This Christmas stocking I am knitting for the boy is going to smell like garlic. This is because, here it is, three weeks after Thanksgiving, and I decided mid-knit to brine another turkey. We had so many people drop in on Thanksgiving night, that I only had enough leftovers to make one pot of soup. A soup so rich and golden and Asiany with ginger and soy and cilantro, that I nearly savaged my husband for eating the last bowl of it. So, there was no turkey for purlough, no turkey for breakfast hash, no turkey for tacos and savory bread pudding and sandwiches with cranberry ginger relish. It was a huge disappointment. So I went back to the store and bought more. Twice. It wasn’t even on sale.

(sorry for the shitty pictures. iPhone photos suck at the best of times, and soaring off the roof of my car into traffic really didn’t help the camera feature on mine.)

So I’m down to the toe (again) on this stocking and had time to mull over the amount of food in my fridge awaiting slow cooking, and also to consider how little time I actually have to slow cook anything. The baby ate grits and eggs for dinner tonight, because when we got home at 6, he was gnawing on my kneecap with fury. Because the venison haunch will need three hours to simmer, and babies do not wait until 9 o’clock to eat. The turkey must brine overnight and then another day to roast and make stock from its bones. Even my damn oatmeal needs thirty minutes to cook, and with Benjamin hurling himself on top of his booster seat shrieking about how “hongy” he is, lack of planning just doesn’t fly around here.

This is probably what the time between the close of gentle Autumn and Christmas has always felt like. I imagine a pioneer woman looking crossly down at her husband’s recent deer or turkey carcass, while some tater tot in his pinner wipes nasty fingerprints on her calico petticoat. She too probably had to can and process the last of the season’s bounty, looking with disfavor at the cloud of fruit flies circling her counter. I made apple butter and calamondin marmalade last week, and yes, I still can’t even see the island in my kitchen under the citrus to process. And I need to make candied orange peel for my dad. And I have tangerines to roast and turn into an intriguing concoction called orange dust. Don’t you just want a little pot of magic orange dust to bring ribs and duck breasts and apple pie to heretofore unrealized glory? I do. Desperately. And still the Christmas presents to bake for the nieces and nephews and godchildren—this year I’m doing homemade marshmallows and graham crackers to put in a baggie with chocolate for s’mores.

And let’s not forget the Christmas knitting. There’s this stocking to finish, yea gods, my first Fair Isle project, because I am nothing if not insanely ambitious. And a little something for my sister with the perfect yarn I unearthed from my stash. And a secret cable hat for Simons, because he lost the other one sailing in San Francisco Bay. It gives me the willies to think of it, that lovely toasty Cocoon cap in the frosty grey Pacific. Brrrr… He was appropriately crestfallen about it, so I suppose he deserves another one. He’s also been particularly good about waking up with our naughty baby in the night, while I stir grumpily and kick him in the shins.
 
I made Christmas ornament kits for Benjamin’s school party—little brown felt gingerbread men and tiny white felt snowmen for them to decorate with teeny top hats and jaunty red bows, button eyes, felt carrots and dapper red pom pom noses. They make me wriggle, they were so, so cute. And gingerbread men, so darling, they deserved to be kissed rather than mauled by eight gnawing little mouths.

And the sewing…oh dear, that really must get done soon. Amanda Blake Soule makes birthday crowns and festive triangle-flag bunting for her children’s parties. So I must have them too. I mean Benjamin must have them. Of course, Benjamin! My tiny, adorable baby galumphing pony beast! How did that little pudgy lump suddenly grow into this opinionated, laughing, screaming, zooming-around-on-a-tricycle person? He is so scrumptious, he must have birthday garlands and crowns, and hand-sewn memory books, before I forget what his first words were and how his cheeks reminded me of fuzzy peaches and his breath smelled like vanilla milkshakes.  Before I forget that his favorite colors were purple and orange and yellow, and that they sounded like “purpo” and “whores” and “yayo,” and around the Thanksgiving table this year, we asked him what he was trolling for after supper and he said, “whores” and “yayo.” That’s my boy.

So I knit and cook and bake and sew and can and grind, partially because it will make other people so happy, but mostly because it makes me giddy with unGrinchly feelings. It’s 75-degrees outside, my real-live-job list of Fiery items is practically ablaze, and the only thing that makes it feel like the Christmas season is huffing my tree while I knit and listen to Cast-On, and my turkey burbles in its briny soup. Is that crazy?

It’s helping my perspective. Last month, I really overindulged in self pity, perhaps deservedly. The baby was sick for forever, with barfing and ear infections and trips to the emergency room–a tremendously sobering experience. The dog nearly perished. Again. A dangerous intestinal potato blockage. You may remember the last time this happened. Poor stupid goat dog.

