One Day More

It's four in the morning.

I hate mornings. I'm not exactly up by choice, but seeing as I can't really sleep right now, the next logical thing to do is to eat a bowl of Rice Krispies and write an entry for a blog I haven't updated in months. That's my sleep-deprived, pregnant, nesting brain at its best for you. I'm scheduled to be induced in less than twenty-four hours, and I've decided that, along with cleaning out my fridge, scrubbing my bathroom, and dusting the far reaches of my house that nobody--least of all, our impending child--cares about, I should also write a blog.

Blergh.

I'm scheduled to have a baby in less than twenty-four hours.

It's this late in the game that I'm wondering if I've suffered from birth trauma. And I wonder if I've occasionally been having minor panic attacks. At this point, I've analyzed ALL of my weirdo behaviors and begun to question if maybe those times when I couldn't decipher whether I was hungry, thirsty, needed more oxygen, needed to go to the bathroom, was sick and going to puke, or whether I was just running out of space in my body were symptoms of something more than a normal pregnancy. Not that my first experience giving birth was extra horrible, or anything. I just think birth is a traumatic thing, and for some reason, I'm now realizing that it affected me in a somewhat rough manner, whether or not there's a diagnosis for me.

Of course, there comes a time when we have to set aside blame and accept that we've got to move on, regardless of excuses and diagnoses, however silly or legitimate they may be. When all is said and done, I'm still having a baby. Soon. And while I can rationalize my fears, look for ways to cope with them, try and ignore them, and pretend to put them off, I'm going to have to deal with them.

You know that for all my preparation, I haven't packed a bag yet? I've washed my shower curtain and the rugs in my house, but I haven't packed a bag or put the baby's car seat in the car. You know why?

Yeah, I don't, either.

But I've theorized. (It's four in the morning. Not even close to my first "four-in-the-morning" of this pregnancy. Of course I've theorized!)

This sounds silly. Read this at four in the morning . . . and it will still seem silly. Read this at four in the morning the day before you're about to have a baby. Then, and only then, will it begin to possibly, maybe make sense to you: If I pack the bags and put the seat in the car, I will be "ready" to have this baby. I'm not anywhere near "ready" to have this baby; therefore, I can neither pack the bags, nor place the seat in the car. It is this convoluted logic that has prompted me to construct one of the most comprehensive "TO DO:" lists of my life. I've crossed so many things off that list--"Change quilt on the bed" and "Trim toenails"--and still I can't pack a bag. I've added and crossed some items off the list: "Wash screen door window" and "Get bangs trimmed," and yet, the car seat sits in the back room until tomorrow.

I don't need a lecture on how babies come when they come, and these things should have been done a month ago, and what would happen if I went into labor before now? (The answer: I'd muddle my way through, it might get tense, but in the end, we'd survive--much like childbirth.) I don't even need someone to come to my house and do it for me. What I need is to accept that THIS IS HAPPENING. I'm not ever going to be truly ready. Some things will probably go well. Some things probably won't. But they'll go, they'll be done, and these details will be dwarfed by a much larger accomplishment and a new challenge.

I know I've done this before. Well-meaning individuals tell me this like it should quell my fears. They fail to account for the fact that at this point in my pregnancy, logic does not compute. I mean, I put it together in my head and then try and convert it from knowledge to peace of mind, and I get nothing. I know that I've done it before. That's part of what baffles me. With my first, I walked in calm enough the nurses said, "Honey, you're not in labor," then checked me and said "Oh! You're at an eight!" That doesn't change the fact that the closer I've gotten, the more vividly I've recalled the details and lay paralyzed by the fear of reliving them.

I've gotten through a day at a time. It's just that this next day is going to be a doozy.

Prayer helps, I think, for me. I mean, this has provided me with a classic example of exactly how the Bible Dictionary defines prayer: "The act by which the will of the Father and the will of the child are brought into correspondence with each other. . . . Blessings require some work or effort on our part before we can obtain them."

Yep. I haven't completely lost my anxieties. But I haven't died of hyperventilation yet, either. (Please, especially if you suffer from anxiety, panic attacks, etc., don't see this as flippant. I know it's a bit unrefined; I'm still working it out. Just understand that this is my way of dealing with my own experiences . . . somewhat . . . flippantly. *Sigh.* Sorry.)

But honestly, as days pass, I sense myself becoming more and more okay with things. All things. I add fewer things to my list. (Which could be that I'm accepting my house and all its faults, or that I've started to run out of things to do. Or maybe, a happy marriage of both.) I think I feel less need to distract myself from my impending doom. I did finally pull the car seat out of storage today, and I piled together all the things that Melody will need when she goes to grandma's. I still sort of see my life, like my one month calendar, ending with June, but I catch glimpses of the possibility of July. I'm not quite to the "It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine," position, but I have at least been willing to concede the "as we know it."

