Wife and Mother.

A flowering lemon tree in the center of town,
planted years ago along the path to the sea.
Cut a pursed fruit through its center.
Juice emanates as water spills from springs.
Like gravity, a force, sour and potent,
Like blood, you cannot stop its emergence.

Hurricane blasts through town.
Sea twister of potent proportions,
Bringing its winds, rain, lightning, boom-resonance.
Storm waxes, chaos whips the face and legs of man.
Storm dies, taking its squalls, but leaving exhaustions
and agonies profound in its own wake.

As a turtle is born on the torn shore,
Its egg-home shudders.
The only of its clutch to survive the storm.
On a piece of beach smoldered out like any other,
The stillness breaks. From a nest of lost sisters,
A pale, tiny shell wriggles and spins daylight.
The surface of beach gives birth to writhing.

Accross the shredded sand, a brilliant canary sun
Muscles his rays over all visible land.
His song powers through nuances of lemon flowers
And thickets of her leaves.
He drops his chin and gazes softly
Upon the somehow new turtle,
Who blinks unknowingly toward the sea.

"Everytime we touch..."

The fetus (dubbed "Bayby" by Charlotte) loves Cascada. (Bayby obviously has taste, as this is the only techno-type song I enjoy even remotely.) I turn on "Everytime we Touch", the only notable song ever put forth by the above artist (no musical genius), and Bayby is excited to action within seconds. I thinks what's going on is the fetal equivalent to the running man, which I guess would be the floating man, or dog-paddling man. At this moment, I have the mediocre club beat blasting excessively from the laptop, and Bayby is rhythmically pounding my uterine wall. If you are not familiar with this song, familiarize yourself. ASAP. You will know where Bayby is coming from.

http://www.myspace.com/cascada

Postscript - Bayby also loves any triumphant, over-the-top classical. What does this say about my fetus?

Snowfall.

People say that they like the silence of a
snowfall.
Those precious moments when outside waxes silent as inside.
When the only sound is the whispered hiss of falling snow meeting its fallen brethren.
People say there is a peace unmistakable in a
snowfall.
Life as you know it halts - businesses close, schools delay opening, drivers coast mid-beltway.
As if a blanket has fallen over every bit of life beyond the walls of families, feelings, and homes. People love the way that the warmth of indoors juxtaposes the cold still-framed drift without.
Snowfall.

Night Gives Birth to Morning.

My coughing at night has been replaced by worrying. I have spent my nights up in bed palpating my uterus, trying to inspire motion in the newest little Bayly. With our Sophie, from 16 weeks exactly, she was kicking with a vengeance. Sweet motion, which ceased, but for that reason was even sweeter. Now, this little one seems lazy in comparison. Here I am, 16 weeks and a couple of days, and feeling only lackadaisical shifts in position, and wriggles from side to side. No kicks. And, really, that just started for sure.

I was convinced for the last few days that I was feeling nothing.

For any mom, the idea of feeling no movement is terrifying. But, for a mom that has felt absolute still inside, it is beyond comprehension. The fear has been frantic. I have spent the last few days resigned. Sure that yesterday's appointment would be my last. Sure that I would hear those gut, tear and heart wrenching words again - "I am sorry. I don't hear a heartbeat." If you haven't heard those words, you can imagine how awful they would sound. You can imagine the literal anguish as your breathing stops, and you wish your heart would as well. But, think for one moment, if those words were like a broken record in your mind. If in your lowest moments of feeling the utter silence of your house, and seeing your unused, still-packed diaper bag collecting dust in the corner, those words leapt to your brain. If you could see the doctor's face, sterile and unsmiling, and silent shaking tears running down the faces of five or six nurses like towering monoliths around the white labcoat-room. If you had wanted to tear open your own flesh and sinew to reach to your baby, gone but needing so badly to be held by her mother. Imagine, carrying another baby. Trying to pour your heart out in a way you can only hope is enough. Then, in the silence and dark, you hear those words. At night, as your try to sleep, as you drive to work, as you walk the dog, as you shower, as you choke down another's days worth of prenatal vitamins, sure it will be your last.

Then, as the words are resonating in your head, booming, repeating, beating you further down into the carrying darkness, you feel something. No longer nothing, still, silent. You feel the kick of new life returning. Somewhere, deep inside broken womb, you feel the shimmy and shake of your chance to prove yourself a mother. You feel your tribute to your lost and huddled family burst to life again. Each beat of baby's tiny new heart is more miraculous than the last. Each tension-rubber-band-snapping inside is enough to give birth to hope. Like an orange sunrise, you love your baby each time the rise and fall of its arms and legs reach out for you, and wake you with new light. How can your heart break so beautifully?

Wonderful!

So many thanks to my-new-friend-who-I've-never-met, Lora! She has managed to add my new special ticker and link me to other friends on here. I hope that is okay with everyone. :o)

And, many congratulations to Angel and Tim.