Irises in my Window

My husband brought me a bouquet of green the other day.  Rich green leaves rose to bulbs about to burst, and he told me he was thinking I might like to watch them bloom.  From the color peeking through their tips I could tell there would be white-pink lilies and some other flower the color of my toenail polish, a deep midnight blue.  At the time I was just grateful for his tender thoughtfulness, I had been having a rough day in the hospital and knowing he understood that was comforting.

In these last few days the sun has had its way with the sky, clearing out the rain clouds and bursting through with a soft yet brilliant spring light.  My large hospital window has been a canvass colored in Carolina blue and puffy white clouds, "Pixar" clouds as I think of them.  In the corner of my window the bouquet of flowers has been opening up and today the irises are wide open.  They are looking towards the sun and basking happily like teenage sunbathers who have just hit the beach.  The only reason I know they are irises is because they opened with a surprise-- not only midnight blue; there is a daub of bright yellow on each petal.

When my Jonathan was born with dimples in his perfect baby cheeks I felt just as an older friend had described:  sometimes the finale is better than we could have imagined or asked for.

Samuel and I, Josh, Jonathan, and William are being written into a story and I have this feeling that the next chapter will be much richer than I can imagine.  Have you ever bitten into a chocolate cake with an assumptive air, and then you closed your eyes because it tasted so much more delicious than you were expecting?  That's how it's going to be, just like the irises with that brush of yellow.

The Cicadas are Coming!

I apologize to the faint of heart.  Here they are, the shells of the massive beasts now chirping in the trees of old neighborhoods, emerging from the ground to shed their crunchy shells before they take Greensboro by storm, or plague.  I was describing them to my son Jonathan today, I said with large eyes, "They are huge."

"No, mom, they're not.  Bugs are not bigger than people."

My four year old is so frank in his observations; it helps me see the world the way it is, not the way my cockamamie brain often interprets it.  This is not to say cicadas aren't huge, I'll have to differ with him on that point, but he does help me put things into perspective. 

Today, as another round of visitors were leaving, I had my first itch to jump out of the hospital bed.  Of course, I have wanted to leave before, but today it was a charged impulse.  It took will power to stay put and not fly out the door on their heels, "Wait, I need a ride out of here!!"  This first itch of insanity tickled me from my back to my front, and for a moment I panicked as I thought about how many more moments like this I will endure.  Luckily I am allowed to use the utilities, so I did, and then I grabbed my computer and channeled my electric energy to fix a glitch.  Computers are my Achilles heel, so fixing the too-small font on my Gmail homepage took about fifteen minutes of research and focus, and relieved my physical tension.  For now. 

I realized that this discipline of staying put is going to be none too different from the discipline it took for me to run cross country races, complete fifteen page papers in college (in Spanish), teach high school, or get through forty one weeks of pregnancy with Jonathan.  The practice of staying still is going to be another lesson in grit, and while I didn't see it coming this is the race I am running.  I remember my coach telling me to look up, just look ahead during those painful sprints, at the end of the track.  

Jonathan asked me today when I am coming home.  I told him honestly, "I don't know bud."  Then, after a moment's pause, he said,

"Oh, I know.  You're coming home when Samuel gets here." 

There is the frank truth.  I am coming home when Samuel gets here.  No matter how many more currents of fire that run through my veins and scream at my physical body to leave this space, I am not coming home until Samuel gets here -- and really, it's not huge.  This problem is not bigger than Samuel and me.  Reminding himself of the endgame seemed to comfort Jonathan, and it comforts me too.  We're running this race, albeit with iron in our boots, with a purpose.  I just must look up, and ahead.     

Happy Mother's Day :)

Let's be honest

You probably know by now that I am living at the hospital, that we hope baby and I stay here, knit together, for a few months.  You probably have your own notions about what this is like, but let me stop you before you go too far:  It's not all bad.  There are things about lying on a bed with one's only orders being "Don't get into trouble" that are actually rather delightful.