So, tomorrow/Friday--which my scrambled brain has informed me is, indeed tomorrow, so my clarification is redundant (sorry, for some reason I thought they were different? Gotta get some sleep!)--I will pack my bags. I will put the car seat in the car, and I will have this baby. Not because I'm "ready" ("You see the quotations I'm making with my little claw hands?") and finally finished my "To Do:" list, but because I'm "ready" and I think I'm gonna make it through this, and really, what other option do I have? Then the world will continue on, and I still probably won't be able to sleep. Ain't life a kick in the head?

Write a blog post: Check!

"Let Them Eat Cake!"

I know it's doubtful whether Marie Antionette ever said that. I also know that I used a derivative of the “Have your cake and eat it, too!” phrase in my last entry, and my husband stopped to ask me “What does that even mean?” The truth is, I'm not sure. Like many phrases that I hear and use on a regular basis, I know what it means, I just don't . . . know . . . what it means.

It's kind of like I trust you implicitly. Well, once you express that trust, isn't it explicit now? But back to cake.

Is there anything inherently wonderful about just having cake? I mean, I've always thought the real joy was to be had in eating said cake, but that's just me. Also, I would think you'd have to be in the possession of cake in order to be eating it. So, while I understand that this phrase is supposed to represent the conundrum we face in wanting conflicting scenarios to play out, I don't quite get it. Neither does Alex. I think it's because we have had the experience of literally attempting to have our cake and eat it, too. As it turns out, it wasn't super great.

You know that wedding tradition that says you're supposed to keep part of your cake in the freezer so that you can eat it on your one year anniversary? That's where this story begins. The day that Alex and I were married, we left our reception with a bit of cake to freeze. We ate some and then formulated a plan. We decided that we would divide the cake into twelve little slices and eat a portion every month for the first year of our marriage. This was great for the first few months, but after that we began to notice that our once tasty cake was getting increasingly stale and well, just gross. We gave up on our monthly slices, took an out-of-town anniversary trip, and unceremoniously threw the remnants of the cake out when we moved. This was a bummer—especially since we had made the pieces progressively larger as we were to approach our anniversary.

This is yet another tradition that I just don't understand. Maybe some smart-mouthed pessimist out there wants to tell me that the frozen cake is a representation of marriage—the honeymoon ends and things get nasty. To you, Mr./Ms. Daryl/Debbie Downer, I say: Shut your cake-hole; I don't wanna hear it. Unlike the cake, my marriage isn't on ice. Also, I may have absolutely no idea why I would keep a perfectly good cake in the freezer, but I know exactly why we got married, and we are enjoying [almost] every moment of our life together.

What's the good of having cake and eating it? I guess as long as you have the cake, you can eat it. That's probably why the metaphor is what it is. I would like to reinvent this saying, though. “Eat your cake already. Don't put it in the freezer. Just eat your cake and enjoy it.” (I explicitly trust that you'll be happy if you follow this advice.)

P.S. If you do decide to participate in the time-honored tradition of freezing your wedding cake, wrap it in MANY layers of plastic wrap to guard against freezer burn. This is something we didn't do that might have saved our cake. Those of you looking for further symbolism here, go ahead, but I'm done here.

Adolescents and Young Adult Fiction

I've been reading a bit of young-adult fiction. Yep. Me. I know this will shock some of you *Ha! Yeah, right.*, but I have. It's my reading equivalent of dessert—my [somewhat] guilty pleasure.

The reason I feel somewhat guilty about it is because somebody on some website wrote this article saying I should “feel embarrassed about reading things written for children.” In my situation, I disagree on several levels—i.e., it doesn't comprise my entire reading “diet,” many classics and great literary works are/were “written for children” (or have at least come to be viewed as such), and you know, other great points that I can neither come up with off the top of my head, nor do I care to right now because this was supposed to be a negligible part of my topic for the day and yet it has already highjacked this entire paragraph. Suffice it to say that I don't view the reading of YA literature to be inherently wrong.

Unless . . .

Here is the part of the blog in which people may snort at me, argue, and say I'm ridiculously conservative and naively idealistic. Also, some crazy zealots may agree with me and call for the overthrow of the American Library Association (ALA) or something equally rash. Me, I'm just going to tell you what I've been thinking and leave you all to do your thing. (There will be no refreshments at the conclusion of this discussion, so if that's what you're hanging around for, you are welcome to leave now and we'll all just pretend you've stumbled into the wrong blog.)

