little green

Everybody Knows

2006-09-19T19:54:00.000+09:00

The secret is out and let me tell you, it was a long and exhausting task spreading the news from our little corner in Japan. We made phonecalls, sent personal e-mails and tried to deliver the news from the horse's mouth as best we could. I'm not sure why, but it's not something easy to say, like: "I'm finished my degree", or "I'm getting married", or "I'm gay". Telling people you are expecting a baby can be awkward and embarassing in its traditional expression and terminology. There are just too many to choose from. And none are quite right. I learned all this the hard way, through trial and error and some more error. In an effort to benefit those who want to have kids in the future, let's examine a few, so that you may learn from our mistakes.

"She is with child"

By far, the most horrifying, which, to my undying shame, my father used in a group e-mail to some of our relatives and family friends. Bless him, he thinks this child was immaculately conceived.

"Knocked-up"

Use with caution. Not for all audiences and especially unpopular with the grandmother set. And be forewarned, it does imply that the child was conceived on a night of binge-drinking in the backseat of a car...or, er, dancing on tables in a karaoke booth...

"We're pregnant"

This phrase has always made me wince. We? Um, no, HE is not pregnant. And let's not even pretend that HE would ever want to be. Out of curiosity one night, I asked C if he wasn't just a teensy bit envious that I got to carry the baby inside me and feel its warmth and presence around me. Without hesitation, he replied: Nope, not really.

"We are expecting"

It just sounds too ambiguous to me. Expecting what? A typhoon? A westerly wind? A package in the mail? An urgent phone call? And since we were not really "expecting" a child at all, this phrase is full of irony. Expecting??? Bet you didn't expect that! har har ho hum har.

This is to mother you

2006-09-10T20:04:00.000+09:00

This weekend was an unexpected delight. At first, I was tempted to cancel our plans to attend an English retreat at the villa in Takebe with a dozen Japanese strangers over the age of 50. (hell, wouldn't you be?)
I wanted nothing more than to stay in bed, moan, gag and generally feel sorry for myself. Had I done that, I would probably be posting another sad lament for my out-of-control body. Good thing for us all I dragged my ass out of bed, packed a bag of crackers and put on a smile.
After a quiet drive through the countryside, we arrived in the lush and hilly village of Takebe. We were met at the villa by a dozen women, buzzing like bees around the kitchen. They immediately pounced on us, beaming with motherly affection and eager to wait on me like royalty. They were so warm and friendly, even when they were forcing me to eat, piling a multitude of plates in front of me with foods "for my health". I politely obliged, pushing myself to my limits. They watched me carefully, brought me juice when they thought I was thirsty, rubbed my belly, taught me lullabies in Japanese and ultimately put me to bed when they thought I should sleep. They moved me deeply and I must have needed a little mothering like that. Firm mothering, not taking no for an answer, the "Don't argue, we know what's best" kind of mothering. I was in their hands and I felt cared for, loved by these kind strangers.
I don't even know their names, but the warmth these women wrapped around me will help carry me through the coming difficult weeks.

Invasion of the Body Snatchers

2006-09-06T22:14:00.000+09:00

My nose is getting me into serious trouble. Last night I was upstairs lying in bed reading my book and minding my own business. Suddenly my gag reflex went off. Red pepper. I smell red pepper. I had to sniff it out and make it stop. I got up, went down the stairs and opened the door to the kitchen. Sure enough, C was chopping the offensive vegetable for his sandwich. It might as well have been liver and onions.
Later, when all traces of the vegetable had been scrubbed from the cutting board, C moved on from making his lunch to shaving. Again it went off. This time I stayed in bed and just kept yelling: Not the cucumber soap! Use the orange and tea tree oil! Not the cucumber! NOOOOOOO! But it was too late. The gagfest was in motion.

