Hello? Is Anyone Still Here?

Yes, I know--it's been a while. A long while. In cyberspace, probably the eqivalent of a lifespan plus a couple reincarnations, if one believed in that sort of thing. But I have a reason, really. A good reason:

His name is Samuel. Samuel Gregory, to be precise. Born November 30, 2006 at 5:27PM and weighing in at an impressive 8 pounds, 6 ounces. Here he is, newly minted and about to leave the hospital to venture into his new home in the suburbs. No wonder he's praying...

Immediately after coming home and commencing with his waking-every-two-hours-to-eat schedule, he proceeded to come down with a nasty illness called RSV. For the uninformed, this is an ugly little viral infection that attacks the upper respiratory system and is particularly awful for babies, especially premature babies. Sam wasn't premature, thank God, but he was still very, very sick. He got bronchiolitis from the RSV, had to have breathing treatments, and was gasping for breath, unable to eat much at a feeding due to all the congestion in his tiny, little nose and lungs. His every-two-hour feedings changed to every-15-minutes feedings, and my husband and I basically didn't sleep at all for about a month. There was a time when my prayer life consisted of me paraphrasing the poet Stevie Smith: "Dear God, help me--I am not waving, but drowning!"

Suffice it to say, I am still alive, it is now March, the willow tree in our back yard is sprouting chartreuse shoots from its dry branches, and I am only beginning to recover from the whole process of giving birth. Sam is now fine, fat, and healthy--and has blessed us with a move to an every-four-hour feeding schedule, which is very civilized of him, I think. Here's the most current pic:

Cute, I know. Those dimples break my heart. (sigh...)

So anyway, when I left you it was the end of August and I was pregnant with this little guy, as big as a house. The last trimester of pregnancy leaves you in a stupor--at least that's how it affects me. I was lurching about the house like the ungraceful behomoth I was, stuffing all available food into my mouth, clutching my aching back, and spending all my creative energies grumbling about heartburn. I thought I should spare whatever readership I have from such alarming rants as might come forth from such a person.

Pregnancy and motherhood as a whole are something I have ever done gracefully, for that matter. I am no earth mother, no fertility goddess. Pregnancy is no fun, believe me. The only good part is the baby that comes at the end. And while I feel more at ease with motherhood than pregnancy, it isn't easy or even natural for me. In fact, it can often seem downright unnatural for me. I crave silence, long swaths of uninterrupted time in which to think. I love order, serenity, peace. Chaos and stress makes me break out in hives (literally). Motherhood is the antithesis of all things comfortable for me--dirty diapers, screaming, dirty laundry, dirty house, dirty kids (note the "dirt" theme here), constant interruptions. In fact, I've already stopped writing this blog twice--to put my preschooler down for a nap and to feed, change, and burp his baby brother. It is not a writer's life by any means.

Yet I keep having children...Why is that?

I remember when I was much younger (and even more clueless than I am now) sitting in a McDonald's with my then-boyfriend and the two of us snorting in derision over those foolish couples who simply must have children. "How selfish," we decided. We could not possibly think of a positive reason to have children. Adopt, yes, because then you would be giving a home to a child in need. But not the whole going through pregnancy to have your own biological child thing. We concluded that the need to do so must be the result of one's desire to either a) life their life over vicariously through their children, or b) replicate themselves so the glory of their children reflects back on them. These were the only reasons we could think of then.

Fast forward 15 years, and I still can't really give you a great reason to have children. But then, I can't give you a reasoned explanation for love, either. There is some primal element to it, some need beyond reason. Something. It's as close as I've ever gotten to seeing a small tear in the veil between the known and the unknown, Heaven and earth. Giving birth is a strange mixture of realer-than-real and mysticism bordering on the miraculous. It's blood and prayer, sweat and spirit.

Like marriage, motherhood is hard for me. And just as necessary. It's as simple--and complex--as that. Both have changed me, honed me, made me better than I was. To love in such close quarters--in marriage, as a parent--such love requires you to plunge in, deeper than deep, to hold your breath and keep going, even when it feels like drowning.

So...welcome Samuel, whose name means "God has heard our prayers". Thank you for joining the cast of characters in my life.

And thanks to all of you who are still reading this blog, despite my dreadfully long silence. I've missed being here.