JANUARY 2005

The FRESH STARTS Issue:

• Year-End Review -- Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
• Resurrection -- Regina Walker
• The Year I Fed My Husband Chicken -- Elizabeth Thompson
• Christmas Card Wisdom -- Gerry Di Gesu
• Shedding My Extra Hyde -- Joanne Detore-Nakamura, Ph.D
• New Year's Eve -- Elizabeth Ross
• Kindling -- Stacey Greenberg

Year-End Review

It's a new year. And you know what that means? It's time for a fresh start, a clean slate, a brand new beginning. Out with the old, and in with the new. We cannot change our pasts, but we can change our futures. Why spend time with regrets, when we have so much unspoiled potential before us?

Most of us begin the new year with new resolve. I know I do. I've already pledged to be a better and kinder person to myself. I make this resolution after stepping on a post-holiday scale and realizing that I have regained all of the weight that I lost on my Summer 2004 South Beach Diet.

It was inevitable that the weight would come back. After all, I've slipped back to "snacking too much" and "exercising too little." There's a million excuses for why I skip workouts and opt for sugary snacks that offer no nutritional value. But it all comes down to one fact -- I am extremely lazy when it comes to taking care of myself.

I know I should eat better and exercise more. I know I can't keep weight off just by wishing it off. And I also know that I actually enjoy exercise and feel better when I'm eating healthy. So why, oh why, can't I accept that a healthy diet and consistent exercise regimen need to be a constant part of my life, and not something I turn to once or twice a year, when I suddenly find myself bursting out of all of my clothes?

Unfortunately, the extra pounds are as much a weight on my psyche as they are my hips. So, yes, with a new year I am determined to take control of my physical self and remain in control for, well, EVER. It's an ambitious resolution, I know. But that is what starting new years are all about.

With the 20/20 hindsight from the previous year, we suddenly see our past missteps and mistakes clearly. And we vow to not make those same mistakes again. Sure these new year resolutions tend to be overly optimistic. But I do think that a renewed optimism is sometimes all one needs to reset and revitalize your life and stop the downward spiral and negative mindset that may have trapped you for too long.

To me, the new year, is like a swift kick in the pants. As the year winds down, it's important to reflect on your life, and reconcile yourself to the things you can change and the things that you cannot. It's time to let go of bad habits and at least attempt to start anew with refreshed vigor for life. Otherwise, we'd all be so weighed down with regret and negativity that we'd never be able to climb out of bed in the morning or look at ourselves in the mirror.

But I do not mean to imply that all end-of-the-year reflections should be mired in mistakes. Just as important as acknowleding the problems of the past year, is the acknowledging of our accomplishments. When I'm feeling most down or frustrated by my lack of progress in my life, I just need to sit down and recap a list of recent achievements or benchmarks. Usually, when I do so, I am amazed by myself and by how much I have done in just a few short months of time.

I call this my own "personal year-end review." And for many of us moms, especially those of us who no longer receive annual employee reviews or bonuses, it is important to periodically remind ourselves of our goals and accomplishments. Otherwise, we become bogged down in the daily minutiae of life and we lose sight of just how much we do -- especially for others.

For me personally, last year was a pretty good one. I had many things to be grateful for, and I had little suffering or loss. My family was healthy and happy, and gave me more joy that I once thought possible.

I also enjoyed a heck of a professional year. I wrote a lot -- in my blog, in my Travel With Lizbeth columns, at Literary Mama, and at various other websites. I completed (as in finished) two different original teleplays, and produced and directed an independent short film. I launched a legal corporation called jona musa productions, and embarked on a highly-productive professional partnership.

But most importantly, I continued to push myself past my comfort zone, seeking out new opportunities for personal and professional growth.

Last year was also a year of tremendous emotional growth for me. After years of wanting too much, and always feeling empty, I learned to roll with the punches. I learned to take criticism, and not feel rejected. I learned how to take rejection, and not feel defeated. I learned how to make lemonade from life's proverbial lemons.

Finally, I learned that whether good or bad, all years eventually come to an end. And if we are lucky, we will live to see another year -- and everything it holds in store for us.

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Copyright 2005 Lizbeth Finn-Arnold

Lizbeth Finn-Arnold is a freelance writer and independent filmmaker who works and lives in suburban New Jersey with her husband, Mike, daughter, Olivia (8), son, Jared (5) and Labrador Retriever, Elvis (3). She is also the editor and publisher of The Philosophical Mother and a columnist for Literary Mama.

Resurrection

I am looking at a picture of my sister from the summer of her death 24 years ago. She is 19 and standing in a group of others from the summer stock theater group she is traveling with during the break between her freshman and sophomore years of college.

She is an actress. Beautiful and blonde; distant and profoundly disturbed. In the photo her smile is understated and fading and she appears to disappear the longer I look at her. A month from this photo the deed is done and she is dead.

The weeks and months that follow are dark. Dark clothing, dark thoughts, dark days. We are each in our own daze. Not quite understanding, not yet accepting. I move about, but feel disconnected. A surreal film now covers my world and I realize that it will either fade or I will grow used to it.

The years pass and my sister fades away from me more and more. She fades initially from my nightmares and eventually from my daily thoughts until she becomes present only infrequently when a memory of my early life includes her or conspicuously excludes her. I rarely acknowledge her in my present life and when casually asked I respond that I have just two sisters, never three. Though all three had been integral in the landscape of my first 16 years.

I saw my niece this Christmas. It is 24 years later. She is almost 19 and almost finished with her freshman year of college. She is an actress. Beautiful and blonde and dramatic in a confident and genuine way. Her smile is powerful and present and seems to emanate from a deeper, organic place; her soul perhaps, and offers yet another possibility.