Not to use my green stirrer of envy to upset your Saturday Springtime mojito, but there are other ways to relax.  Sure, I'd prefer to sip a mojito on my back deck with you, but at the moment I am sitting in a cool room with a treeline view that stretches over miles and reveals only the fanciest office buildings.  It is peacefully quiet, nothing other than the sound of Samuel's regular heartbeat.  I have two books at leisure to read, and I am currently beating my dad in Words with Friends (in and of itself making me feel heroic).

If you are still tempted to mourn over me, have at it!  Bear in mind, however, that by the time you drag yourself and all of your worldly belongings into a sweaty car and arrive at your Memorial Day vacation destination I will have watched all of the Academy Award nominated films from twenty twelve, will have read half of Tolstoy's War and Peace (therein accomplishing both entertainment and lifetime bragging rights), and will have blogged often enough to contact a publishing company.

Enough is enough, I know, but since I am enjoying this I will continue.  You know that moment when your alarm or your family or your dog or your neighbor's sub woofer wakes you up thirty minutes before your REM cycle ends?  Well, hello white sheets and REM cycle - you're welcome!  For as long as Samuel stays good and happy in here we have an all expense paid trip (well, mostly, thanks to Blue Cross Blue Shield) to sleeping in.

Don't be too disappointed, after all when I emerge from the hospital halls your spray on tan will make me look like an Irish girl who got trapped in a Siberian snowstorm.  That said, if you're considering breaking your femur bone so you can be my bed rest neighbor please think again.  I hear that's quite a drag.

Then Hannah prayed and said: 
"My heart rejoices in the LORD; in the LORD my horn is lifted high."   1 Samuel 2:1a

Adrift on my Pirate Ship

My toes are not going to sink into the sand next week.  Instead of to the beach I'm headed on a different kind of adventure.  It's funny the way life goes.  I have always longed for adventure.  As a child our wooden swing set was a ship, a fort, a barn for my horse (my bike).  Our neighborhood was full of dangers, imagined ones, and every curb was a hedge that my horse would jump over, tires on concrete, knees skinned in the street.

As a woman adventure seems somewhat distant, and my travels through Europe as a college junior seem so long ago, some ten years ago, every one of which I feel the full stretch of.  Motherhood is an adventure, but it is also the practice of discipline in sameness.  Tuck in the corners of the bedsheets, fold the clothes, scrub the counters, repeat.

Now it is my turn.  I am setting off on my own pirate ship, and no one can stop me.  I wish my boys could come along, but this is an adventure for me alone.  They are helping me with the provisions no less.  This morning they climbed aboard my ship, my bed, and we cuddled together against the storm, watching Mosters Inc previews on my laptop and giggling together.  Soon my bed will seem like a simple fishing boat, and the hospital bed will replace it -- for months if all goes as planned.

As I take the first steps, walking around my ship still afloat in the harbor and deciding what holes need to be patched, the doctors are helping with some of the provisions.  They are stocking my cargo hold with their treatment plans and ultrasounds.  As they load the cargo, lifting with their strong shoulders, they remind me that they can't come along.

It is becoming clear that my provisions will be found on my journey.  The winds will have to carry my ship and along the way I hope the fishing's bountiful.  I hear the water's fine, and in fact the blue of the sea is supposed to be a sight to behold.

Apparently fear is normal before a long voyage out to sea.  Oddly, I don't often feel it.  In many ways I am looking forward to this, even though I know of the dangers.  I remember sailing in the winters on my high school's sailing team.  There was a thrill in the ride, hiking out of the boat with my toes curled in the hiking straps and my wet hair slapping my cheeks as salty water stung my eyes.  The winds were uncontrollable, all I could control was my response to the dips in the wind and the waves.  Even in those frustrating moments when the wind flagged and we had to force the mast far out, then tilt the boat to catch the edge of the stubbornly quiet breeze, even then there was a simple joy of being out on the water.

The baby inside me -- Samuel is his name -- is coming with me.  He and I are off on an adventure.  It is our hope to reach the other side of the ocean.  Somehow, though, I imagine that one of the sweetest times of our life together will be this crossing.