Grandma,

This morning on the drive to work, I saw an opossum sitting on a chain-link fence circling a construction site, impassively watching the traffic on Six Forks Rd. I drew the opossum card from my animal spirit/medicine deck the other morning (the one from New Mexico you found at Goodwill) and had been sitting on that message, letting it digest these past few days. The accompanying book spoke on opossum teaching us to strategize, but when I think on the opossum, it is on a more patient, taciturn creature. I remember that early morning at the newly-wed bungalow, before the sun had risen, after setting food on the back porch for the cats, finding an opossum helping him or herself to the feast. But in particular, I think of that moment when I opened the door and knelt down to the creature's level, how it looked me in the eyes when I asked, "Hey, what are you doing?" and then turned and waddled away, in no hurry whatsoever, utterly unruffled. I almost expected to hear it say laconically as it left, "yeah, yeah..." The image of today's plump, wiry critter sitting on a fence sandwiched between two scenes of human noise and manipulation only solidifies the definitions I’d been drawing vaguely myself.

I’ve begun reading Birthing from Within, which I think a nice palate cleanser after witnessing, and being a little frightened by (I’ll be honest) Sierra’s birthing of Ella. Birthing from Within instructs to purge pre-conceived notions and fears, all these anxieties surrounding pregnancies and birth which build over a woman’s life time, and turn inward. Turn off the mind, trust the body. Acknowledge that complications occur, that birth is not in your control, and become unflappable in the face of that. Just do as your body instructs and let go. Maybe this is all connected? The opossum watching that which it cannot change and adapting, finding a good spot on a man-made observation post before shuffling to its day-time hiding place?

The one truth that, paradoxically, gives me more comfort than anything else is that I can't do anything about this now, right? I mean, this baby is coming out whether I worry over it, dread it, plan it to death, or not. I might as well relax a little and let my body do its work. The first women knew nothing of cervix dilation or calorie counting. They just surrendered to their bodies. They ate what felt right to eat, they breathed when they needed to breathe, they squatted and pushed when their bodies gave the green light. And here we are, the human race. And also, the opossum race.

an excerpt from a letter to my Grandma I began scribbling this morning

Monday, April 29, 2013

Expecting | 26 Weeks

I know that much has been made of that increased sex drive some women are blessed with during pregnancy. But is there a such thing as an increased romance drive? I think I have that. I have found myself collecting songs about Us (we Wolfpeople, that is), which I never thought to do while we were wooing each other, or as our wedding approached (that two week period between proposal and court house). But now, I listen to “Leather & Lace” sitting on our friend Metal Commander’s front porch, blasting from the stereo through his open window and think, yes, this is about us. I hear a snippet of “Here Comes the Sun” and remember Wolfman texting me, a million years ago, that as Bobby Good strummed that song absently on an acoustic, he was thinking of me. I hear “Danny’s Song” in the grocery and I sing along and my eyes well up a little. (Have I mentioned that I am convinced this baby of ours is a little boy?)

This is me, 26 weeks pregnant, planning frozen custard dates during a Spring full of babies—baby Ella, Xena’s second litter, this bean inside me who kicks every time I sneeze at the pollen. Even Sunday naps seem romantic, my man and me nestled together, the dog tucked into the crook of his body, and a little space in reserve where I tell my boys our baby will soon be. We will be a family of four (plus all these cats, who don’t really count because they wouldn’t want to be counted, if asked).

When Wolfman and I find ourselves on the Tobacco Trail again, both of us quietly appreciating its flatness and lack of obstacles (rocks, tree roots) as my belly swells week by week, our hands brush together and fingers intertwine like when we were getting to know each other. I tell him that he is my favorite thing about my life, having him and loving him so much. And he points to my belly and says, “Soon that will be your favorite thing about your life.” It’s so hard to imagine, but I’m beginning to understand, and be overwhelmed by, the vast stores of love inside me I have to give—to my husband, to my dog, to my niece, to this baby I’m growing now, to any babies that may come after.

Also, I am getting really good at burping.

With Gizzard, Xena's kitten who is not such a kitten anymore.

Thursday, April 25, 2013

Photo Journal, no. 55 | Plus One

Meet Ella Lois Good, all 6 pounds 5 ounces of sweet little baby girl. She'll be a week old tomorrow at 3:38 pm. And, I am utterly, completely, crazy about her. I've never seen such a perfect little face. She has her father's eyes and her mother's nose (I think! I hope!), and those long eyelashes could be from either of her parents--Ella was gifted with really great eyelash genes on both sides of her family. Technically, I've been an aunt, by marriage, for three years now, to a charming little girl named Samantha Jane who never ceases to amaze me. But, I won't pretend there isn't something magical about watching my own little sister transform into a mother before my very eyes, and knowing that this new little creature, this precious thing, has some of our shared blood and history swimming about inside her veins.

I may have been, due to my particular vantage point, the first to see Ella's little face. I cried, of course, and those tears turned to weeping the moment I saw my sister gaze upon her daughter for the first time. Such a magical moment, perhaps the most magical of my life (at least until my own little one gets here). And, god, how strong was Sierra Dawn? Such a power house. Bobby said something to the extent of wondering how he could be worthy of such a powerful woman after watching her give birth to his daughter, and I wonder the same thing if in a different way. I wonder, how can I live up to that? After two days of irregular contractions, five hours of active labor, and only three, maybe four, pushes (all silent, I should note), my sister gave birth and changed our lives forever, and now I understand so much clearer what is expected of me, of my body, of my will, come the end of July. I am so proud of her, so in awe of her, so happy for her, so glad to meet my niece, and to have these next three months to get to know her, just Ella, and to love her so much.

