baby

Just popping in to say that I've added a few new photos of Eli to the Flickr page in the past few days. He's changed so much in just seven weeks.



http://www.flickr.com/photos/kcasella/sets/72157594528845514/

what is good.

- spring. new buds on our willow tree, inklings of green leaves beginning to emerge.
- people pushing baby carriages along the sidewalks of our neighborhood.
- nourishment by many friends who have come to see us, and others who have come to bring us dinner.
- this weekend, a visit from Jeremy's brother.
- the scent of clean laundry.
- burt's bees apricot baby oil.
- apple tea.
- sunlight, instead of grey out the window.
- a new antique store around the corner.
- birds.
- eli sleeps. eli wakes up. eli stretches his neck, looks around with wide eyes, and then rests his head on my shoulder.

As Life Begins...

It’s circular, the way that death makes you think more about your life, and in turn, life evokes a greater awareness of death and all its meaning.

I am hopeful as I sit holding my son who’s all swaddled in a fleece blanket. His tiny back moves up and down as he gently breathes. There is so much life in these details that it’s impossible to miss. Even with all his humanity, Eli is life in the purest, most basic and beautiful form: soft, unblemished; a new little mind whose only thoughts are of hunger, sleep, and warmth. The idea of life has become so present to me these last three weeks. Eli’s life anew, my own life rearranged, and every life that will interact with his and enrich it or be enriched by the fact that he exists and has his own unique story.

This morning I received an email about a woman from our church named Janice who passed away on Friday. I’ve been thinking about her all afternoon. Though I never met her or even exchanged a handshake of “peace” with her across the aisle, I saw her there so many Sundays, always at the end of a row seated next to her husband Jim. Mostly I noticed her because for many months she wore a scarf tied around her head and there didn’t appear to be any hair underneath. Her scarves were always feminine and pretty, and her skin was rosy and light. Other than seeming a bit weary, she was strikingly beautiful in a way you don’t imagine sick people being able to look. She had very warm eyes.

When we knelt to pray for the needs of our congregation during each service, Janice’s name was always on the list. No matter which names and requests came and went through the months, hers remained, and I always listened for it. Sometimes I wondered if it felt strange to her to kneel against the pew week after week and hear her own name read. When my father was sick with his cancer, our friend Al added our names and my dad’s to the prayer list, and to hear them out loud like that gave me chills.

Sometimes when I look at Eli, I can see the most profound glimpses of my father. Jeremy has noticed it too. It’s there in Eli’s curious blue eyes, though their color may still yet change, and the way his mouth falls open when he’s sleeping soundly… those are the moments when a memory of my dad comes rushing back in miniature form and brings a smile that’s tinged with sadness.

I also see a photograph of my dad and me. It was taken at the hospital on the day I was born, July 27th, which also happens to be Janice’s birthday, I learned in the email. My dad is dressed in light blue scrubs and is holding me, probably for the first time. I guess no one had told him that a newborn’s neck is weak, so his hands are clumsily cradling my back, and my head is wobbling backwards. My eyes are closed, but the way my head is angled makes it seem like I am looking up at him and he down at me. Our first official how-do-you-do.

Eli has a strong neck, and when on his stomach he will try to raise his head and look around. He reminds me of a baby bird when he does this. But other times, resting on his back in my arms, his head will drop back a bit and he’ll tip his little chin into the air and I will feel like I am looking at myself in that photograph with my father taken over thirty years ago. I had that photo with me the day that my dad died, so I can see it without actually looking at it now.

Being with Eli, thinking about my father and how desperately I wish he could be here to meet his grandson, and now hearing the news of a familiar stranger whose own children are mourning the loss of her…life continues on and on and it feels like a strange flood of things to grasp simultaneously. Without one, I’m sure I wouldn’t quite be so aware of the other.

While reading Janice’s story on her website today, I noticed a quote in the margin by one of my favorite authors, Anne Lamott. It says:

"If someone isn't changed, then what is the point of your story? If you are no longer wracked or in bondage to a person or a way of life, tell your story. Risk freeing someone else."

A study of ears

I relish these few moments of quiet while Eli dozes. Still in pajamas at noon (both of us), we are restful atop our giant raft, the bed, wrapped up in blankets. The space heater blows bursts of air from across the room, warming us and providing a backdrop of white noise to sleep by.