My new basset hound nose is not the only adjustment I'm having to make. How about the creeps. I have a serious case of them. My skin crawls, I feel disgusting. I want to get as far away as possible from normal, everyday objects. The computer, for one gives me the creeps. Blogger makes my skin crawl. I have a sudden aversion to bluejeans. They make me feel hot and nauseous, even seeing them on other people. As aforementioned, I have difficulty with cucumber soap. Hot beverages. The couch. My pillow. Bras. People getting too close to me. Taking showers. They all give me the creeps.

And because lists must consist of three or more things, I will add one more to my crazy file: My new diet. Yes, I have transformed from a health conscious vegetarian and adventurous cook to, well, a finicky knit picker with her nose turned up in the air. My body snatcher will only eat the following foods:

bagels, cream cheese
bananas
aloe yogurt
dry crackers
grapes (not the fermented kind)
mango gelato
udon

A man with a wooden leg named Smith

2006-08-31T13:18:00.000+09:00

It`s a good day today. My energy is up and my food is staying down. Feeling rebellious, I wore fisherman pants and a peasant blouse to work, a carved coconut necklace my sole adornment. My colleagues will wonder what happened to me out there in the jungle...

*****

C and I continue to think of baby names but we can`t seem to take the task seriously. We inevitably suggest something ridiculous that sends us into hysterics. To be honest, Smith is posing a bit of a problem. A name is something one wears for a lifetime. It should be a good, solid fit, like a comfy pair of shoes. It also has to go with the rest of the outfit. But Smith is hard to work with. If it were a shoe, it would be a brown loafer with old man tassels. You just can`t match it with anything too flashy. And then again, Smith could be a blessing in disguise. It may help us show some restraint in the end...

Smith has saved you from the following boy names:

1. Cuauhtémoc
I`ve always loved the name Cuauhtémoc. The name of the last Aztec emperor, it means `descending eagle` in Nahuatl.

2. Jasper
Merv kindly informed me that Jasper was the name of the town drunk in his hometown of Netherhill, Saskatchewan. I haven`t cared for the name since. I know what you`re thinking...how can I of all people scorn the good ol town drunk?

3. Etienne
A sexy French name that would make the girls swoon (and probably the boys beat you up)

Still under consideration:

Daisen (after a mountain in Japan)
Max
Ernie
Buck
Frederick
Fidel
Vladamir
Mustafa

Everybody gets one veto...which one will it be? Heh.

The Book of Ruth

2006-08-29T10:20:00.000+09:00

You are here. The power of thirty years and the promise of new life binds us together again. Two expectant mothers. Exactly thirty years apart.

I don`t remember you looking this young, this childish. Your soft brown eyes betray nothing of the loss to come. Grief has no place in your heart. There is only warmth and love. And the greatest of hopes. I can still feel you around me.

Sweet mother, this is your enduring gift to me. There is no longer a place in my heart for grief. There is only warmth and love. And the greatest of hopes. I will bear it forward.

rogue cravings

2006-08-27T15:40:00.000+09:00

Baby, what are you doing to me? Let me fill you in on one important detail: I'm a vegetarian. So could you please stop filling my head with subversive images of salami sandwiches smothered with yellow mustard on squishy white bread. As for the KD, I'll see what I can do...

Magic Number

2006-08-26T20:29:00.000+09:00

This morning C and I set the alarm for 7:30 and biked to the hospital first thing. We sat for three hours, shifting nervously in leather chairs and staring at the diamond tiles on the floor. Finally my name was called and I was whisked behind door number 2. The doctor was young and pleasant, and I was relieved to find that she could also speak English. Within 5 minutes I was undressed with my feet in the air, separated at the waist by a curtain. She pulled it back suddenly, revealing a screen. Pointing at a tiny heart beat, she smiled and said simply: dai jo buu. Everything`s alright.

Afterwards, she sent me on my way with a sonogram of our little kidney bean and this magic number: April 7, 2007.

Little Green

2006-08-25T16:25:00.000+09:00

Just a little green, like the colour when the spring is born
There'll be crocuses to bring to school tomorrow
Just a little green, like the nights when the Northern lights perform
There'll be icicles and birthday clothes and sometimes there'll be sorrow

This blog is clandestine for the moment. I have a secret to keep on keeping.