The Spirit.

The Christmas spirit didn't envelop me this year. This wasn't the first such year, and I'm never sure why. Even as I felt a little flat, though, I knew that when I look back on this Christmas a few years from now, I won't remember that flat feeling. Similarly, when I look back on my Disney World honeymoon with Josh, I don't immediately think of the dizzying heat or the endless love bugs or the swollen insect bites on my ankle. I think of everything we saw and did. The same is true of Christmas, I think. In this way (as well as in many others), I think that what we do matters more than what we feel, especially in those small pockets of time.

Josh built our first fire in our new home (which I will write about). We built it before Oliver went to bed so that he could watch the bright dance. Josh played the three bell chimes of the first song on Aaron Neville's Christmas album. When Oliver went to bed, we spread a snowflake blanket by the hearth and lay down together, just watching the fire and remembering how we used to fall asleep that way in our apartment in Charlotte.

Josh hung our silver beaded and rhinestoned stockings from the mantle. While I was at Target, I'd picked up a small green knit stocking for Oliver. We put it between our two silver stockings. It looks quite precious and little. I set up our funny little tree on the counter. It's fiber optic--no lights or ornaments to tempt the cats. Josh set a few of his childhood nutcrackers on the mantle. His parents used to buy him one every year.

My mom and Shane came to visit and help us unpack after Thanksgiving. Mom and I went out to Barnes and Noble, and I had a Peppermint Mocha Frap. I also bought a beautifully illustrated Gift of the Magi, which I'd wanted when I worked at a bookstore the Christmas before last. We haven't read it together yet, but we will.

At Old Navy, I bought a gray and black sweater with rows of silver sequins to wear on Christmas Eve. At Target, I went ahead and picked up the pretty hot pink pajama pants with black snowflakes, even though I didn't need more pajamas. I found a first Christmas fleece outfit for Oliver--white with a little ice skating creature and the same creature on the feet...I think they're puppies, Josh thinks they're reindeer, and Josh's mom thinks they're bears. Oliver wore it several times, but we found it was too small (like all his newborn clothes) just a few days before Christmas.

I painted my nails metallic fir tree green and wore purple sparkle on my eyes often. I never did play my favorite Jingle Cats video, but I can still do that. In little ways, I invited the spirit, and I think those memories will be blessed.

Mothers: David's.

Josh had the idea that we should write about the fictional mothers and fathers we'd like to emulate. I can't think of many or much detail for mine, in part because many of the books I've loved are about orphans, or the mothers are beautiful, tragic creatures who die young and early in the story.

One of these tragic mothers is in The Book of Lost Things, which I still haven't made much progress in (due to my own distress and fatigue rather than any flaw in the book). David sees her as a figure both familiar and mysterious, tangible and mythical. 

"He sat up late into the night, squashed into a corner of the living room while grown-ups exchanged stories of a mother he had never known, a strange creature with a history entirely separate from his own...a beautiful woman in a bright red dress who was stolen from under the nose of another man by David's father... (Connolly 5-6).

I want Oliver to see both my best self, and when he is ready and wants to, my flaws, history, and humanness. I don't plan to keep secrets. I don't want him to suddenly find out something that makes him doubt himself, his origins, or his safety. I do, however, want him to see I am not only my roles, just as he will not only be his.

"...he would step often quietly into the room in which his mother was reading, acknowledging her with a smile (always returned) before taking a seat close by and immersing himself in his own book so that, although both were lost in their own individual worlds, they shared the same space and time." (Connolly 4).

This is one of my most important aims: to model a love of books, reading, paper. I want to provide books for him and show him, rather than tell him, how fascinating and vital stories are, whether we find them or make them.

"He thought of his mother's voice...as a symphony, capable of infinite variations on familiar themes and melodies that changed according to her moods and whims" (Connolly 4).

When I first spoke to Oliver face to face, I knew he knew me. Now when I speak or sing, he doesn't usually look toward me immediately. He continues looking at the leaf pattern on his bed or the shadows on the wardrobe, but he changes--a calm or hint of delight tickles his face. I want that to remain true: though my voice will not always capture his attention, I want it to be a source of comfort, something that makes him feel safe and loved as he becomes himself.



Connolly, John. The Book of Lost Things. New York: Washington Square Press, 2006. 4-6. Print.

Mirror.

The losses I've had, self-inflicted and blindsiding, permanent and temporary, seem to intersect or at least echo each other. This is what that sounds like now.

