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12-01-07

I wrote a poem while living in Brussels a few years ago. I guess I wrote it for you, baby boy: 

 

the king is in

        the palace as I

type these words

 

                  I know this

because the flag

                            flies above it

 

        unfurling and flapping

in arhythmic snaps

        as if to say

       

                  play what music

you will      

           I will dance only

 

 

to the music in my head

 

 

 

Great report this morning from Dr. McCay. All seems in order in the parts and cervix department. Came home and cooked bacon and eggs to celebrate. What’s better than bacon and eggs on a sunny weekend morning? Gave Oliver a piece too. We’re all in this together. 

This Monday will be 31 weeks. At 32 weeks baby is viable and we can breathe a small sigh of relief. Yesterday we got out the flashlight and pressed the beam up against Jodi’s belly to make the baby move. Just for kicks, so to speak. Baby flinched, as if to say, “yo, I’m trying to get a little shuteye up in here.” We did it a few more times. Teehee!

 

Last night I got Jodi snuggled up with a fire and a pot of her favorite Aveda tea then drove into SF for some first rate Bay area folk rock. The scene was intimate and cool and I was digging the soulful crowd. As I flowed to the music I felt solid about having a kid. Thought to  myself, “how cool and natural would it be at this moment to have a baby hanging off me in a sling.” Remembered back to when I saw Michael Franti rip an open mike poetry night five years ago with his newborn asleep in a sling on his chest. He bellowed and roared and tore the lid off that room whilst his kid slept like an angel to the beat of his old man’s heart.  

I once saw a lanky white guy dancing in the sunshine at the Telluride Bluegrass Festival and that guy was about the worst dancer I ever saw, a real victim of white man’s disease. But I tell you what, that guy was in his own pure place lost in that music and I LOVED HIM and wanted him to dance on forever. As the Spanish saying goes, “dance like nobody’s watching and make love like it’s never gonna hurt.” That’s how I want you to dance, little baby. And how I want you to sing. Whatever the music is in your head, sing the hell out of it! Get lost in it.

I don’t pretend to be wise. I’m hacking away like everybody else. But I hope with all my heart for you to be wiser than me. To be as pure as one can be in a polluted world. Be a better listener. Better lover. Better reader. Writer. Surfer. Painter. Make others cry with the purity of your actions. Let yourself cry at the purity of your thoughts. Sob in movie theaters. It is a secret joy of your father’s. Be calm, little man, and if you would be so kind, hold my hand without shame.  

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11-30-07

 

This bun in the oven remains very abstract to me, an idea trapped in a bag in my wife’s midsection. I’m forty four years old. Starting late. Two generations wrapped in the cloth of my lifetime. Kinda numb. Curious. Liquid. Ready.

 

He has a face but I cannot see it, cannot even picture it. The crazy sonogram pictures are like viewing some small marine vertebrate through murky water. Hardly flattering. Borderline scary. He has a fully formed spine, hands, ears, pretty much the lot. A few more weeks and his lungs will be ready to breathe the atmosphere. Can he smell me when his mom smells me? He can hear now. What does he make of my voice? Does he have any thoughts? Is he pondering me, the guy who talks to him through his mom’s belly…who says dumb stuff. “Hey in there, you better be nice to your mother after all she’s done for you!” What is he thinking right now? I guess I’ll be wondering that for the rest of his life, hoping he is happy and he loves me.   

 

People ask, do you feel guilty bringing a kid into a filthy mean world, a world where he may not have clean water or air and where people willingly blow themselves up in crowded markets. I do not. The joy and wisdom of having a child and a family is an end in itself. And it will all end when it ends. That said, I have little faith in humanity’s long term future. I’m a micro optimist and macro fatalist. Today in Sudan thousands are marching brandishing knives and swords and calling for the execution of a British schoolteacher who had the audacity to name her classroom mascot teddy bear Muhammed. Beyond pathetic, BUT its not going to interfere with the sanctity of my joy at my son’s arrival. No sir, Muhammed!

 

I ran into my old art studio mate today, a sassy painter of dog portraits. She had beautiful healthy twins three months ago after six months on bed rest. SIX MONTHS! “I complained that I had no shoes till I met a man who had no feet.” And it wasn’t just laying back and watching Oprah while someone brought her lemonades. She suffered from constant bleeding and complications which had her fearful she’d lose the babies at any moment. Borderline insanity. The sublime gratitude in her voice enveloped me like the soft and velvety robes of a proud queen as she told me about the first few months with her kids.

 

“I couldn’t fully embrace my twins the first week or so. It was too surreal. I was so fearful they might go away. It wasn’t till both of their social security cards showed up in the mail that I realized I had these two people in my life. They were MY children. It was happening. I sat in my car sobbing holding the two social security cards in my hands.”

 

Yes, as tough as we may think we have it, it could still be a helluva lot worse. No doubt. So I try to be calm and instill calmness in Jodi. These past 2-1/2 years, she has proven her metal, her resilience, her fortitude, her drive, her hunger. And with few episodes of drama or weirdness. I mean, hey, beat on any of us with a stick long enough and we’ll have a weak moment…and she’s had a few, but only a few and frankly, they were justified. She pushed through these like a hot knife through unsalted butter. Like a prize fighter each night she punches a needle into her taught belly. Knockout or on points…..she will win this bout. We will win.

 

So you just lay there and incubate, honey. I’ll do everything else.  

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11-29-07

Jodi must stay off her feet while the baby cooks in her pot belly stove. 30 weeks and counting. Fully baked is 40 weeks. 37 is golden brown. 36 would be awesome. We’ll take 34. 

I found a special ergonomic angled computer table she can work at easily while lying down, basically a TV dinner tray for supine geeks. This “horizontal office” turns endless days on the couch into productive hours. I’m tempted to get one for myself and write this book on my back between naps. The ability to work has kept her from going totally stir-crazy though she feels antsy today. It’s almost the weekend and weekends bum her out because she must simply continue to lay there and incubate like one of those Antarctic penguins who cannot leave the egg. Luckily, our living room looks out at a tranquil lagoon and the mountains of the Headlands.

She’s been knitting a blanket for our boy, turquoise and chocolate, her favorite color combo. Only problem is that the knitting is driving her nuts too, since she only just learned and has had to start over three times after much work. Still, she pushes on, and the sight of the ever widening turquoise band warms my heart.

3:41 am. For some random reason that is the moment the past three nights Jodi wakes with a ravenous hunger for yogurt or apples or water or something. Last night it happened twice. First for water. Then a while later for Tums, since acid reflux is one of the numerous joys of pregnancy. I pop upstairs and do not complain. Frankly, I’m glad for the practice and the head start on full time daddy care. Each glass of water I fetch is a half full trial run for late night baby feedings and other imminent inconveniences. With Jodi out of commission I cook, clean, shop, walk the dog, keep the water pitcher full next to the couch and generally serve at her beck and call. The only thing missing is a little bell. Made eggs and English muffins for brekkie today. I’m too lazy to make two pots of coffee so I drink decaf with her. Who says the man doesn’t sacrifice during pregnancy? 

 

 

 

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