I peek into crevices. The minute dimples underneath tiny fingers, all ten with their own little dents and creases, just like mine only soft and ageless. The curves of baby ears. How often do you get close enough to really examine someone’s ears in detail? They seem miraculous to me, the lines and half-moons of folded skin all connected. And they hear things, so many for the very first time, I keep remembering.


I can whisper “shhh, shhhh” and there is a response. A calm sweeps over him and his eyes stop clenching and just close peacefully and his fist goes up in the air in a slow stretch.

He won’t remember any of this, in the same way that I don’t remember being three weeks old and having people peer at me with such wonder and amazement filling them up as I slept.


There is no work to be done. The laundry is folded and dishes put away. Somehow I’ve managed to keep up with those few things easily. There are no errands to run, no grocery lists, no projects in front of me. Only this: sitting and watching Eli sleep, and studying his tiny ears before he’s old enough to notice.

Cold Coffee and Yo-Yo Ma

Asleep on my chest is a tiny bundle with a thick mop of dark brown hair sprouting up from its top. This is the perfect vantage point from which to examine him as he snoozes, making quiet snoring noises similar to baby pig grunts. Soft pink cheeks, new eyelashes, delicate ears with detached lobes like his daddy. A button nose that reminds me of a Peanuts character when viewed in profile. And a sweet little mouth that when not inhaling these gentle gusts of sleep, is either yawning, pursing, sucking, or faking a sideways grin.

Our nights with Eli Henry have been good so far. It seems he realizes that his father and I are new at this, and so has decided to go easy on us. We have actually had bouts of sleep lasting as many as five hours before he stirs again to ask for a clean diaper and a bit of milk. His requests are always the same.

And then there’s 5 AM. Lately Eli likes this early morning hour, deeming it his “awake time,” when his striking grey-blue eyes are wide to the world and he seems almost ready to open up his mouth and talk to us. We, of course, are in a sleep-haze, and that’s when we turn on the music. For a two-week old, he has exceptionally refined taste, preferring Yo-Yo Ma Plays Bach to any other lullaby. If we do decide to sing, there is only one song that will do: “I Love My Socks,” made up on-the-spot by dad during a frantic diaper change our first week home.

I am sure that every new parent says this, but I truly can’t imagine life now without this little elf. It’s as if he’s always been here, cuddled up just inches away from my mug of tepid coffee and a bedside table that now hosts binkies and burp cloths and an alarm clock we have no need for. Our baby bird will wake us when it’s time to get up.

little bits...

We are eight days away from our due date. Time has gone relatively fast these past nine months, but now it seems to be creeping along at the pace of falling snow. Every morning I get up, drink my allotted single cup of coffee, and look forward to the sun going down again so that another day will have passed and we’ll be that much closer to our baby’s arrival. I am trying to be patient, knowing that once he’s here he’ll be here for good. A few more days of peace and quiet should not be taken for granted.

The thing that has surprised me the most about the end of pregnancy is how very real the “nesting” instinct is. What I expected was a strong desire to organize my closet and maybe bake some stuff. What has happened in reality (along with a sparkling clean refrigerator and three new throw rugs) is the very real notion that I am sitting on a “nest.” It is quite strange and animal-feeling, this urge to hunker down between the comfortable walls of my house and not be bothered until the baby emerges from his shell...to the point that I don't even like it when the mailman approaches our front porch to drop the letters in the box. It's just a little too close.

Speaking of nests, we have finally finished the nursery and I painted a blue tree with three perching birds to overlook the crib. The room is a combination of gifts from parents and leftover furniture that we’ve refurbished, along with the changing table (old wash-stand) we found at the flea market. At first the nursery’s green walls felt a bit too Kermit-the-Frog to me, but now I love the bright cheerfulness of the room and how everything came together. What started out as fabric scraps, swatches of paint, and random bits of artwork (actually wrapping paper and greeting cards) has become a cozy room. Another nest on which to perch. For the few friends who have asked to see a peek at the nursery, here’s a link to photos.

The next time I blog, I am guessing it will be with some sort of announcement that a new little life has entered the earth, most likely followed by a plea for advice on how to change a diaper. But surely I can Google that, right?

Home for Christmas...

Not a creature was stirring…

...except for Mia the cat, who in the middle of the night decided to present her Christmas gift to us a bit early.

