Friday, January 4, 2013

Lovely Mess and Slow

I almost cannot begin this post, so difficult it is for me to conjure words. Last night I spent twenty minutes trying to remember the word “redundant,” and could not. At some point late in pregnancy body, inertia, a slow instinct takes over. What is left of the energetic, at times frantic, nesting instinct of two weeks ago is past, or only exists in the form of a vague frustration as I look out of my huge body at partially completed projects. My messy daughter still playing in bed late in the morning. The raised beds outside, covered with snow, still full of dead vegetation I couldn't clear away in time. Bows and rnaments on tables and on the tree, yet to be taken down and stored. Little piles of toys to put away. Snow boots on the stairs.

My world is slowing, and I recognize the change in me: a change that will enable my body to birth this child. Not my mind. My mind can do nothing now. Survival and health are found now only in…eating, sleeping, growing, waiting, sweating.

Sometimes my mind tries to fight it. Am I ready for another baby? it thinks. Will I lose what I have with Hattie? When will I write? Will this baby be healthy? Will I love this baby too? Will I be able to get through this labor? Will I be able to sleep? Anxiety. Anxiety. The I MUST DO voice: “I must do the dishes. I must sweep the passage. I must organize the basement. I must plan the meals.” And yes, some things I must do. And doing is difficult. Feeding my family has become a task of epic proportion. Yet we must eat. My body demands: good food, clean sheets, a quiet room.

My body is teaching me what is necessary—to do, to left undone. I am leaving the small toys on the rug in the playroom. I am allowing myself to sleep in the afternoon, as the still-early sun sets.

Now I am listening to the air heat the house, listening to the dog snore. I am watching the snow melt into icicles off the roof of the garage, the pale light turn warm and gold on the bare trees outside. The antique glass in the dining room window warps the branches, marbles the sky.
Posted with BlogsyPosted with Blogsy


  1. The frantic nesting hasn't stopped yet, and I want to cry when I see the lap blanket yet again thrown across the couch. Does this mean my baby will wait until I reach your perfect "undone-ness"?