Everyday now I get bigger; this is not—as I pointed out last night Jason, Tonya, and our wonderful new friends Lara and Mitch—going to change. As in, every time you see me, every time I see me, I'll look bigger. Wonderfully crazily bigger. And all because there is a tiny creature growing inside of me. And growth just happens, and it always surprises us. And tends to humble, too.
A few days ago I went outside to salvage scrawny lemons from our tree, and I perused our 'garden', which is currently an overgrown wild winter zone (last summer my neighbors and I had little plots; mine was a failed struggle that did yield some good salad greens, and tiny tiny chard; Suzannah grew some happy-seeming herbs; and Melody—who sheepishly soaked her stuff in Miracle-Gro—had a freakishly abundant explosion of everything). Amongst the weeds and things I found all this mint, oregano, and parsley; pea shoots everywhere; my chard thriving against all odds; and a few other leafy shoots that look like comeback kids from last year. And I thought, now isn't that just so amazing! No one is watering or tending or caring about this area, and here is all this life sprouting up, just doing its own thing. And then I looked around at the rest of the yard, filled with grasses and plants and trees and flowers, some of which I can identify—rosemary, oak tree, bamboo, palm, agapanthus, cala lily, lavender—and much of which I cannot—especially that shrub/tree with the year-round lavender flowers and soft leaves that yellow after a while—and I thought Well shit, I guess things do just grow. No one's tending anything in the wild yard that we share with our neighbors—though Dina did just mow down at the tall weeds and grasses, hurray—and it all just blooms and dies and blooms again, or blooms and blooms and blooms in the case of many perennials.
And so of course I then look down at my belly, bigger than it was the day before, and the day before that, and thought I know that her growth and health is inextricably linked to my own health, my own care taking of my body, I'm not actually doing much to facilitate her growth. Certainly, my body is doing unbelievable magical miraculous things as it divides cells and creates an entirely new human, but what am I, as the sentient, thinking actor in this equation, doing? I eat food, I drink water and tea and juice (and wine), I take prenatal vitamins, I exercise, I sleep, I rest, I laugh, I think and talk and do basically everything that I normally do—and even when I am not tending my belly, staring at it, talking to it or about it, she's doing her thing, growing and stretching and just being made. In the same way that the good earth is facilitating the mint and the parsley and those little pea shoots, my body is building a baby, whether I'm paying attention or now. And that is humbling and beautiful.
A few days ago I went outside to salvage scrawny lemons from our tree, and I perused our 'garden', which is currently an overgrown wild winter zone (last summer my neighbors and I had little plots; mine was a failed struggle that did yield some good salad greens, and tiny tiny chard; Suzannah grew some happy-seeming herbs; and Melody—who sheepishly soaked her stuff in Miracle-Gro—had a freakishly abundant explosion of everything). Amongst the weeds and things I found all this mint, oregano, and parsley; pea shoots everywhere; my chard thriving against all odds; and a few other leafy shoots that look like comeback kids from last year. And I thought, now isn't that just so amazing! No one is watering or tending or caring about this area, and here is all this life sprouting up, just doing its own thing. And then I looked around at the rest of the yard, filled with grasses and plants and trees and flowers, some of which I can identify—rosemary, oak tree, bamboo, palm, agapanthus, cala lily, lavender—and much of which I cannot—especially that shrub/tree with the year-round lavender flowers and soft leaves that yellow after a while—and I thought Well shit, I guess things do just grow. No one's tending anything in the wild yard that we share with our neighbors—though Dina did just mow down at the tall weeds and grasses, hurray—and it all just blooms and dies and blooms again, or blooms and blooms and blooms in the case of many perennials.
And so of course I then look down at my belly, bigger than it was the day before, and the day before that, and thought I know that her growth and health is inextricably linked to my own health, my own care taking of my body, I'm not actually doing much to facilitate her growth. Certainly, my body is doing unbelievable magical miraculous things as it divides cells and creates an entirely new human, but what am I, as the sentient, thinking actor in this equation, doing? I eat food, I drink water and tea and juice (and wine), I take prenatal vitamins, I exercise, I sleep, I rest, I laugh, I think and talk and do basically everything that I normally do—and even when I am not tending my belly, staring at it, talking to it or about it, she's doing her thing, growing and stretching and just being made. In the same way that the good earth is facilitating the mint and the parsley and those little pea shoots, my body is building a baby, whether I'm paying attention or now. And that is humbling and beautiful.
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