But on Thanksgiving, I turned a corner. I had loved ones to sit around my table. I have family that won’t let us starve. I have a health little horse of a child, and after November, I truly am thankful for that. This is the time of year that the world turns into a feeding frenzy of consumerism in most of the western world. And three years into the economic crash, people are not done tightening their belts and feeling blue and are just consumed with worry. And instead of panicking, I want to be resourceful. I can mend! I can put things in jars! I can make things with my hands, I’m learning to sew, I have a lifetime’s worth of knitting stash and lots of pointy sticks, and my spice rack is so full, I get attacked by five-spice powder every time I open the door.  I can make memories–for me, for my son, for a few friends.

These are the things I want to remember when I sit in my rocking chair at, Lord willing, age 85, gnashing my gums and cackling. I want people at my funeral to say, “When life gave her lemons, she made lemon curd and lemon pound cake and lemon marmalade. And she shared!”

Aunt Jemima’s Asian Turkey Soup

3 cups shredded turkey
3 carrots, chopped
3 stalks celery, chopped
one large yellow onion, chopped
10 or so shitake mushrooms
1 very large knob of ginger, peeled and grated (about 3 Tbs or more–you can’t have too much)
one bunch cilantro, chopped
3 Tbs butter
1-3 Tbs fish sauce (to taste)
1-3 Tbs soy sauce (to taste)
2 cups cooked brown rice
3 quarts Turkey stock (turkey carcass, 2 quartered onions, 6  stalks of celery, 6 rough chopped carrots, 6 stems of thyme, one bunch parsley, 6 peppercorns, 1 bay leaf - cover with water and bring to boil, lower to simmer about 12 hours, adding water as it evaporates, discarding solids and reserving broth)

In large soup pot, saute vegetables in butter over med-low heat until softened. Add chopped turkey, cilantro, and ginger and stir until fragrant. Add stock and fish and soy sauces, tasting as you go. Bring to a boil and then simmer for 20 minute, adding the rice after about 10 minutes. Taste and adjust soy and fish sauce as desired. Add more cilantro if you forgot some and find a small pile of it hiding under your dish towel.  Enjoy steaming hot, especially if it’s raining. It will make you feel very smug.

The babies are coming from Sarah Young on Vimeo.

This was Benjamin at 10 months.

A good friend called me in tears yesterday. At age 36 and on her third husband, she is still not sure she should have children. She wanted advice from me on whether you can be a good mother and not lose who you are. I had to call her back from my stew of irony; Benjamin had just exploded an entire bottle of orange juice all over the floor of the Harris Teeter diaper aisle.

It was flattering that she called me, because she thinks I’m independent and a feminist and open minded and still a good mom. But oh, the things she asked. Are you still writing? (No) Do you and Simons do all the things you used to? (No) Do you still travel as much? (Definitely not)

I heard her say, “Our lives are so full now, that I just don’t know if we should change.” It’s funny to hear her, because I think I was still asking these same questions up until the doctor was demanding that I do the extremely unlikely task of pushing Benjamin out into this world and yelling, “It’s a boy!” So I tried to be as honest as I could. Simons and I had a really strong, fun marriage. We moved away, we had adventures, we camped and fished and ran races and drank fancy wine and learned as much as we could about who we were. We debated really hard about having children. Would having a baby make things even better? Would we be sad when we grew old and had never had any? What it came down to, I think, was asking: What would we most look forward to about having children; and what would we most look forward to by not having any? And the list with children just seemed incredibly fun and rich. I couldn’t wait to show a child nesting sea turtles and how the water glows with phosphorescence during the summer. I would teach him to diagram sentences and the appropriate grammatical use of “myself!” My husband is already scratching to buy the baby his first surfboard. Camping trips! Puppies! Baking pies! These things filled us with baby lust, and we went for it.

But, I think if we had chosen not to and really committed to that choice, we wouldn’t have regretted it. It’s not a selfish thing to decide. I think you have to reconcile yourself either way. Really, a life that is purely your own seems so very delicious, doesn’t it: a lifetime of breakfast in bed, firm thighs, and self-fulfillment? Your savings are your own. Your failures or successes or risks affect no one but yourself. You have years of being able to watch the news, instead of weeping over reports of child abduction and praying tearfully for the poor mommas all over the world.

And so many people have children for the wrong reasons, and I’m not just talking about government checks here. A writer friend of mine had written an article on what your Facebook photo says about you — cute dog, clutching at husband, scantily clad, or worst, pictures of your children instead of you. One irate reader had mocked this childless writer, saying, “Obviously you are not in the know because you don’t have any, but you become your children.” I remember thinking that it must be much harder to ignore the screams coming from the cellar if you actually are your children; but in all seriousness, doesn’t it just seem so unfair to them to tie your whole ego up in their little lives? Flunking out of college is hard enough without dragging your mother’s psyche into it.

Not that it’s all Zen and hugs and unicorns all the time for me either. My mantra used to be, “No regrets!” or “Run hard!” or something else with an emphatic exclamation point. Now it has become, “I’m so tired.” Like I want to trade places with my husband for five minutes so he can know what real tired feels like. Like sometimes I want to take a vacation by myself, just so I can sleep. And I’m really tired of being so….tired.