I feel like someone else, like I'm looking at reflections or symbols of whatever was formerly familiar. I don't know how much of that is sleep deprivation or the recent inability to focus on much besides scrambling through the end of the semester. I don't know whether or not, after the initial break, the world through the looking glass will be better, clearer, or brighter.

The Worst Glitter.

About two weeks ago, I got home at 1 p.m. on Friday. We had a relaxed afternoon. I started reading The Book of Lost Things and was a little emo over the boy whose mother died and whose father took up with the hospital administrator. Later, I slept near the foot of the bed while Josh sat at the head of the bed, back to the window, Oliver beside him. A few nights before, our bedroom had been illuminated in blue. Three squad cars were at a house across the street. Policemen ran toward the house in their bulletproof vests, yelling. Later, I heard the loud speaker. I told Josh we should stay away from the windows until they left. I remember wondering if we ought to try to move.

This night, I had the vague sense of Josh grabbing me and of me protesting or maybe even shushing him. I woke up fully when I hit the wood floor at the foot of the bed. I immediately tried to sit up and figure out what had happened, but I heard Josh yelling, "Get down! Stay down! Don't move!" I couldn't see him. Then, I heard my son screaming. I tried to question Josh but he kept yelling to ensure I didn't move above the line of the bed.

I somehow assured him I wasn't moving and said, slowly and gently, "Do you have our baby?" I had no idea if Oliver was hurt or if he was in his bed and I needed to crawl to get him.

"Yes," Josh answered, and I heard him calling 911, shouting at the dispatcher who was being too slow and calm. "Do you understand? Someone has shot through my window."

Then, I understood why I was on the floor. I thought about how I had once been sitting, pregnant, with my back to that window and had the sudden vision of a drive-by shooting. I told Josh that if I were ever hurt, he needed to call an ambulance immediately and tell the paramedics that I was pregnant. "Even if they couldn't save me, I'm far enough along that they might be able to save him if they were fast." This had mortified Josh somewhat, but I'd said it more than once because I wanted to make sure he wouldn't waste Oliver's precious minutes on grieving me.

When Josh hung up (which I thought was odd--aren't the dispatchers supposed to keep the caller on the phone until the police arrive?), I said, "I think you need to come over here," having realized that he and Oliver were on the floor on the side of the bed, which was much closer to the window. He crawled to me and let me take Oliver. I crouched over him, holding him to my chest. He had fallen asleep again.

The police arrived in minutes, and I realized I was only were underwear and a pajama top unbuttoned over my nursing bra. The blankets had fallen to the floor with me, and I found my pajama pants and struggled to pull them on while holding my son and staying low. The pants were up to my knees when the policemen walked in, and the not caring leftover from the hospital kicked in.

Three of them came, one a young patrolman, one a big K-9 unit guy, and the other the lieutenant. They had their big boots and bullet proof vests. The K-9 guy started asking questions (Had we had words with anyone? Had anyone been begging us for money?) and touching the doors of my wardrobe opposite the window, feeling for a bullet hole. He opened the wardrobe doors and touched a hole in the plastic over one of my work jackets.

"Was this hole here before, ma'am?"
"I don't know," I answered, feeling a little desperate that I didn't remember every tear and worn place in my home and life.
He noticed Oliver and that I had begun to shake hard. "That's okay; that's fine," he said. He asked if I would mind going into the living room, so they could search. He must have noticed my half-dressed state because he gestured to the young patrolman and said, "We'll step outside for a minute." He closed the door behind him, and I felt strange about being alone in that room, standing when Josh had repeatedly shouted (desperate for my safety) for me to stay still, pulling up my blue snowflake pajama pants, and carrying my son into the living room.

Josh was rigid in the green recliner. I sat on the couch. Both of us were hyper aware of the windows in that room and everywhere in the house. Because the rooms were so small, even safe corners or closets big enough to huddle in together didn't exist.

The young patrolman stayed with us, asking occasional questions and saying he knew how shaken we must be, especially with a new baby. I could see him wanting to say, "You shouldn't be living here."

The K-9 guy came out with a small white rock. "Was this in your room before?"
"I don't think so," Josh said.
"Did you hear a gun shot?"
"I heard people arguing and then two popping sounds and the glass shattering."
"Okay. If you'll come outside with me, I'll show you what we think happened."