Proud parents

Bobby wouldn't stop talking for a picture.

I think we're going to go with Aunt Shelly

Shirly's first great-grandchild

A blurry picture of my grandpa with the baby. Why can men not stand still for pictures?

Monday, April 15, 2013

Expecting, no. 1 | 6 Months Down, 3 To Go

I'm 24 weeks pregnant, and I finally have a belly to show for it. Last week, I was recognized on the street by a stranger as pregnant for the first time, and this past weekend, when these photos were taken, my middle seemed to double. That's not the most exciting thing about pregnancy so far, though. The most exciting thing has been feeling the baby move and, the other night, actually witnessing the baby move under my skin as Wolfman and I reclined on the bed watching cartoons.

Early pregnancy, I must admit, was the pits, but ever since 21 weeks, I have been riding an endorphin high. I am so full of love and warmth and readiness, it's difficult to complete normal daily tasks or fully comprehend conversation. I spend my work day in a sort of happy stupor and the commute home eagerly anticipating the moment I see my husband, which is when the baby starts moving around--he or she is most active at night, and it always begins the moment I lay eyes on my Love, perhaps due to a shift in the chemicals in my blood, or some otherwise imperceptible biologic change. In fact, as I began typing this, the baby began thumping around.

My greatest challenge is to simply enjoy and be present in this moment, my last time alone with Wolfman, the last few months before I'm a mother, without wishing to rush ahead to the moment this baby is in my arms. And with the help of Wolfman and family and midwives, I'm being nudged into physically preparing the actual equipment and stuff that comes along with a new baby. It's difficult for me to feel any sense of urgency about things like diapers and slings and sleeping arrangements. I keep expecting everything to fall into place around me as though I have some kind of fairy godmother.

On the Tobacco Trail in Apex.

These are Lunchbox's last few months as an only wolfchild.

Once Upon a Child, a consignment shop in Cary, had a 10 for $10 sale on onesies Saturday. Gender neutral baby clothes sure are difficult to come by, I tell ya. I about hyperventilated when I found the Star Wars onesie on the rack.

Wednesday, March 13, 2013

Scintilla, no. 1 |

found here

I don't know if I was a good dancer. I was good enough. But, I loved it. I loved it enough to assist in teaching toddlers and elementary-aged kids, though communicating with kids has never been my forte (my claim at vampirism in answer to, "why do you have such sharp teeth?" notwithstanding).

I still, over a decade later, keep this tidbit of my past on my resume, a line I cannot delete, though I know perhaps I should. I'm proud of this--that I loved ballet so much, I taught classes in exchange for classes of my own. Only as a teenager can one get away with working for dance classes, and perhaps the memory of that freedom, that lack of responsibility and bills, keeps that entry on my resume.

I want this to say something to potential employers. The employer who glances over my resume and comments, "You were paid in dance classes? You sure did have initiative. You knew what you wanted and you went for it," is the person I want to work for. Initiative, ambition, the whole just do it thing: I'm not good at it as an adult. I'm a waffler, a pauser, a ponderer. Once I stole a man's phone number and called him, and now he is my husband. And once, I volunteered to work for dance lessons.

There's another reason I leave the ballet thing on my resume: at one time, dance was not just a hobby, it was my job. Ballet is useless for toddlers, just an excuse to let them wear pretty costumes while socializing them. I spent most of my time with the toddler class wrangling them into straight lines and saying a private prayer that my adult conversations never turned as bland as that of their parents waiting in the lobby (I walked through many a conversation about paint). Six, seven, eight-year-olds, though--that's when you start seeing the spark in them. When I moved, they repeated, to the best of their (still slightly uncoordinated) ability. When I pointed down at my feet in first and second position (third and beyond a little complicated for them), the turned their little toes out astutely.

I donned a leotard several days a week, happily, and I long for those days again.

I daydream now, from time to time, usually on the long commute to work, where I crunch numbers and push papers, about what my life would've been like had I kept dancing. I would have more control over and a better relationship with my body, for one thing. Perhaps I'd be a teacher now, still wearing my leotard out to the grocery store post-class, covered in a tunic or coat, the convertible feet of my stockings pulled up around my shins in a bunch. Maybe my life would be more physical and creative. Maybe I'd be more of an active participant in things, having graduated from that first ambitious job negotiation into greater ones, even more to my advantage.

I leave this entry on my resume for the time being.

Thursday, March 7, 2013

Thankful Thursday, no. 2

I am thankful for signs of Spring.

I am thankful for my hat of many colors, which kept my ears warm on a blustery, cold day.

I am thankful that my new medicine cards (more on these later) fit perfectly in the old pouch I bought (with my own money!) at a Spring Daze back when I was in middle school.

Lastly, our boy Lunchbox injured himself weekend before last after accidentally jumping into the car door (instead of jumping into the car; he was off to see his girlfriend, my Grandma's dog Sioux Bea, and he was terribly excited). After a couple days of hobbling about pathetically and needing to be carried in and out of the house, Wolfman took him to the vet for some happy pills (an anti-inflammatory and a pain medication). I am thankful that after a couple days on his medicine, he seemed to have done all the healing he needed and didn't even finish the bottles. I am thankful that his injury wasn't more serious. And I am thankful that this little, muscly dude is in our life and will be for some years go come. We do love that dog.