I'm wondering about the definition of the term young adult. I mean, adults are (or at least, used to be) identified as those who were say, responsible, and taking on the rigors of careers, healthy and relatively permanent relationships, caring for children, buying houses, etc. Skipping discussions about immaturity and delayed decision-making in adulthood (Another day, guys, another day!), let's simply say that adulthood begins at the—here in the United States—generally accepted age of eighteen. If adulthood begins at 18 and extends through the rest of our lives, I would identify young adults to be . . . oh, say, those between 18 and 30, at least. Therefore, I am a young adult.

You know who agrees with me? Psychologist Erik Erikson, whose name makes me wonder how long that name's been in the family. Erikson's stages of development names the period from about 12 to 18 adolescence, with the subsequent stage being young adulthood. Young adulthood stretches from about 19 to 40. In case you were wondering, the main conflict of adolescence is Identity vs. Role Confusion. In other words, “Who am I?” These issues must be resolved prior to advancement to the young adult conflict of Intimacy vs. Isolation (in which young adults seek love and permanent relationships), or the transition to young adulthood can be complicated by confusion and an inability to plan for the future.

According to this Wikipedia article on YA literature though, when the concept of writing especially for young adults originated in the early 1800s, author Sarah Trimmer described the audience as those between the ages of 14 and 21. This age range has been continually lowered, and now the Young Adult Library Services Association (YALSA [Not to be confused with Yalta—the Ukrainian port where world leaders met to discuss terms following WWII—or salsa, which is good on chips]) division of the ALA has defined young adults to be those aged 12 to 18 years old. The article claims that most young-adult authors are typically writing for those aged 16 to 25, while those writing for the 10 to 15 year-old demographic are writing Teen Fiction. This is a distinction that is rarely made, though. At least in my mind and at my local library, I find Teen Fiction to be lumped in with its apparently older sibling, Young Adult Fiction.

The article goes on to tell us that the “Golden Age” of YA fiction took place from the mid-1970s through the '80s. At this time, limits were pushed such that common themes included rape, suicide, parental death, and murder. Come the '90s, these would grow to include drinking, sexuality, drug use, identity, beauty, and teen pregnancy. That's quite a list. At the risk of sounding old-fashioned, I don't think that teens (and when I say “teens,” I mean the group that Erikson defines as adolescents—the supposed audience of YA fiction) are well enough equipped to deal with all of these social issues. Nor do I think it necessary that they should be encountering the more dire of these adult situations, even if only in print. Yes, I know that bad things happen because this is the real world, and that, unfortunately, many teens are living out the “adult situations” contained in YA fiction. I regret that and realize that much of this is unavoidable. But I don't believe that it's healthy to glorify such unfortunate circumstances or to pretend as though these characters' plights represent those of the majority of teens. To present a large number of volumes in which “average” teenagers are endeavoring to resolve the Intimacy vs. Isolation conflict of their yet to come young adulthood before they've even discovered who they are—and to label genre and reader as “young adult” could be detrimental. It slyly encourages the continuation of premature maturation via the depictions of some very harmful behaviors for adolescents.


I see this as an issue that deserves some serious consideration. It should be something that authors, publishers, and librarians should think about while writing and selecting so-called young-adult fiction. But more importantly, it should be something that parents and their children talk about as books are bought or borrowed. Should certain books be banned? I'm not going to open that can of worms; in your household, that's your decision. Should they be discussed? Absolutely. It may be that you decide that your child is mature enough to handle a certain level of exposure through fiction. I myself have decided that there is no way that I can completely control what my daughter sees and hears as she grows up. Sadly, there will be some content and experiences that she will be exposed to, no matter how hard I try to protect her. Books may be a more gentle way for her to see the world as it is. However, as I teach her and help her to select the books she reads, I would hope that those selections would be uplifting. And I would hope those selections would be accompanied by her thoughts on the books and the characters, themes, and morals they contain.

P.S. I was only kidding about the no refreshments thing. We're stopping for chips and salsa on the way to storm the ALA. Contact me to discuss carpooling.

[Some Arbitrary Number of] Things You Shouldn't Say to People Who Hate Lists of Things You Shouldn't Say

 

If you're on the internet, chances are that you've seen at least one of those lists entitled “[Some number of] things not to say to [some group of people].” These lists can inform us of things we shouldn't say to a wide variety of individuals: pregnant women, people with/without kids, deaf people, sober people, and people with anxiety. I understand liking to make lists, but I'm starting to realize that while it may be beneficial to write down everything you need to get at the grocery store or that you are hoping to accomplish in the day, it's less helpful to write down lists of every possible way you can mess up at a thing or all the wrongs that you're trying to avoid. For cases like these, I'm starting to recognize the wisdom of having one or two guidelines that you may actually be able to adhere to. I'm going to help you out here. Instead of writing a long list of things you should not be saying to single people (“When are you going to get married?”), married people (“So, it's probably about time you had a[nother] kid, right?”), rude people (“Can I offer you some manners?”), and old people (“Do you plan on dying anytime soon?”), I'm going to simplify this: Don't be stupid; be courteous.