Until then, we were snoozing soundly-- I, nestled snuggly inside my giant pregnant-person body pillow that wraps all around me; Jeremy, in plaid pajama pants and socks. It was starting off to be a long winter’s nap, which these days is not so easy to come by around here. We were both particularly exhausted, apparently much more than our lively nocturnal pet who could be heard prowling around the house as we drifted off to sleep, dreaming of sugarplums.

At around two o’clock there arose such a clatter...so of course, I sprang sleepily from my bed to see what was the matter, even though I knew that it was Mia prancing and pawing her way playfully from the floor to the mattress as if on a trampoline. [She has been known to find stray bits of dental floss or random shreds of plastic from the hidden corners of our house, and pulls them out at night to fling them to and fro. Often these items end up on our bed, along with Mia, who rolls around with her treasure for endless minutes until we muster the energy to take them away from her and kick her back out into the living room.]

Last night in the dark, I felt around on the covers, my hand searching blindly for a scrap of paper or half of a Q-Tip. Instead, I found only Mia, sprawled out on the bed, eagerly grabbing my hand between her paws as if to say, “hey, now that you’re awake, I have something exciting to show you!”

Reluctantly, I turned on the lamp...and what to my wondering eyes should appear?

Atop our clean ivory quilt, precisely between Jeremy’s side of the bed and mine, lay the remains of a small brown mouse (yes, dressed all in fur from his head to his foot.) Next to him sat Mia – her eyes how they twinkled -- proudly displaying her offering. I let out the littlest scream, almost as a reflex, which woke Jeremy who stared in amazement at the tiny deceased creature laid out before us.

We could only shake our heads and laugh, and applaud our cat for such a monumental accomplishment (she has tried to catch mice before and failed.) While Jeremy scooped our Christmas gift discreetly into the trashcan, I pulled off the bedding and scrubbed my hands in hot soapy water.

This morning we awoke to a new-fallen snow, had oatmeal and coffee, and gave our purring cat a few extra fish-treats in her breakfast bowl.

living with me.

Actually, I have no real reason to feel sad, but today has been one of those days. I can’t seem to escape this moody feeling. Last night we attended the final of five “getting ready for baby” classes at the hospital where we’ll be delivering. The first four classes were all about labor and delivery, so we were overcome with curiosity each time and busy making mental notes about how to breathe. Last night’s class was different. It covered what to expect when you actually bring the baby home. Umm, I kind of had a mini-meltdown as soon as we walked in the door to our house. Having been so focused on the ups and downs of pregnancy, collecting fun things for the baby’s room, and imagining what labor will be like, I am not sure it had hit me, I mean really hit me, that we have to bring the little guy home to live with us at some point.

I think it hit Jeremy too. We both tried to reassure each other that we will figure it out as we go, and that we do have great family and friends to help us out when we need it. I think it just seems overwhelming sometimes…all the nervous anticipation of what’s to come, even though it’s so exciting and we cannot wait to be parents. I am sure every new mom-and-dad-to-be feel this way.

And then there are the holidays---joyous and exhausting at the same time. I spent a lot of last weekend decking the halls of our house (photos to come) while Jeremy was in Germany, and today we decorated our tiny tree after enjoying some bagels with Nutella for breakfast (Jeremy brought me back a big jar of it from Germany and a stack of chocolate bars too, sweet husband.) Currently he is on the roof of our house, repairing a giant sheet of rolled roofing that flew off our dormer during a heavy wind storm and landed in the backyard. I am inside, listening to muffled hammers and nails and trying to shake my blues. (I thought maybe writing would help.)

The sofa is covered with stacks of books that need to be put into storage. We are busy (in theory) moving furniture out of the room that will soon become the nursery, and relocating it to other parts of the house. This also means cleaning out and organizing as we go, which is daunting because my husband has more books than the downtown library, and I seem to have more art supplies and fabric scraps than I could ever possibly make into anything useful.

The hammer is pounding, pounding. I continue to welcome a sound that would normally become annoying after awhile, mostly because it reassures me that he has not fallen off of the roof and onto his head. So far, writing isn’t really doing the trick for me though, so maybe I will try something else to occupy this last hour of daylight while the roof repair continues. Perhaps some more Nutella is just the ticket.

