I was ready to abandon the blog, leave it to the spammers and forget it ever existed. But what the heck-- even if I am only writing to the silent space that is the internet, I might as well keep writing.

We are knee deep in work, packing, babies. Who said one is like none, two is like ten in reference to kids? Maybe they were right. Obviously Iris's needs are basic at this point, but she is another person with demands and stuff which makes things in our house just that much more complicated. Still, so far things have been easier than I thought they would be with two little ones. We all went to the mall today, ate dinner, and survived. One point for the parents.

I am very, very sad to be leaving Wilmore but also very excited to be moving to Dayton. Who'd a thunk, right? Alan just rolled his eyes when I told him this, but there is an H & M-- an actual H & M-- in Dayton! I think I had to spend time in the middle of Kentucky for a place like Dayton to feel like a cosmopolitan mecca (the people I know from NJ and WA are gagging as they read this, I know).

So I soothe myself with thoughts of shopping, mass transportation, and Vietnamese food when the reality of saying goodbye to friends creeps up on me. It feels a bit better knowing no one we befriended was meant to stay here, and neither were we. It is late, I know I'm rambling, but thought I should take a stab at blogging again before I lost my nerve.

Waiting for Baby #2

As with my first pregnancy I am now entering a stage of focusing in. My poor sister, mother, and friends-- I am on a birth kick for sure and have trouble thinking about other things! So I thought it warranted a blog post.

I don't know what preparing for a hospital birth is like. Of course, I have to have it in the back of my head that I could end up being transported at any point before, during, or after labor. But for a home birth you spend a lot of time fussing over things at home. Not only is the nursery/crib/baby's dresser a reason to rearrange things a million times-- you also have a box of birthing supplies to contend with, snacks for you and any others present to sustain everyone through the process, a postpartum care artillery. All my paraphernalia has been moved from one large box to lots of little boxes, from our room to the guest room/office upstairs, it's all been labeled and de-labeled twice, and I'm still not quite happy with how it is set up on the bookshelf upstairs.

There is childcare to set up. The bathrooms need to stay clean. I run through a mental list of comfort things I might want handy during labor like a favorite movie and comfy clothing. I'm sure many of these things are a concern with a planned hospital birth, too, but there is something about living in the space you plan to give birth in that makes you feel like you are crafting something. Maybe other home birth moms have had a different sense in the weeks leading up (please share your thoughts below!).

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Yesterday we enjoyed some time as a family of 3.5. We drove up to Chrisman Mill winery to get a celebration bottle of my favorite local wine then headed to the UK arboretum. How nice to see the flowers and smell all the plants coming to life! Lucy collected sticks and dandelions. We ate a little lunch, went to the bookstore. I don't know how much harder outings like that become when another kid is added to the count.

I've had a lag in work so the three of us have been hanging out this week, catching up on reading and phone calls, still dealing with the pile of paper work from the house buying business. Today Lucy and I looked through her newborn pictures. "I was small... and TINY!" she told me. Lucy also said the baby looks like her; we'll see soon.

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So I spend each day in a space somewhere between my regular mental state (which isn't so grounded to begin with!) and that place your head goes when you give birth. I listen to lots of music I liked as a little kid-- Red Hot Chili Peppers, Foo Fighters, Mariah Carey, Michael Jackson and all that-- and soak up the dreamy mood that comes with preparing for the birth of a new life.

The Game, Abortion, Compassion

In the summer of 2005 I often listened to the song "Hate It or Love It" by The Game. Surely it was the refrain that caught my attention, but it didn't take long for the lyrics to sink in. The Game sings about parts of his life, his days dealing drugs and eventual success. Then at the end he thinks about what might still be going on in his old neighborhood and sings:

"I wanna know what's going on like I hear Marvin
No school books
They use their wood to build coffins
Whenever I'm in a booth
And I get exhausted
I think what if Marie Baker got that abortion
I love you Ma"

I have no idea what its like to be a black guy growing up in Compton-- I am a white girl who grew up in the burbs on the other coast. So I'm left only to wonder.

Now The Game, born Jayceon Taylor, implies that he draws strength from the fact that his mother did not abort him when she was likely to or thought about doing so. That must shape who you are as a person, knowing that you were wanted enough to be born even though statistics and circumstances were slanted against you.

But the very fact that you are a person likely to be aborted, what does that say about your worth in the eyes of others?

It is abortion under the guise of compassion that hangs me up more than anything. The logic seems to go like this:

You are a in a bad situation (no spouse, or no job or in the middle of school, or perhaps you already have a number of kids)

Another child will exacerbate the situation for you and your dependents, or you will be able to provide a less than ideal life for the unborn child

So you should have an abortion to show compassion on yourself, your family, your unborn child

Okay, how do we know (or how can we even begin to guess) that life for that child might be bad? We look at children already born in similar situations.

So while Mr. Taylor may be able to thank his mom (and rightfully so) that she chose to bear him into the world he is still the once poor, black, urban child people often look to as an example of why other poor city children should not be brought into the world. The only thing more invalidating than not being allowed to be born is someone pointing to you and saying "we use you to justify why other children like you should not be brought into the world." Same goes for people with disabilities.