The beauty of having a guideline is that it is so widely applicable that I don't have to spell out every thing you could be saying to offend various groups of people. Goodness, it even applies when you may not even be speaking.

One of the many problems with creating lists of things NOT to do is that you could be eternally adding to your lists. To pretend that you can exhaustively iterate offenses is pretentious—and to be honest, obnoxious. I also find it ironic that through informing us how not to offend an “in” group, list-makers, whether intentionally or not, are quite offensive to the “out” groups—both by assuming that we are so unintelligent as to be incapable of our own thought and by mocking our opposing positions.

I realized that I usually only read through the lists for positions with which I agree or identify, and then I smirk and think about how stupid people are. Today, though, I read through a list which contradicted my own opinions. Because it was a good friend who had posted it, I spent the whole time thinking “I don't think I've ever said that to her, but is that REALLY how she feels?” I also found myself feeling many of the concepts were juvenile and unfunny—sad, really. But I'm sure if the person who compiled that list were to read through the opposite view's “What not to say to people who ________,” they would feel similarly. We're all different. And we're all in different points of our lives. Let's exercise a bit of restraint and show some compassion.

It wasn't necessary for Thumper's mother to qualify her advice “If you can't say somethin' nice, don't say nothin' at all.” One of my favorite quotes from Benjamin Franklin recommends that we “Remember not only to say the right thing in the right place, but far more difficult still, to leave unsaid the wrong thing at the tempting moment.” Before you speak to someone, whether your best friend or a stranger, consider how it will sound. Is it stupid? Then don't say it. Is it courteous? If not, just chill in silence, my friend.

Heads or Tails

Coincidence? When reading C.S. Lewis, I think not. I find so much symbolism within his Chronicles of Narnia that I have a hard time dismissing any bits that I find to be consistent with my beliefs. And while he may not have intended for all my insights to be taken symbolically, I dare not discredit his genius by suggesting otherwise.

Melody and I have been working our way through the Chronicles of Narnia. (We read The Magician's Nephew and just finished The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.) Obviously, it's her first time through. I've read them several times, though, and every time I read them I discover something new to think about. This time through, I've been thinking about the creatures of Narnia.

First off, Narnia contains ordinary animals as well as an elite group that was given the ability to talk. These talking animals are set apart and respected more than their mute counterparts. For example, talking horses are only ridden in times of emergency—such as war, and no talking animal is to be used for food. They are elevated because of their gift of speech.

Many Narnians have a mixture of human and animal bodies, giving them more than just the speech of humans. There are centaurs, fauns, satyrs, minotaurs, and more. And what truly struck me was that generally, those who side with Aslan are those with human heads and animal legs or bodies—like the centaurs and fauns. Those who side with the White Witch may have bodies or characteristics that would make them seem human, but their heads are animal heads. We can see this contrast directly with the “Bull with the man's head” who makes his camp with Aslan and the “bull-headed men” who are present with the witch at the stone table in Lion, Witch and Wardrobe. Both are a conglomeration of man and bull, but it seems significant that the bull-headed men are not simply referred to as minotaurs. And why choose to include such an odd creature as a bull with a man's head? I think this is an intentional message Lewis is sending readers: use your head!

Seriously. Our capacity to reason is unparalleled by any beast—or at least it should be. Unfortunately, I find myself a bit “bull-headed” at times. In my obstinance and failure to reason, I succumb to my more basic instincts and find myself in violation of the first instructions Aslan gave Narnia following its creation in The Magician's Nephew: “[A]wake. Love. Think. Speak.” I may be awake and speaking (although, as a sleep-talker not even the awake part is guaranteed), but I often forget about loving and thinking before I speak. And I think the order of the instructions matters greatly; simply speaking does not a good Narnian make—for this is where the foolish and wicked Narnians separate themselves from those who think and do good.

It was possible for animals who could once talk to lose the ability. Some talking animals did not think, but they loved. Others thought but didn't love. The noblest characters—animal, human, or hybrid—spoke only after loving and thinking.

I hope that my human head and my gift of speech aren't being wasted . . . that my reason and choices keep me in the realm of the human, rather than that of the beast.

Freedom and reason make us men;

Take these away, what are we then?

Mere animals, and just as well

The beasts may think of heav'n or hell.

LDS Hymn #240, Verse 3