I listened to this friend sob and question and worry about all the what-if’s, and I feel…well, it’s not exactly envy, but if you have children, do you remember that time before you had them, when there wasn’t that weight? When you could wake up in the morning and just have coffee? Or when it was Friday, and you looked zestily at your significant other and decided what marvelous adventures you wanted to have that weekend? You weren’t just this tiny moon revolving around someone else’s planet of needs, loves, hopes, potential, and naptimes.

I think underneath the eye bags and mom jeans, I am still myself, but now I know what love really is. I was a person who loved my parents and my family. I loved and still love my husband. I loved my dog so much, I thought I’d explode. But this love for Benjamin is so different and so much bigger, and you know what the difference is? I am now a person who can lose. And it’s ridiculous to think that won’t change you. Even when that tiny baby starts sleeping through the night, you can’t, because you wake up four times to make sure he is breathing. You lie awake thinking about books like Cormac McCarthy’s The Road and wondering how you will take care of your baby in a post-apocalyptic society without organic vegetables. You writhe around all night fretting about zombie vampires and serial killers and cyber molesters and creepy soccer coaches, and the adrenaline surges through your mommy body, while your partner sleeps blissfully next to you, worried only about blasé things…like affording taxes and education. It isn’t something you can really explain, or maybe, should even talk about within hearing of mental health professionals.

And it’s so hard, isn’t it? The hardest thing I’ve ever done. In everything I’ve ever attempted, I’ve always held back a part of myself, for fear that I would fail or that it wouldn’t turn out like I had dreamed, or maybe just out of laziness. Having a child, you just can’t hold back. It wouldn’t be fair. So this is the first thing I’ve ever really given my everything. And yes, sometimes I fail. Sometimes I give him a timeout for throwing his food on the floor, when I should just laugh and try again. Sometimes I play Mah Jong on my phone while I nurse him instead of cherishing the moment. Sometimes he eats grits and eggs for dinner, because I forgot to start his brown rice 55 minutes before suppertime (why does it take so LONG?). But mostly, I’m more patient than I knew. I’m kinder than I knew. I can pay attention to a tiny, non-English-speaking person all day long, and spend an hour doing 40 laps on the sliding board, and think his laughter is the most fun ever.

While I listened to my poor angst-ridden friend, I had Benjamin galloping on his sturdy little legs, from one end of the porch to the other, cackling and waving and tossing himself on me while I simultaneously cooked his supper, put the groceries away, and wiped grubby handprints off of hand-me-down Little People animals. Yes, I’ve changed. But knowing what I do now, that my son will clap gleefully when I blow the fuzz off a dandelion; that he sings to himself in his crib in this high-pitched warble; that you could store winter clothes in his lower lip when he pouts; these things are like the stars I never knew were there. Motherhood is like a galaxy of little joys, and you’re either on the spaceship or you’re not. But if you’re not, then, well, do you miss something you’ve never seen? I’d say no, but I have known this friend through two of her marriages. I have seen how much she loves her dogs and how passionate she is about art and nature and life. I know her excitement in the sheer act of wandering. If she’s been looking longingly at this strange milky way of motherhood for so long, maybe that is really her answer.

I’m having issues with gravity this weekend. Last night after putting Benjamin to bed, I was broiling salmon and tidying the kitchen in preparation for a romantic Friday supper with my husband. Venturing outside in the rain to toss the recycling, my feet shot out from under me on the top step and went flying over my head, and I splatted unceremoniously on the bottom step on my left hip. As I mewled and cried and crawled around in the mud, assessing the state of my aching body and feeling betrayed by the universe, some douche on his bike rode by, looked at me, and kept right on going. I wished him and his giant wiener-head great ill.

There is a clear path of yard debris from the glass door to the oven, where I dragged myself in to take dinner out of the oven and to apply ice my throbbing haunch. It is an intriguing rainbow of ghastly colors this morning, like a storm cloud on my butt. Call me General Blackass of the Sixth Klutz Infantry. There is also a huge pile of plastic trash by our steps, so we are tacky as well as crippled.

I have run into the wall twice today, thrown Simons’ breakfast at him by accident, had my little toe crushed by a fat baby, and went ice skating across the living room on one Benjamin’s little cars. Simons asked me if I wanted to come on a walk, and I replied that I’d better not. Thanks very much, I think I will stay safely indoors, baking baguettes and writing hideously overdue thank you notes, and making baby food…although I am considering what bloodthirsty revenge my food processor could potentially wreak on me. Maybe tea and a smutty novel?

