It really is amazing, the body. It has a memory of its own.

I’ve
always known I would have a difficult time with another surgery, should
such an event be part of my fate. I’ve always said I would have to do a
lot of psychological preparation to go under the knife again. I’ve
forewarned my husband that he’ll have to fight tooth and nail to
accompany me should I be put under general anesthesia again. I must have a witness, I say. I must have a witness to the lost hours, lost time, lost life.

But last week’s minor procedure wasn’t surgery. Procedure.
Such an antiseptic word. In and out of the office in a half a day, a
few stitches, and a bandage. No, not surgery at all. At least, not in
my mind. My body, however, thought differently.

“You should feel pressure, not pain. A little tugging here and there. That’s it.”

The words were spoken to me in the present. 2006. My body was instantaneously transported back in time. 2001. Flashback.

The
fear in my chest. The anger in my eyes. The pain in my belly. The
terror in my throat. The numbness in my legs, my soul. And the sorrow
in my heart. They were all there, once again.

A bitter tear escaped and crept slowly down my cheek, the only outside hint of my voyage within.

My body remembered. My body remembers.

Hi. Yeah, it’s me. Heart is beating. But that’s about it.

I have a hole in my head to the tune of 4 inches, although my husband swears it is only 3 and a half. Whatever. I beat Dooce’s basal cell by a freakin’ mile. Because I feel the need to be superior to her, you know.

Anyway. I’m nauseated and have a headache.

And I have about three thousand things I’d like to write about — happy
things! like how my daughter told me she loved me more than cartoons!
like how my son ran to me in the thunderstorm yesterday crying “keep me
safe!” — but, instead, I’m sitting here, lamenting the hole in my head
and really doubting the value of trepanation.

We’ve
“known” each other for a while, but only in the past 18 months or so
have we found ourselves in a friendship. And, this week, I’ve met her
for the first time. How’s that you say? Ahhh, the Internets, my friend.
Be thankful for the Internets.

Gretchen’s every bit the person you’d think she is from reading her blog,
and more. (I’m not providing a link to her blog, because, well, it’s
changing as we speak.) I’d expected the wit. I’d expected the sass. I’d
expected all of that and more. But, you know? She’s still full of
surprises. Damn, that girl. A well of surprises.

The Raleigh Little Theatre.
Four tickets to four family series performances for under $150. Richly
costumed, creatively set, and acting and singing that only leaves a little to be desired, if anything all. Sunday afternoons spent in suspended reality. The Raleigh Little Theatre has it all.

The
only problem? Deciding whether to watch the play, or watch my children
watching the play. Hours of heart-warming entertainment, both — but
the edge must be conceded to watching the kids. Eyes wide open, jaws
slack, shoulders tensed, and bodies leaning ever-so-slightly toward the
stage in involuntary fascination, their performance was enough to steal
the show.

My
husband and I have rather purposely not raised our children under any
particular religious doctrine. Matters of faith, we think, are too big
to be dictated; One must choose what they believe on their own. Our
goal is to raise thoughtful, inquisitive young adults who find their
own answers to questions of faith, or, at least, find a place of
comfort in not knowing the answers. If that place of comfort, that
place of knowledge is within an organized religion, so be it. That will
be their decision.

It appears as though we’ve made great strides in paving the path of that journey.

“I’m
going to ‘merca,” Evan said to me this morning. His annunciation still
leaves a lot to be desired, so often there’s a little sleuthing to be
performed. He is quite sure, however, of what he’s trying to say, so
anything that’s repeated back to him incorrectly will be thus rejected.

“You’re going to America?” I guessed.

“No. I’m going to ‘merca,” he tried again.

“America?”

“Nooooo.” Clearly he was getting frustrated with his mommy’s inability to simply hear him. He raised his voice so as to be heard more clearly. “I GO TO MECCA.”

“Mecca?” I asked, clearly intrigued.

“Yesssss. Mecca!” At last! Someone was hearing him!

“Mecca,
huh? You’re making the Hajj?” I expected my addition to reveal his
obvious confusion. Surely, he did not yet know about Islam.

My expectations were not met. His response was an emphatic “Yes! I go to Mecca.”

Choosing his religion — at the age of three.

She
didn’t speak English. Or, only very little. Having babies was nothing
new to her. She was experienced; this would surely go quickly.

“But,” she said wisely and prophetically, “Every birth is different.”

I
was at her bedside as a volunteer. A little nervous, unsure if I could
surmount the language barrier, concerned about having just met her. How
could I share with her so intimately when we’d only said hello less
than an hour ago?