As clear as day, when you tell the poor mother or the young mother or the mother carrying a special needs child "you should probably have an abortion" you are telling all those kids born into similar circumstances "you probably should not have been born." That, my friends, is not compassion in any way, shape, or form.

Ohio is God's Country

Before I jump into the heart of the matter, let me say we had a lovely visit with our friends Dru and Adam and their son, Israel. It was hard to see them go last summer but equally as nice to have them here for a few days to catch up. Once again Alan and I were reminded of the richness of our friendships in Kentucky.

It was while they were here that Alan got the call from the Univeristy of Dayton-- he got in! Their offer was competitive to say the least and he couldn't pass it up. So despite other options, we will be going to Ohio for the next five years. What a blessing for Alan to really start enjoying the fruits of his labor. And at Adam's suggestion we looked up houses in Dayton; they are quite affordable and it looks as though we will be home owners before too long.

Now I met Ohioans for the first time in college. Unfortunately they were mostly a cranky lot and I quickly built up a prejudice against the place. This was deepened by the constant cries of "Ohio is God's country!" from fellow classmates. Ugh.

But I've recanted since then and have begun to see the good in midwestern living. I've always loved F. Scott Fitzgerald's short stories and many of them follow young people as they make their way from middle America to the North East to go to school and hobnob with the elite. But I've made a reverse migration and the one place I thought I couln't stand to live might turn out to be a very cozy home for the next few years. Ohio is surely not God's country, but I'll bet we can make it ours for a time.

"Housework, if you do it right, will kill you."
-Erma Bombeck, humorist and Daytonian

Trip to Farmville

I love a weekend trip. This weekend, along with friends Meredith, Amberly, and Charley, I had a chance to see friends from Wilmore who recently moved. Now I usually do all the planning and driving for a road trip so it was such a pleasure to hand over the directions, decisions, and driving (yes, I wimped out on my shift) to others. While packing I'd brought an arsenal of things to do in the car but we ended up talking the whole way to Farmville, VA and back. Such a good time!

Our friends Kat and Rob moved some months back and are all settled into their new home. Their house is lovely, the town is just perfect, and they seem to have had joy in moving on to the next thing. I don't know about the other women, but for me this part of the trip was insturctional. I've only seen people move from Wilmore back home-- this was a very tangible lesson in "You can leave Wilmore to go on to another place and find your niche, be happy."

They spoiled us with a tasty dinner and breakfast, we played cards, we passed around their sweet baby who has grown quite a bit since we all saw her last, and we toured the town. It was good to talk with Kat and Rob again though it felt as though, in some way, we should be hauling them back to Kentucky with us when we left.

The trip to Farmville had all the elements of a good weekend roadtrip: pleasant company for the ride, good weather, welcoming friends at the other end who were generous hosts, good food, and a little lesson learned.

"I see all of the past growing within me." -Apollinaris

He got in!

Last year Alan applied to the PhD program at Ave Maria in Florida. I thought he was a shoe in. No one reads as much as my husband, I proudly (arrogantly) thought, and no one makes better use of what he learns. We visited the school, we waited for the letter, I saved a Red Lobster gift certificate from Christmas for the expected celebration dinner.

But the school was having all sorts of problems and there were doubts he'd accept even if he was admitted. Still, when the rejection letter came I was angry. What a slap in the face, I thought. And then there were the months of seemingly endless speculation-- was it his essay, his statement, his interview? What had gone wrong? We put the idea of year round sunshine out of our heads and Alan planned for the next round of applications.

It was harrowing! Instead of one school, one place to think about it was five or six. There was a trip to South Bend, to Dayton, to DC. There was the day of his GREs when Alan left his ID at home and Lucy and I made the trip to Lexington during rush hour in our friend's SUV, skidding on ice and listening to "Paper Planes," to get it to him. Then the letters being sent off and the waiting, waiting, waiting while I admittedly thought "better him than me."

Then yesterday Alan came in with the mail. He handed me a letter and said "Read this." I saw Catholic University of America, saw the word accepted, saw the fat packet of papers in Alan's other hand. I was ecstatic! All his hard work and praying has amounted in admission into a good PhD program. There are other letters to wait for but no matter what happens next at least I know he has a place to study and that one way or another we will be moving this summer.

These moments are the icing on the cake of marriage, when you get to see the person you love grow and flourish. I am proud of Alan and excited about all that still lays ahead of us.

When Gentle Women Used to Knit

Jane Brocket tucked this poem into her book "The Gentle Art of Domesticity." It is by Robert Service.

Winding Wool

She'd bring to me a skein of wool
And beg me to hold out my hands;
so on my pipe I cease to pull
And watch her twine the shining strands
Into a ball so snug and neat,
Perchance a pair of socks to knit
To comfort my unworthy feet,
Or pullover my girth to fit.

As to the winding I would sway,
A poem in my head would sing,
And I would watch in dreamy way
The bright yarn swiftly slendering.
The best I liked were coloured strands
I let my pensive pipe grow cool . . .
Two active and two passive hands,
So busy wining shining wool.

Alas! Two of those hands are cold,
And in these days of wrath and wrong,
I am so wearyful and old,
I wonder if I've lived too long.
So in my loneliness I sit
And dream of sweet domestic rule . . .
When gentle women used to knit,
And men were happy winding wool.