…in the Spring. And the summer, fall and winter. I’m not sure why. Lord knows new motherhood lent me enough fodder in humor, tears, complaining, ire, spleen, vexation, tarnation, excretion, and self-absorbed self-righteousness to fill a thousand blog posts. But I just couldn’t. Maybe it seemed too personal, explaining my choices or why I was weeping under the bed, when of course, I knew how lucky I was: this baby, this husband, this life. We’ve weathered another move, working while holding a squalling monkey to my bosom, croup, lack of sleep — none of it out of the ordinary, except that it was happening to me. This baby, my Benjamin, has made every moment so exquisite, so desperate, so delicious; and I have had neither the time nor the desire to step away from life to reflect on it.

That has ended — somewhat. Suddenly the old me is rising from her emotional heap (or Matterhorn, depending on the day) and remembers what it was like to put ink to paper and see thoughts pouring out upon a page. Oh! Yes, that. I need it again, fulfillment found from within, and not merely from the slack, contented cheeks of my sleeping son, his amazed glee at silly gestures, his honey-scented head nestled under my chin, his furious hands tugging at my knees. He is able, and I am able to let him, find joy in other people, and I find that greater than the ache of sharing his smiles, is the freedom I have to be myself again, for a little while.

To tear the bandaid off, I begin with my resolutions for being a better person, athlete, friend, knitter, wife, mother. I started them in December. It has taken me until now to post them. God knows, I am trying. Baby steps.

NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTIONS 2011

FAMILY and FRIENDS

1. Be grateful for the friends and family that I have
2. Be a better listener
3. Remember birthdays
4. Give presents/cards on time
5. Write Christmas and birthday thank you notes
6. Be a good godmother- visits, presents, cards, letters
7. Be a good aunt- more visits, babysit, cards, letters, handknits
8. Write one letter to friends each week
9. Knit all Christmas gifts before Thanksgiving
10. Send all holiday cards before Thanksgiving
11. Give food gifts for Christmas

PARENTING

12. Try to take B on a fun outing at least twice a week
13. Parent mindfully, be present
14. Get a baby pack for hiking
15. Teach him to swim
16. Work on sign language
17. Teaching him manners and gentleness
18. Continue feeding him organically
19. Take him fruit picking
20. Visit the library every other week
21. Finish his one-year baby book
22. Take him on trips
23. Take him on a bike ride at least once a week
24. Practice patience
25. Run in one race with him in the stroller
26. Try to get B to wee reads at the library
27. Research preschools
28. Research grade schools
29. Work on Spanish words

COOKING

30. Use a cookbook at least once a week
31. Bake something once every other week
32. Use more whole grains
33. Learn better food presentation
34. Make herb cubes for cooking
35. Make my own cookbook
36. Write down wines that we like
37. Keep track of new cheeses we try
38. Keep entertaining journal
39. Meal plan
40. Eat more vegetarian meals
41. Go gluten free for at least one month
42. Make paella
43. Take a cooking class
44. Learn to make crispy pickles
45. Try cooking with quince
46. Try cooking with persimmon
47. Experiment with duck
48. Make baguettes with new pan
49. Make croissants
50. Try some Indian recipes
51. Can tomatoes
52. Maybe get a pressure cooker

HABITS

53. Go to church twice a month
54. Go to more events of an educational nature
55. Pray more even when I don’t need something
56. Have better time management
57. Memorize one poem a month
58. Eat more slowly
59. Exercise at least four days per week
60. Stop swearing
61. Be a calmer driver
62. Practice meditation
63. Turn off lights
64. Compost
65. Turn off water while brushing teeth/washing dishes, etc
66. Keep thermostat low

BODY & MIND

67. Go to bed earlier
68. Be more organized in the morning
69. Do South Beach Phase II from Feb 10-Feb 28.
70. Use hand weights
71. Use my Thirty Day Shred
72. Yoga
73. Floss
74. Ride bike at least two times a week
75. Become a TNT running coach 
76. Find someone to run with at least twice a week
77. Run in at least two short races this year
78. Run in a half marathon by winter
79. Use running podcasts
80. Substitute one meal for a salad three days a week
81. Ice knees after long runs
82. Learn to do a backbend
83. Drink at least 3 L of water per day
84. Eat at least two vegetables per day
85. Neti pot
86. Moisturize
87. Use sunscreen every day
88. Go hiking at least twice a month
89. Improve Italian, French, Spanish (use tapes, read foreign magazines and books)
90. Listen to podcasts and audiobooks rather than watch tv

HOME

91. Yard sale!
92. Dig up yew and bamboo and plant tea olive and orange tree
93. Install fence along side of house
94. Cut hole into attic
95. Get rid of a few trees
96. Trim oleander
97. Add lattice under house
98. Install verbena, rosemary and lavender in front yard
99. Create side raised bed for vegetables
100. Check into adding side driveway
101. Frame Black and White photos of family
102. Take some B&W photos of Simons and me
103. Paint kitchen
104. Organize scrapbook stuff and letters- put all in one box
105. Organize possessions more attractively
106. Figure out what to do with junk that I find (sea glass, shells, rocks, etc)
107. Get instant hot water heater
108. Check insulation under the house
109. Plan new kitchen (someday)
110. Install new sink
111. Plan new book shelves/storage in living room
112. Replace closet doors