The Moth Chaser on an Ordinary Night

Just barely seven o’clock and already it has been an evening full of activity. Mia springs from floor to bed and back again, chasing a moth around our room, while Jeremy packs in preparation for his whirlwind trip to Germany. Three nights in Europe and home again; I’m not sure if that even leaves time for jet-lag. I iron a stack of shirts and lint-roll his wool winter coat to remove all traces of Sam--who happens to be watching from nearby, a look of concern on his face. He seems to understand what a suitcase means and doesn’t much like it. The tail goes down; he pouts.

I sit on the bed again amongst piles of clothes and pillows, watching the cat who seems tireless in her prowling. No one is very fond of our cat, or cats in general I guess, unless they happen to be cat-people and own a cat themselves. We like her though. It feels like my stomach is full of weeble-wobbles, tumbling around as if trying to escape. Being pregnant is a strange time, fascinating even in small ways and full of things I did not know to expect. I can only imagine what it will be like when this bundle is outside of me, peering up into my face with tiny eyes.

Jeremy leaves to pick up Chinese take-out and to rent Antwone Fisher for us to watch, on recommendation. In my mind is a long list of things to do. 1. Decorate the house for Christmas…we’ll be home this year. We have four old fireplace mantles in our house (attached to coal-burning fireplaces that no longer function) so almost every room seems ready for a garland or arrangement of winter candles. I have plenty of ideas, but at the moment lack the energy to attempt them. 2. Make Christmas cards to send. Hmm...or maybe just buy them. 3. Move Jeremy’s music room into our sunroom and try to find ways to cram eighteen guitars and various amps into an already over-crowded space. 4. Set up the nursery with baby things. 5. Sleep until the end of January.

For now, the list will have to wait. Time to find the chopsticks.

thankful.

Somewhere between picking through the bottom of a leftover bag of Halloween candy hoping for some chocolate, and carrying a platter of untouched cranberry sauce to the sink, there’s supposed to be a moment or two of actual thankfulness. I’ve always believed that. Often it skips by me, and my only thought of “thanksgiving” happens when I bow my head over a heap of mashed potatoes. In truth, I am more aware of my gratitude for my dinner than I am for anything else. Which is not entirely awful I suppose.

But this year, as I sit curled up on the sofa, awaiting my mom’s arrival in Nashville with her time-honored stuffing recipe and gladness in my heart that there will be someone here who knows how to properly cook a turkey, I look down and see the large bump protruding where my stomach used to be. And I am thankful.

I think back to May 19th, waking up in Siena, Italy in our cozy room with its view of church bells and a grove of cone-shaped trees. We discovered we were pregnant right before breakfast, and sat on the balcony just staring at each other with smiles behind our eyes as we nibbled on homemade croissants prepared by the hotel owner. He was a man who spoke choppy English, seemed to drink a lot, and played the violin at every time of night for anyone passing through the hallway. By morning he was jovial and sober, and extremely proud of his breakfast offerings.

He could have served us sun-baked shoe leather with marmalade jam for all we really noticed what we were eating. We sat in a swimmy daze of both disbelief and elation, pondering the future between sips of cappuccino. After breakfast, we walked to the pharmacy and bought two more Italian pregnancy tests, just to be triple-y sure.

Now it’s six months later and here we are. There’s a nursery to put together. Tiny socks and shirts must be folded in preparation. We have a name chosen and a sudden enthusiasm about diaper changes and sleepless nights. Time has galloped along and it’s amazing to realize how very close we are to holding a little person in our arms, one who might have Jeremy’s long eyelashes or my mouth in miniature.

And we know that we are blessed.

pretty trees on forrest.

today jeremy was recording at a studio a few blocks from our house.
at one point, we all went outside to look at the sky...


after everyone else had scattered in search of coffee, i wandered the sidewalk, hypnotized by all the colorful trees lining the street.




i am trying to grab onto the last bits of autumn before they disappear for good...

Glorious Rainy Dreary Day

Today was my first day out of the house in nearly a week. It is overcast and sloshy out there, and many of the leaves are off the trees now--stuck to the pavement like soggy bits of discarded newspaper. Our backyard is a carpet of yellow leaves lying on their faces.