She was quiet. Intense. Funny. Stoic. Warm. I
spent so much time looking at her, trying to read her, trying, the only
way I knew how, to get to know her. We chatted, a little, when she felt
like it. Teenagers. New Dads. Good Food. Light conversational fare,
most of it. But then there were the illuminating stories, the ones that
surprised me, the ones that let me in — just a little bit.

“You
probably won’t believe this. You probably will think I’m silly,” she
said in a quiet moment when her companions had left her. “I dreamed
last night that you would be with me today. You were there, in my
dreams. Not a nurse. Not a doctor. You.”

I believed every word she said.

Eventually,
though, the conversation subsided. Words were traded for touches.
Gentle nods let me know: “I trust you. I’m glad you’re here.” All the
strangeness between us, completely erased in a moment of primal need
and empathetic response. The language now being spoken was universal.
It was all that was needed. The day marched on in a silence of touch.

And a wee one was born.

Then,
this mom of so many, who’d birthed her child so victoriously, turned
and said to me: “I’ve had many babies. I’ve always been alone. This was
the first time, in all of my births, I had someone with me. It really
helped. It was nice. Thank you.”

All that experience, and, yet,
still room for more. Every birth is different. This time — for her –
I made the difference. I am honored beyond words.

I
went shopping to purchase items for my doula bag yesterday. My goal? To
gather all the items I might need to assist a woman and her husband
while she labors, in a traveling tote. My trip around the store went
something like this:

Women’s Clothing
Health and Beauty Aids
Pharmacy
Garden Center
Sporting Goods
Men’s Clothing
Dry Goods
Office Products
Kitchen Wares
Luggage

I
couldn’t help but chuckle as I wove my way throughout nearly every
department in the store. They say being a doula is about mothering the
mother. Of this, I have no doubt. My Mary Poppins-ish bag is just
further evidence. A little bit of this. A little bit of that. All these
seemingly unrelated items, pulled together with a dose of creativity,
ingenuity, and thrift. Add in compassion and caring, and you have the
very definition of motherhood.

“Come on, Evan, let’s have fun cleaning the house this morning.”

“Yeah!”

“We’ll clean the bathrooms, vacuum the floors, and dust the furniture.”

“Yeah! Cool!”

“First, we need to get a dust cloth.”

Pause.

“What’s a dust cloth, Mommy?”

My most humble apologies to my son’s future wife. I’m just so very sorry.

Thursdays.

That’s when we get our delivery of fruits and vegetables from our CSA.
The waxed cardboard box, folded shut, always reveals upon opening a
bountiful surprise. Peaches. Berries. Corn. Tomatoes. Cucumbers. A
little something different every week.

Last winter, when we
purchased a share in this farm, my expectations were entirely rational
– a box of food, grown locally and organically, each week. Little did
I know the joys those boxes would bring: the anticipation that rises as
each Thursday approaches, the excitement that bubbles up upon opening a
box, the spirit of adventure that comes from trying new recipes and
foods, and the comforting sense of connection I get from touching,
handling, and eating foods raised “right down the street.”

Each
Thursday, I receive a box. That it’s full of food is of no particular
surprise. That it’s full of spiritual sustenance? Something to be
thankful for, indeed.

Zoe
is away at my parents’ house this week. Camp Mimi and Papa Joe, we call
it. She’s going to the beach, starring in a parade, swimming the
afternoons away at the pool, eating M&M’s to her heart’s content,
and watching far too much TV.
In short, my parents are performing the duties of grandparent quite
well. And Zoe is having the time of her life.

Evan, on the other hand, is at home. He’s
enjoying a week of undivided attention, an unshared spotlight, sole
rights to toys, and the opportunity to sit in whichever chair he
chooses for meals. Presumably, a heaven on earth for a typically
self-concerned two-and-a-half-year old.

I’m not sure he sees it that way.

The
tearful farewell was to be expected. Watching his sister load up into a
car, knowing she was headed somewhere he was not could only have
elicited a mournful mood. But the soulful “Where’s Zoe?” hours later,
the entreating “Wake Zoe up!” pleas the following morning, and the
constant string of hopeful requests for his sister throughout the days
lead me to believe he’s less self-concerned than I’d previously
understood.

I’ve always loved the French use of the verb manquer,
to miss. One is missing a button; one misses an appointment; one even
misses doing their homework. But when it comes to missing a person, the
subject and object are reversed — Tu me manques. The literal
translation? You are missed by me. There’s something about the
inversion that seems far more active, far more passionate — far more true.

Evan
misses his sister. But, even more so, he is missing his sister. His
sister is missing from him. I used to mourn the lost “alone time” that
his sister, being the first child, received but that he never
experienced. How unfair, I used to think. This week, my thinking has changed. How unfair it is to be suddenly alone, when all he’s ever lived is together. His world? Includes his sister. He’s never known anything else. I hope he never does.