WORK & TECH

113. Find new work
114. Find one hour a day for writing
115. Write one pitch letter a week
116. Look at grad school opportunities
117. Post at least three times a week
118. Take a photography class
119. Take a web design class
120. Get Skype
121. Pitch personal essay every month
122. Write fiction and have personal story published
123. Enter at least four writing competitions
124. Learn all current computer programs
125. Keep better track of clips
126. Be vigilant about deadlines
127. Join at least one work organization
128. Learn how to put video on blog
129. Find digital camera
130. Get a macro lens for old camera

MONEY

131. Sell old house
132. Start saving 10%
133. Plan for taxes
134. Contribute monthly to IRA
135. Contribute monthly to Benjamin’s education account
136. Pay bills on time and figure out a good system
137. Start an HSA
138. Do something with my measly portfolio
139. Have more money in savings than I do in checking

140.                 Make a budget and come up with some goals

FUN

141. Go bowling
142. Join the Gibbes
143. Renew Aquarium, Lowcountry Children’s Museum
144. Visit Charles Towne Landing once a week
145. Go fruit picking
146. Go to Spoleto opera
147. Go to the ballet at least once
148. Go to the theatre at least three times
149. Eat at Husk
150. Plan fun monthly excursions, ie state parks
151. Camp on the Island
152. Have more dinner parties
153. Learn to sew: make curtains, a quilt

KNITTING

154. Understand blocking
155. Knit two sweaters this year
156. Complete all current projects by June (sweater, stocking, coat)
157. Learn Continental knitting
158. Sew entrelac panels onto a pillowcase
159. Felt some small objects
160. Lean color knitting
161. Create a knitting group
162. Knit for myself
163. Knit hats/socks for nieces
164. Knit socks/hat/sweater for Benjamin
165. Knit handwarmers for sister

LOVE

166. Knit another sweater for Simons
167. Try not to jump immediately to negativity
168. Help him with work
169. Attend more of his work functions
170. Listen more and think of responses less
171. Plan one romantic thing each week
172. Take some local trips, National Trust sites, parks
173. Go backpacking
174. Think before I speak when I’m mad
175. Try to honor him as I promised
176. Remember his small kindnesses
177. Forget my small grievances
178. Take more picnics
179. Plan a surprise surfing trip for him
180. Organize my junk so it doesn’t fill up the house and stress him out.

Greetings, Everyone! This is Benjamin Rutledge Young, who was born December 13 at 11:44 in the afternoon, to great squallings and kicking of his long froggy feet. Isn’t he splendid?

He arrived six weeks early, much to everyone’s surprise, since most first babies tend to be late. Simons was at his birthday Man Campout at Moïse Island, and I’d spent the day returning baby books and buying carseats and Cleaning Everything. At 2 a.m. I leapt out of my pristinely clean bed, thinking I’d wet my pants. I made it too, as even in an engorged state, I am a fast leaper.

Anyway, I don’t normally wet my pants, so after feverishly thumbing through What To Expect When You’re Expecting, I called the OB, giving the answering service the wrong number twice in my middle-of-the-night stupor. The doctor told me to come in and get checked, although I’m sure she just thought I was crazy, since two other women had already woken her up with false alarms. Only mine wasn’t…

I remember standing in the doorway of our little house, in my supposedly slimming black pregnancy pants, peering through the darkness with the sound of the rain pouring off the roof, wondering, “Should I bother packing something, just in case? A knitting project? A book? If this is an emergency, should I risk finding clothes?” For years, I sent my sister’s list of What To Pack For The Hospital to all my friends, but in the end, all I had was my purse.

Driving myself to the hospital in the pouring rain, I called to alert my parents from the Cooper River Bridge, halfway there and too far to turn back. When my sister went into labor early with Beanie, Daddy took 42 embarrassing photos of her on the stairs, getting into the car, outside the hospital, etc, etc, and I wanted no part of it. The photos he took of me in the hospital bed looking malignantly cross are bad enough. They arrived thirty minutes later, where Momma pondered great existential questions like whether she should postpone her Beaujolais Nouveau Party or just cancel it altogether. And then she reminded me to rest between contractions. While this may sound fun to some of you, any of you who know me are aware that I was clawing my face off at that point, because WHO GIVES A DAMN ABOUT A WINE PARTY, WOMAN, I AM HAVING A BABY!!!???!!!

A few weeks before, I’d had to have my wedding rings sawed from my fingers, having suddenly gained 14 lbs purely in my hands, feet and nose (no, seriously). Noting my lack of marital bling, the receptionist, the OB, the nurses, even the infuriatingly slow wheelchair volunteer, all asked where my birth coach was, and when I said, “My HUZZZ-BIND is on his birthday camping trip,” they all nodded wisely and said, “Ohhhh! He’ll never live THAT down! Har har!”