We had an appointment with the baby doctor this morning and all is well. The little monkey kept kicking and bumping around as we sat in the waiting room, and then kicked at the little heartbeat monitor as the doctor felt around on my puffed-up stomach. It’s difficult to tell at this point what’s a foot, a fist, or a tiny baby bottom poking out, but nonetheless, he loves to groove around in there and make himself known to the outside world.

I, too, have been kicking my way toward the outside world, slowly. I managed to crack or separate my rib(s) during a sneeze-gone-wrong last week and have been hobbling between bed and couch since then, trying to heal. Never have I been so bored, so uncomfortable, so irritated by Oprah.

Jeremy has been sweetly caring for me, concocting a fabulous new spaghetti recipe and helping me around the house. Today is the first day I have felt ready to get out and about, so after the doctor visit, we stopped into Marche’, the new Artisan Foods café (from the talents of Margot) which finally opened for business in our neighborhood this morning. Hoorah! Back to the rainy-windowed Paris cafés we went in our minds, as we sat with thick white porcelain mugs of coffee and a delicious bread basket. We slathered up wedges of raisin toast with fresh gourmet peanut butter, local honey, and sweet red jam. The music—nostalgic old jazzy tunes--matched the vibe perfectly: cute marble tables for sitting, and rustic wooden cabinets housing rows of artisan pasta, Italian canned tomatoes, and bottled anchovies for sale. This will be a new favorite escape, and was a perfect first outing for my morning away from home.

If only there was something to shield the obnoxious, red tinsel-covered letters reading: HUNTERS Automotive across the street. The walls of Marche' are at least three-fourths glass and could stand a more romantic view. Our neighborhood remains a mixture of old run-down Pawn shops, boarded up storefronts, new lofts, and quaint shops all reluctantly holding hands. There are times I embrace the diversity, and moments when I want to take a giant sponge and wipe it all clean of its remaining dilapidation.

I am back in sofa-land now, not minding (a bit) the rain outside, or Sam the dog’s clinginess as he bundles himself into the crook of my bent knees, trying to get warm. Jeremy is a few feet away in the Map Room, whispering new lyrics and slapping his hands against his legs to keep rhythm as he writes. Out front, the crabapple tree is full of fruit, and a stranger is asleep on our front steps. It’s a wet day, a grey day…but a cozy day when it actually feels good, for a change, to be stuck inside.

fall foliage

Dog Day Afternoon

Last night we watched the Mets lose in the rain, both of us with an animal tucked under our arm for comfort. I didn’t mean to become a baseball fan but I got lured in by my husband’s enthusiasm. And his cute hat. The only good news of the day is that I managed to finish two pieces of artwork.

I said before that I didn’t really labor over either of them...but that ended up not being true.

First, I painted this dog for the living room. It’s a silhouette of Sam (sort of) in one of my new favorite color schemes. I found an old sheet of canvas fabric in the basement that I’d used long ago to paint a sign for one of Jeremy’s CD tables. I flipped it over and discovered that I really like painting on this type of canvas, as opposed to the stretched white kind from the art supply store. It was easier to control my brush. Although I am really happy with how this dog painting turned out and love how it brightens up a once too-brown corner of our living room, I can’t really take much credit because I copied the design. While flipping through my Anthropologie catalog, I had spotted this similar silkscreen print of a greyhound and had one of those “I can do that,” revelations. Especially since their version was $498!

Here are both versions:



I tried to use Sam as my model, but he wouldn’t hold the pose for very long, so I ended up stealing a few details from the catalog page. I figured it’s okay since I’m not going to sell it, and I’m admitting that mine is entirely unoriginal.

This is a photo of Jeremy (later in the evening) showing his excitement over the dog painting (okay, actually he was cheering for the Mets who made an amazing play in the 6th inning.)


After the dog, I moved on to something more my own...I decided to finish this fork painting I had started two years ago for the kitchen...(another unfinished piece I found while scrounging in the basement.) All it really needed was a background and a few details so I got out my palette knife and slapped on some blue and white paint. That’s the point when I thought I was almost finished, and started my bragging about having whipped up two paintings with barely a thought. Tra-la-la.


But after the Mets lost, I went back over to inspect the fork and realized I didn’t like it so much. It didn’t measure up to the quality of the stolen dog, the tines on the fork were uneven, and the image was too small for the space it’s going to hang. So I painted over it and now it’s a pear.