Josh pulled on his boots and went outside with the K-9 guy and lieutenant. I think the patrolman stayed with me. The two men showed Josh how the rock had probably gone through the window and how the hole was consistent with that. Josh asked how a rock of that size could have busted the screen, shattered the glass, and exploded the blinds. They said that the person must have thrown it extremely hard from the street or must have been standing in our yard. We've seen thought, with others' input, that the person must have fired the rock through a paintball gun, potato gun, or at the very least, a slingshot.

They assured us that they weren't trying to "belittle the rock" (which we later found a little funny) but that they were glad it wasn't a bullet. The report would be ready on Sunday if we wanted a copy.

We stayed in the living room. Josh paced. I called my mom. I was surprised she answered, and her voice was strained when she answered with "Becky?"
I immediately said, "We're okay," and told Josh he should do the same when he called his mom. I cried as I told my mom what had happened. Something about my mother's voice triggers the outpouring of pent up emotion even as I try to convey information.

I could see the adrenaline and fear pumping through Josh. I thought he would never be able to sit down again. I wished he would cry, either with me or while talking to his own mother. He hadn't cried since the hospital, and I knew that, even beyond his heart and mind, his body needed that relief. That white rock, which looked like it would have come from someone driveway or a border around a small, decorative tree, had seemed to bring with it all of the losses and near-losses in Josh's life, and maybe all the mistakes and guilt too, as it cracked the window of our bedroom just above our infant son.

Thinking about the glass fully took us a long time. We were still in the living room when I thought to look. Josh found glass on Oliver's pajamas. I found little glints on his face and later found a terrifying shard in the folds of his neck. I was so scared to try to move it, afraid I would only make it pierce him when it had, mercifully, not done so yet. I had the idea to use a piece of tape to pick it up. We did that too many times. Even the next day, after an hour of sleep in Oliver's room (which doesn't face the street), I continued finding little shiny bits on his face. I couldn't understand why until I looked down and saw that my chest was covered in tiny bits of glass. Josh and I put Oliver in his crib, stripped our clothes in the hall, and took turns showering. My hands stung as I washed my hair.

I went into our bedroom to get my phone charger. The blankets were still on the floor. The blinds were hanging, literally, by their threads, letting the sunshine pour it. My breath caught. Our room, the room in which we had slept, talked, fed our son, began to recover from skirting death, sparkled with glass in on every visible surface and in every corner. Our bed, Oliver's bassinet, the floor were we had crouched, all was glittering with cruel shards and sand-like bits. At that moment, I didn't think I could ever wear anything that sparkled (what if I saw traces of eyeshadow glitter on Oliver and thought I saw glass?) again.

That night and the next night, we slept at a hotel, using the points my dad offered. We spent the week of Thanksgiving at Josh's parents' house, and I commuted an hour and a half to work. We knew we could not sleep in that house again because of what had happened, what we thought had happened, what could have happened, and oh, just the new bitterness of that place. We washed Oliver in the bathroom sink at the Hampton, and Josh and I slept, completely satisfied with having nothing but Oliver's bed and diaper bag, an overnight bag, and my blanket (which I've had and slept with since I was a baby and grabbed on our way out the door, suddenly seized with a bizarre fear that I'd never see it again, as if I were grabbing my family and one treasure and fleeing a burning house). Whatever the reality and whatever the symbolism, we were going to take our baby and run.

Our bed, with an ad I had torn out of a magazine that night to show Josh because I thought the little girl looked like she could be our daughter, our Eirene.

Comfort Food.

Since Oliver's arrival, many people have given us food. Since we are definitely food lovers, this has been fabulous. When we got home from the hospital, Dad had gone to get some groceries--milk, eggs, bread, roast beef (since I was allowed to eat deli sandwiches again), bacon, Dr. Pepper, and other essentials. He's also brought Subway (Josh loves the Veggie Delite) during his visits, and more recently, he brought 215 on Main. I had penne pasta with tomato cream sauce, sausage, and shrimp. Of course, I also sampled the Parmesan and herb fries. Mmm.

Mom and Shane brought twice-baked potatoes; buttery, seasoned green beans; rotisserie chicken; and soft chocolate chip cookies (they brought other treats too--brie for me, spicy pimento cheese for Josh, and a case of baby wipes. The wipes may have been most exciting). I inhaled the supper they prepared. That chicken is amazing, and the green beans were the first vegetable I've really wanted since Oliver's arrival. I had a potato and chicken for breakfast and for dinner yesterday. Yep. Another time, they made pumpkin pancakes and bacon. And another time, they brought veggie pasta salad and crab salad.