Good grief, it’s not like the man left me on the eve of my due date to go thump his chest at the strip clubs. To show you what a paragon of a wife I am, I waited about five hours to call him to tell him that I was in labor, since I had horrible visions of drunken boat accidents–aquatic carnage in the wintry predawn. Daybreak seemed a much safer time to inform him that his mantime was officially over. Forever.

“Simons? I don’t want you to panic, but I need you to get up and get dressed and start up the boat. We’re having the baby today.” I really was impressed by how quickly he came awake.

He thought I was lying. But I would hardly be playing that kind of cruel prank before sun-up, so all of his dudes rallied round, finding him clean clothes and bailing out the boat, which was filled to the gunnels with rainwater. My dad met him at Moore’s Landing, cigar smoke pluming out of the truck windows, and his opera music rattling the dew off the trees. And just as I started to really squirm from all of those contractions I was supposed to be resting between, in bounded my dimpled husband, reeking of woodsmoke and fresh rain, and I have never been so glad to see anyone in my whole life.

He helped me breathe and didn’t care when I barfed on him, and he was as shocked as I was when after so many pushes, out came this wet and wriggling, sprawling little person, bawling furiously with his long toes bruised black and blue from kicking his mama and his head full of dark hair. He was taken away from us almost instantly, which was a strange and terrible feeling. All of a sudden, you have these instincts that make you want to rip tigers limb from limb, but they’ve taken your baby away, and all you can do is glance around desperately and wonder what it is that you are supposed to be doing.

He was planned for January 24. I’d hoped to knit him a blanket and paint a happy vintage moon over his crib and childproof the kitchen. We’d planned to deliver in water at the birth center with a midwife and our yogic doula, but life happens while you are planning other things.

He was 5lbs, 8 oz–grandiose for a preemie–but six weeks is rather a long time to be early, and he needed a great deal of attention from the neonatologists and nurses. They were wonderful to us, calling me to breastfeed at the first crack of one of his gigantic blue eyes. Cheryl or Amy or Annette or Lori or Steph or Jennifer or Robin or Nancy would ring me on the phone in my room, where I would hitch up my lovely hospital smock and leap hurdles to get to the Level II nursery to feed him. And we would have these long luxurious nursing sessions, his soft baby skin all smashed up against my chest, which would totally wreck all of his lead connections. But no one complained about needing to stick them back on, since he would breathe so deliciously and evenly during our skin-on-skin time.

One morning, Nurse Jennifer called me in to nurse him, and we crept up to his isolette to see that he had found his itty bitty thumb amidst the horrible mangling swathe of bandages and tubes and wires and splints. He was sucking noisily away at it, as though he were comforting that poor tiny thumb instead of the other way around. He graduated from the C-Pap breathing tube in one day. And moved to a fancy isolette the second day to keep him warm and help him ignore the din of the rest of the Level I nursery. The heart rate monitor on his toe looked like he was phoning home to E.T., and invariably he’d have that one foot stuck straight up in the air, like a airplane beacon. He only had to have a nasal feeding tube in for 24 hours, which helped him grow strong enough to nurse properly. And it was a wonderful day when they were able to remove the IV; Nurse Nancy knocked at my room with a Special Delivery, wheeling him wire-free in his stately regular baby bassinette. Thirty hours later, one of the nurses peeped in to say, “You know, you don’t have to keep him in your room. You can bring him back to the nursery if you need a break.” I still don’t know what that woman was on.

A week from that exciting, tumultuous night when I stepped out onto my front porch an anxious pregnant woman, I emerged into the frosty clear morning as a mother, my tiny baby nestled into his enormous carseat. He slept in a little Moses basket on our dresser or, more often, nestled between us in our bed, which is suddenly prime real estate, with two people, a boy and a bed hog dog. His warm little body fit right against my side, and we’d wake up gazing at one another.

It is now February 21, and he is 8 lbs, and still eats every two and a half hours. He is still a slow eater. After an hour feeding him, and a half hour of soothing him to sleep, I have exactly one hour to either sleep OR eat OR bathe. Bathing seems so optional these days! You would think I would resent him, being this tired, and housebound, and my God, whose body IS this? But when I hear his little cries coming from the basket, or sometimes now, the crib, it’s like the first date with someone you utterly adore. It’s wriggling butterflies and this joyous soul-wringing giddiness, and then he makes these frantic gasps and grabs me with both hands and latches on, and I think, “Yes.”

I spend whole hours just smelling his silky little head. It seems unbelievable that he’s actually mine and will always be mine. That I will get to witness the joyous rompings of sturdy little boy legs, to show him how to pick up live sand dollars with your toes and to spy sea turtle tracks, and the thrill of phosphorescent summer creeks. I can’t wait to teach him how to pinch soft piecrust and dig holes and catch toads. Someday I’ll loathe his girlfriends (or love his boyfriends) and yell at him for driving too fast. I’ll skin him if he ever gets a tattoo or rides a motorcycle. I will knit him embarrassing sweaters and keep all of his jar-lid and paste Christmas ornaments like they are gold, frankincense and myrrh. God, the joy. It’s endless.

