Good morning, from January 8th. It is my grandfather’s birthday today, and I love my grandfather! If there’s anyone I wouldn’t mind my baby sharing a birthday with, it’s him. Speaking of birthdays, my due date came and went just before the new year, and we’ve been living in this limbo of constantly being on alert and on baby watch, but also marinating in this sweet, slow time of early January, post holiday craze, pre-newborn phase. It’s been oddly warm in New York City this week which has been an added blessing. Sunshine and light jackets in January are everything.
It is hard to describe the texture of time that I’m experiencing right now, but if I had to try, I would say that I clearly feel on the cusp of change. I feel as though I’m waiting at the start line of a marathon, constantly taking a step forward in anticipation of the blow horn sounding off. The referee keeps raising his arm into the air to say “ready, set, go” but then after a few seconds, bringing it right back down and sending out ripples of silence again. I put my foot two steps back behind the chalky start line and wait. I trail his every move with my eyes, pinning my pupils on his dangling arm, standing by for a sign of motion. I stretch my legs, take a deep breath, and hop around on my toes to keep my muscles lubricated. A flicker of the wrist and… back down he goes.
Every ordinary action that I’m taking these days feels somewhat monumental in this life on the cusp. I feel a deep appreciation in my bones for the ordinary moments of my existence, which are all being classified as “maybe the last for a while.” I wake up in the morning and share a sigh with Brandon. “Nope, no baby overnight but I do recall peeing three times.” I take my dog Maui for a long park walk, luxuriating in the blaring morning sun, the crisp winter air and the sound of the ducks landing on the icy lake. “This might be my last long walk alone for a while,” I think to myself. I go through my long list of people and things I’m grateful for, allowing the optimism to warm my insides and to flood my senses with white light. I get home and begin to mince vegetables for a Yemenite style soup I’ve been craving. I dice alliums and peel potatoes and I smash garlic cloves and sauté and simmer. I chop cilantro and watch it turn bright green in the roiling, boiling, red liquid. I squeeze fat lemon halves over the pot and stir. I taste, I season more, I adjust, and finally, I sit down. I sip slowly and I dunk bread and I think to myself “this might be the last pot of soup I cook for a little while.”
But no no, time continues to trickle on as my baby grows, nestled safely inside my womb and showing no signs of rushing anywhere. I make a hundred more little meals for myself, slowing down each time I baste a fried egg with peppery green olive oil, and every time I spread golden Kerrygold butter on a slice of hot toast. I sprinkle large flakes of Maldon salt liberally and chew Haribo twin snakes and sour straws with gusto. “This might be my final meal before the baby come” Another meal, another snack, another cup of tea, another birthday, another dinner, another holiday, another family outing. Time ticks on.
I have found it so interesting to observe how the close people around me handle this situation and react to the same waiting game, to the unknown moments of life. How do they handle life in times of pressure and stress and more realistically, in times of silence? Who remains calm as a cucumber? Who drives themselves in spirals, itching for closure. Who is clawing for control and who is capable of letting go of their grip on the reins of the carriage? I am recognizing that so much of our life is really just about how we interpret things when the swirl of distractions around us stop.
I sometimes feel that we have been conditioned over the last century or so, with advancements in science, medicine, and technology, to believe that humans know everything or at least, are close to knowing everything. We have questions and we find answers. We get degrees and read books and publish papers and market ourselves as experts. At dinner parties, we google or wiki every little thing at any given moment and at the speed of light: an answer appears on our screen. Everyone is enlightened and there is more content and education available than any one person could consume in a lifetime. It is black and it is white.
And sure, we’ve come incredibly far in understanding how the world and the mind and the body work, but how often do we recognize that there is still an infinite universe of knowledge that is far beyond our grasp, and the fact that this will not, can not, and should not ever change?
How often do we really accept that there will always be a galaxy of information far out there that we are stretching for, and reaching out at, having no hope of ever truly wrapping our arms around her? And the closer we get to said galaxy, the further away we will be. In other words, the more we learn, the more questions arise and the more questions arise, the more we will push ourselves to learn and it all goes round and round, and that is the circle of life. And part of this waiting game for me has been a lesson in that element of my existence. Every person is simultaneously the whole world and a fleck of dust.
Whether you want to call this unknown God or Hashem or the divine spirit or the universe or the fairy in the sky or the science that has yet to be solved, it is hard to assume that there isn’t something more out there in the ether than the stories that our brains are capable of writing and acting out. There must be more than our little plans, our due dates, our estimates, our desires, our timelines, even more than our dreams.
And so when people have been empathizing with me, apologizing for the long wait and saying that I must be going crazy, I smile and I nod and I understand why they might say that but I’m really not. I’m not going crazy and instead I’m leaning into this time of transition and doing my best to flip intentionally through the pages of the final chapter of this stage of our life. I’m hugging Reva extra, extra tight and waddling around the neighborhood in awe of her charm. I’m being deliberate not to stain the chapter pages with my herb-stained fingers that have just indulged in dill and zucchini pancakes that are just the right amount of oily.
I’m saying yes to last minute Shabbat dinners and trips to the Museum of Natural History to see the whale and the polar bear and the oxen. I’m sitting for long, leisurely lunches at J.G Melon with Brandon, sharing cheeseburgers and cottage fries and a tall glass of icy Coca-Cola. I’m slurping dan dan noodles with friends on the Upper West Side and watching Baumbach movies from 2005 and taking two hours naps on a lazy Saturday. I’m working until the last minute and starting new books and jotting down lists of names that I love. And of course, I’m having my moments of frustration and disappointment and despair and impatience, but I let them wash over me quickly and quietly, and I don’t allow myself to indulge much because that is not how I will experience the marathon of motherhood that awaits me.
Next time, with baby.
Hugs,
Jane
8:o)