Josh's grandfather and his wife brought a German chocolate cake. Mom and Shane's house church group sent a gift card to Wal-mart and two big bags of Trader Joe's groceries. We quickly devoured a huge loaf of cinnamon bread from the adjacent bakery. We've been munching our way through powdered donut O's, granola, plantain chips, and Pita crackers (love them!). We still have pumpkin bread mix, gingerbread mix, black bean soup, squash soup, and mini ravioli. One day, when I was famished from nursing, I stood in the kitchen and ate a generous handful of the almonds they sent.

On Thursday night, two of my coworkers sent me home with salad, garlic bread, white veggie lasagna, and peach cobbler. All the food-related kindness has been pretty grand.

Hello, Autumn.

Our backyard is full of yellow leaves. Neighbors keep coming to the door, asking if we'll hire them to rake the yard. On my way to work, I see a beautiful amber tree on the next street. The long drive is red and orange. Even the lawns and fields are the color of pumpkin pie.

Yesterday, Josh bought more fleece, footed, one-piece outfits for Oliver so that he can stay cozy without constant swaddling. He wears zebra stripes, little elephants, and pumpkins. New chub has appeared on his cheeks, on his thighs, on his shoulders, and on the back of his neck. When we went to the pediatrician the week before last, Oliver was one ounce away from 7 pounds. Right now, he's lying on my lap, cooing and grinning at the ceiling fan Josh has decorated.

To work, I wear opaque tights under my dress pants. One day, I wore a black and silver scarf with a plum turtleneck. Josh dug my purple wool coat and my quilted olive velvet jacket out of a box under the bed. The temperature was 33 when I left for work on Friday.

My office is freezing since the AC is still on in the building, and the nearby, windowless classrooms tend to get stifling. I leave on my layers. Today, Josh bought me a tiny purple space heater for my desk. I'm excited about using it tomorrow, in part just because he picked it.

Josh burns candles throughout the day, so when I come home, the bedroom often smells of cinnamon or caramel. I need to make a trip to B&BW for more candles. A few minutes in the brightly-colored store, breathing in holiday scents, would probably be good for me anyway.

We keep saying we wish we had a fireplace. I'd drink some hot chocolate, but I'm paranoid about having anything hot around Oliver. When I'm home, I'm usually nursing him. This morning, Josh watched him so I could sleep until nearly nine, which was marvelous. I have read three books since Oliver was born, and I mostly read them while nursing. A Famous Broken Heart, one of Josh's favorites, was brief and beautiful. A spark glitters when one of us reads a book the other already loves. The Writing Circle was a book I bought at Waldenbooks because it looked fluffy. It was indulgent but not really fluff. I had to read some gorgeous, insightful, image-driven sentences aloud to Josh. The book is worthwhile just for those. And today, I just finished Outside the Ordinary World, a two-generation book that deals with the pull and aftermath of infidelity. I hope to start another book today. I'm so relieved that I can attach to a book. I thought I might be too ravaged or tired or overwhelmed to read. Josh and I have been enjoying the TV shows Up All Night and Once Upon a Time (though I think he watches the latter only to indulge me).

Though I'm loving autumn, I am already looking forward to hearing those three bell chimes at the beginning of Aaron Neville's Christmas CD. For me, those sounds have always signaled the beginning of Christmas. I have good memories of listening to the CD with my family as I grew up. Josh and I added James Taylor's Christmas CD to the canon. Taylor's voice is warm and cuddly in a different way. I'm looking at the Christmas issue of Real Simple, thinking about the stacks of unread magazines I have and may indulge in over Christmas break. I feel drawn to rich colors and sparkles. In no time, I'll be contemplating which calendar I'll pick for next year.

How Are You?

This is a question people normally ask without listening for the answer, without expecting a real answer. Real answers are unsettling. But I've been asking Josh this question frequently since we got home - a slow, quiet asking with eye contact. I really am asking, but I'm actually asking dozens of questions.

Are you staying sane?
Do you love us?
Are you getting too hungry or sleepy?
Do you need to get out of this room or house for a while?
Are you keeping up with your medication?
Are you reading? doing something creative?
Do you feel calm?
Do you feel like yourself?
Am I being nice enough?
Am I doing enough?
Have you processed everything that happened?
Do you need to cry?
Are irritations staying manageable?
Do you like your life?
Do you want to be near me?
Are you amazed at him?
Can you believe you got here?
Do you feel neglected?
Are you lonely?
Are we doing this correctly?
Are we staying close enough?
Are you harboring any resentments?
Do you need to take ibuprofen?
Do you feel proud?
Are you happy?