I confess that I have had some worries. Worries that I would end up the loud, horsey sort of woman who forgets her children’s names (or child’s, as thank goodness, Tyrant is a solo swimmer) and leaves them to the good will of Simons, nannies, dorm mothers, etc. That I would be off sipping martinis while my children suckle at the teats of wolves for lack of maternal care. That I would resent this baby, because my life is quite full enough, thanks very much.

Yesterday was the big ultrasound, and although Tyrant is only the size of a six-inch cantaloupe, I have discovered a sense of wonder in the fact that it is MY six-inch cantaloupe, with little legs that look just like Simons’ (I’m not imagining this), and little hands, and the darlingest little face with a nose that is turned up because apparently his/her face is wodged up against my uterus. Let us hope that it doesn’t stick like that.

I have been studying these pictures like they hold the answer to some eternal question. It must be a lot like Match.com, where people stare for hours at someone’s profile, wondering is he for you, what that smile means, what your future might be.

I look at the whole, I look at the parts, and I think, “I made this.” I gaze and gaze at that little face, just wondering–not even asking a question, just wondering. Twenty-four hours ago, I knew I was having a baby, but I didn’t know know. It was just a beer belly and some amorphous something-that-will-happen-in-January.

So even though I still think puppies smell better than babies, I think Tyrant and I are going to do all right. Know how I know? Last night, I had my first craving, which was not for pickled beets or potato soup with truffles or red velvet cake or even champagne. At 10 o’clock, just as Project Runway was coming on, suddenly I needed a hot dog and some baked beans with such electrifying intensity, I nearly crushed the dog sprinting for the door. Anybody who truly know me is aware that I can hide my white trash tendencies under Pâte Brisée for just so long before Simons lures me out the door with promises of baseball vendors, Hebrew Nationals, Rosamund’s… “Are you sure you don’t want to go to my fraternity reunion full of skinny tennis wives and Republicans? Because there will be hoooot doooogs.” That boy is wily. Last night, the urge was primal, like I could already smell them cooking, and if I didn’t have them in my mouth in 14 seconds, all hell was going to break loose.

Clearly, Tyrant and I are meant to be.

After the War of the Landscaping Plastic, Simons and I decided it was time to Leave The House for a weekend. His family shares a country house at Edisto, and after some wrangling and begging, we squeezed ourselves in last minute. Naturally, our first thought was how to pack as much fun into three days as possible. Boat! Surfing! Fishing! Shrimping and crabbing! Reading! Work! Lots and lots of visitors! Salad nicoise!

Thank God, greater powers intervened, which had an initial period of suckitude when the boat trailer had a flat tire, which after inflating, then exploded at the gas station. This was very loud, and immediate hand wringing ensued. Trying to limp the trailer over to our friends’ Andy and Harriott’s house (the closest safe location for a boat dump), we got pulled by a very surly cop, who kept his siren and lights blaring and flashing, demanded we get off the road immediately. “HELLO! What do you think we’re trying to DO?!” It took forever, and Simons was in his own private universe of fury, and being hungry didn’t help, and I was privately convinced I was having stress-induced, pre-term contractions. But we eventually made it, abandoned the boat, grabbed some barbecue to go, and made it to Edisto by 10.

While Simons slept in the next morning, the newly naked Beuls and I went for an early morning walk down the long dirt road that leads to Brick House–the ruins of the house where his grandmother was born. The marsh islands were hushed and steamy from Friday’s thunderstorms, and the morning mist hung from the oak avenues like Spanish moss. We saw fiddler crabs saluting the dawn from the causeway, and deer tracks crisscrossed the road, where they’d passed during the night. Beulah frisked ahead, chasing invisible squirrels, while I foraged for muscadine grapes and swatted the hordes of mosquitoes humming close behind.

We made eggs and bacon and the slow kind of grits, drinking coffee on the porch overlooking the river and the ruins. The afternoon was spent in peaceful visitation with old friends and their two small children, showing their daughter the tiny crabs, shrimp and sea squirts clinging to the side of the dock. We (they) drank cold beer and tossed sticks for Beulah from the dock, feasted on muscadines (mostly me) and later, devoured quiche Lorraine, salad and sweet potatoes fries on the porch—all easy stuff, with no lonely sweating over the stove. The TV stayed off; the stereo was quiet. The only noises we heard were the jet-ski buzz of ruby-throated hummingbirds, the what-cheer-cheer of cardinals, and the whir of the porch fan.

I’ve read an entire book this weekend (the largesse!), and found a new one at a tiny local bookshop by my favorite Southern author, Ferroll Sams, which I didn’t even know existed. Simons went surfing at Edisto Beach, while I spent Sunday afternoon working on the porch, actually enjoying myself, without having to grind my thoughts into unwilling submission for a 5:00 deadline.

