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Savagemama: Notes From a Pregnant Mama

It happens every February and every year it takes me by surprise. When we are at our grayest, slushiest, muddiest here in western Montana and I’m ready to move far, far away, the calves in my neighbor’s pasture start dropping. A few at first, they appear as slick black spots on an otherwise drab landscape. Mama cows lick their bottoms and faces clean and munch on afterbirth right outside our kitchen window. Then the eagles come and circle the pasture for a bite of that afterbirth. After a week or so the pasture is teetering with calves just finding their legs and birds hopping around in the hay behind them. Even though these births are timed perfectly by my neighbor rancher and somewhere along the way these cows have been trained to birth according to his plans, it’s still the first sign in my world that spring is coming. Come June these calves will have fattened up a bit and they will inevitably break through our fences to eat our hay, tromp on our flowers. But this year I’ll have another baby of my own to look after and probably won’t pay these calves that I’m so fascinated with now that much attention.

Savagemama: Notes From a Pregnant Mama

We’ve been tossing around baby names lately. Just like last time, we settled on a boy’s name pretty quickly. And just like last time, we can’t quite put our finger on a girl’s name. I like names that would sound good on an 80-year-old southern lady. Ada, Ruby, Ida, Adel. But I’m finding there is a fine line I don’t want to cross. Southern is one thing but I don’t want this baby’s name to sound, as I wrote to a friend the other day, like she lives in a house up on blocks in the Oklahoma panhandle. Genteel yes. NASCAR no. Ada yes. Delores no. This indecision on what to name the baby if it is a girl is the only thing that makes me think we may have a sister for Eliza floating around in my belly.

Savagemama: Notes From a Pregnant Mama

I was reading a week-by-week pregnancy book the other day and it occurred to me that I get to birth this baby that is, at the moment, turning cartwheels inside me. I’ve known this, obviously, on an intellectual level but the other day it hit me in the gut, so to speak and I got a little excited, a little intimidated. I hope it is a good birth. I wish every woman I love could have this experience and touch the blinding power we have as women. If we could channel that power into our lives everyday we would already have elected a woman president and there would be some changes to the way this old world spins around.

Savagemama: Notes From a Pregnant Mama

Last night Seth made a bed for me in the pump house and let me sleep there all night long. Alone. I haven’t been sleeping well in part because I can’t get comfortable in my ever-changing body and in part because our child doesn’t sleep. We’ve tried everything. Everything. And I’ve finally decided that it is just who she is. And I love who she is. I’ve stopped blaming myself and thinking that her lack of sleep is because of something I have or haven’t done. One day, Eliza will sleep but until then we have to stay sane. Seth couldn’t have made me happier with roses and champagne. Letting me get a full night’s sleep was about the kindest thing he could have done. It’s funny what love starts to look like.

Column: Savagemama

David Sedaris once wrote about visiting his sister and that the upheaval of her apartment made the homosexual in him want to scrub and clean until his hands bled. I often think I have a little gay man inside of me pointing out the spots on the tub that won’t come clean, bleaching the sink, mopping sap off the kitchen floor. I like to think David and I could live together in a spotless place somewhere with neatly folded towels and perfectly organized cupboards. Then I remember that he’s a smoker and we’re both neurotic writers and my little neat-freak fantasy evaporates. [more]

Column: Savagemama

I have never wanted to be a war correspondent, specifically. An intrepid reporter waving the flag of high journalistic standards, maybe. Lately, I’d settle for relatively stable mama-writer but, these days, that seems about as illusive as carrying a DAT recorder through Baghdad.

This pregnancy has left me feeling as though I have the patience, filters and hormonal swings of a 16-year-old. And just like then I feel as though I have no control over my emotions, no frame of reference to draw from. [more]

Savagemama: Notes From a Pregnant Mama

Last week Eliza and I went to two toddler events one right after the other. First, we hit story time at the library during which Eliza couldn’t be bothered to sing or dance until the very end when she turned herself around during the Hokey Pokey. That’s what it’s all about, I suppose. Between some serious people watching, I kept singing Flight of the Conchords’ “It’s Business Time” and replace business with story. I’m not sure if this makes me an unfit mother or not. [more]

Savagemama: Notes From a Pregnant Mama

When I put Eliza in her car seat this morning in the early morning light, she had something around her neck that I couldn’t quite make out. Upon closer inspection, I realized she was wearing my underwear as a necklace. Hot pink and fresh off the bathroom floor, there they were hanging around my daughter’s neck.

Savagemama: Notes From a Pregnant Mama

After a few nights of very little sleep, I’ve decided that my daughter should consult with the Pentagon, the CIA and Blackwater. She’s cornered the market on torture and they should know about her tactics. Cough every five minutes, rustle the covers every 30 minutes, squeeze tiny hands with sharp fingernails under mom’s back. Repeat again and again until she wakes up. [more]

Column: Savagemama

It’s that time of year again, I suppose, that time of year for falling in love. Except this year my valentine walks on four legs and licks her butt. It’s true, I’m re-falling in love with Imogene, my yellow lab. [more]

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