We dove off the dock, went swimming and ate three-bean salad, working side by side until evening, admiring the light on the water and patting the groaning, exhausted dog. I feel calmer than I have in weeks, like I can cope. Like our house isn’t running feral in our absence. Like we can have a baby and it will be fun instead of a race to some unforeseen finish. I’m going to try to bring some of this calm back to our everyday lives.

Today has not been a good day. At all.

It started with the Horrifying “Bug” Incident of 2009, of Which We Shall Not Speak Again, Yea God. This is best summarized by a series of text messages with my friend Amanda, while I walked the dog through the park.

J: OMG! OMG! Flaming heebie-jeebs from hell!
A: Spider??
J: Maggots. Maggots everywhere. Trashcan was apparently crawly and we discovered them this a.m. inching across the kitchen floor.
J: Have removed skin and am now setting self on fire.
A: Dancing, squealing, retching, poking out of eyes?
J: All of that, yes.
A: I have the squidgies now.
J: House will be disinfected with blowtorch and then nuclear bomb dropped on it.
A: And acid?
J: Hair is mad from clawing at it with heebie-jeebs, and park walkers think I have the heroin withdrawal twitches.
A: Did dog eat any? Do you have to boil her?
J: Am dropping her off at 10 to have her shaved, just in case she touched one. Have so much work to do and will never be able to concentrate now.
J: And to culminate, just walked through gigantic spiderweb.

After bleaching the house and crying all morning, I dropped Beulah off at the groomer’s to be nudified. But I was too mortified to tell them why she needed “Paranoia Shaving,” so I spent all morning terrified that she’d have one on her fur, and the SPCA was going to show up with handcuffs for neglecting our dog. I did warn the nice groomer lady not to attempt to shave her paws without a muzzle, because she turns into a chupacabra the instant someone messes with her feet. Seriously, it’s like Dr. Jeckyl and Mr Hyde on meth. I found out later that they did muzzle her, but she flipped out so badly during the nail trimming (I didn’t know they were doing that or I’d have recommended an Iron Maiden), that she fell off the table, and while being hoisted back on, she escaped from the muzzle like a Satanic Houdini and mangled the groomer’s assistant. I have the remedial kid.

And to really ice it, Simons and I are looking for a church and had set up a meeting with the minister of one of them to learn more. Only he had already decided we were a bunch of commie pinkos, because we lived in San Francisco, and the meeting ended up being two and a half hours of terrific discomfort. I’m telling you…childbirth is going to be a breeze compared to this lunch. South Carolina is going through some ridiculous schism in the Episcopal Church, which generally smacks of shot putting in glass houses to me. And apparently this church and its minister were embracing the party line of not accepting gay ministers or gay congregants or what have you, and at one point the man mentioned a gay couple by name as an example of how he would not accept gay partnerships in the church. Well, in fairness, the minister couldn’t have known that one of the men whose personal business he was bandying around is a good friend of Simons’ and a pretty awesome human being in general; but perhaps it’s not his business or in good taste to talk about people by name. Simons nearly leapt across the table at him. I think that even could I convince Simons to step foot in the door again, it’s not a very good fit for us. We prefer to bring our child up in a loving church that welcomes all kinds of sinners, not just perfect ones.**

So, in short, I’m tired and afraid to go home and my dog is a vampire and God hates me. I wonder if the cupcake store is closed.

**Afterthought: Not that the church would want an unhygienic bug-infested bunch of commie pinkos anyway. Clearly, we are no great loss. And the minister did pay for lunch, which was very thoughtful.

“Make-Up Bread & Butter Pudding – for when you need to apologize for being an evil raging harpy to your generally very kind husband (even though you maintain he was being an a-hole at the time) during a fight over the proper way to fold landscaping cloth, which resulted in your sulking in the guest room all night and him not kissing you goodbye when he left for work the next morning*.”

1/2 French baguette left out after making bruschetta three days ago, cut into 1-inch pieces (or 2.5 cups sliced and toasted stale bread cut into small pieces).

1/3 cup raisins – currants, cherries or chocolate chips are perfectly acceptable, although aforementioned husband does not like cherries.

1/4 stick unsalted butter, melted

1/2 cup skim milk

3/4 cup whole buttermilk

2 large eggs

1/3 cup sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla

dash of cinnamon (if desired)

Preheat oven to 350. Put bread and raisins in fairly deep dish, as you want it to be a little gooey. Pour in melted butter and toss all the bread around to coat. In a separate dish, mix everything else and whisk vigorously until blended. Pour over bread and let sit for an hour, stirring once, and perhaps pressing everything down with a spoon if you get bored. Bake pudding in middle of oven until just set but still trembles slightly, about 50 minutes. Serve pudding bubbly hot or at room temperature, with ice cream or whipped cream.

Serves 4, or just 2 with lots of leftovers for you to sneak the next day.

* May actually be a longer title than Fiona Apple’s last album.