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Copyright 2005 Regina Walker

The Year I Fed My Husband Chicken

My twin brother and I grew up in an ethnic neighborhood -- a tapestry of cultures intersecting east of Roosevelt Avenue and as far away from Main Street as one can get.

It had its advantages. Everyone knew each other and we all came from somewhere else. Our dad, as well as the many others who lived on Union Street, had a really cool accent. My brother and I attended harvest festivals at the Hungarian Club where we were allowed to drink a little wine and stay up well past our bedtimes and sometimes late into the night. We cooked big meals and ate together every Sunday while listening to colorful stories from the "old country".

There were countless dramatic chronicles of rivalry between clans, stories of forbidden love, and tales of restless souls returning from the dead that made for marvelous entertainment.

My first storyteller was my maternal grandmother, Mama Bogar, who passed away a year ago in October. One of her more frightening tales was that of the witch who lived in their village and put a curse on my great-grandmother’s eggs. Mama didn’t know the exact reason for the woman’s discontent, but she remembered walking in on the witch, who was standing in front of a mirror and muttering some sort of Hungarian evil eye while carefully turning each egg in both her hands. My grandmother took the eggs to her mother who cracked one open to find a bloodied yolk. Once she learned of the evil eye, she promptly threw the rest of the eggs out the kitchen window; basket and all.

Then there’s the one that still makes me shudder; the tale of the second-cousin-or-another lying on her death bed and wanting to see my teenaged grandmother one last time. My great-grandmother, being superstitious, was not about to expose her young daughter to any bad karma and refused to send my grandmother. Her family shared a one room house and slept in beds that were lined against the wall nearest the stove. My grandmother remembered that, as soon as the lights were turned down, the night the cousin died there was a sound like that of a whip slicing through the air and a cold wind that swept over the room, blew out the kerosene lamps and pulled the covers from my grandmother’s bed.

I can almost hear her voice say, “We lit the lamps once more and as soon as they were turned down, the wind would blow and the terrible whooshing sound would get louder and louder, until my mother put an end to it by saying The Lord’s Prayer and lighting every blessed candle we had. Remember my child. -- never, ever deny a person’s dying wish!”

That one still gives me goose bumps.

Stories like this made for great fodder to a vivid imagination and I have always maintained a respect for old wives tales through the years. I’ve since passed on a few of Mama’s tales to my children, G-rated of course, reassuring them that it is a fun way to share and learn about their ancestors. And however far-fetched they may seem, there are sometimes some grain of truth, however small, in most folklore.

There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think about the things I’ve learned from my grandmother. I especially think of her on New Year’s Day.

1996 was the year when things were bad, and kept getting worse. We had a two-year-old and a newborn in the house and it was that winter when my husband lost his job. It was the year when my husband suffered with one health issue after another, the baby was diagnosed with severe colic, I endured month after month of sleep deprivation, and my two-year-old contracted a viral infection that would last for the next three years. We were putting our groceries on the credit cards and our marriage to the test.

My Grandmother listened to me rant and rave about my husband’s bad luck. I couldn't understand it! How could so many bad things happen to such a good person?

Finally, when it seemed to her that I had exhausted every bit of postnatal energy I had left by wallowing in self pity, she placed both hands on the table, leaned in very close and asked, "Vat deed you feed heem ze firrrst day of ze new yearrrr?"

I stuttered my response, "What, you mean New Year's Day? Chicken. Why?"

She slapped both hands down on the kitchen table, hard. She shook her head in total disbelief and made the sign of the cross. "Vell, vat deed you x-pecked? You feed ze poorh men chicken!"

I didn't understand. I thought she was off her broad egg noodle. "What does that have to do with it, Mama?"

My Grandmother sat back deep in her chair and crossed her arms. She patiently explained that the chicken would scrape the ground in a backward motion while looking for its food; while the pig would always root forward. You never feed your husband chicken on the first day of the New Year, because that would mean looking back at the past. Feed him pork and you look forward to getting ahead in the future.

"Zo, you zee my dehr, it vas bee-cuz of you. No chicken, everh, on New Year's Day!"

Maybe it was just a bad year, or maybe it was the chicken. Either way, motherhood has taught me to appreciate the good days, and to listen, as well as learn, from the voice of experience. And every New Year’s Day since 1997, I've taken my grandmother's advice -- and only eaten pork -- just in case.

Happy New Year and may we all look forward to getting ahead in the future!

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Copyright 2005 Elizabeth Katkics Thompson

Christmas Card Wisdom

I haven’t made any New Year’s resolutions for a long time because I get aggravated when I don’t follow through and annoyed at my own laziness. For the last few years, though, I’ve found guidelines and a solid foundation for my new year by sorting through my Christmas cards.

As someone who tends to moan and groan over insignificant problems, I always need the perspective of someone else’s life and difficulties in order to see my own in a clearer light. There’s a huge stack of cards from friends and family, many of which remind me that through this past year they’ve faced severe illness, divorce, heartbreak, and the death of loved ones. Some are starting new lives alone, fearful of what the new year brings. I’m busy complaining about stupid things like dirt tracked through the house, not feeling up to par, or being bored. Then I remember that I’m right where I’m supposed to be according to God’s plan and that it’s time to practice what I preach.

Many of the cards from friends tell me how much they enjoyed my first book of essays which was published this year. Even better, they’ve shared the book with neighbors, friends, and family members who also had kind comments. Especially now, when I haven’t had a creative idea in many weeks, this affirmation lets me know that my words are touching others and that the muses will return when they’re ready.

Cards from former co-workers give me jolt. I still see many of them and we remain friends, but I remember that I used to give advice to everyone, often requested, sometimes not and I am ashamed at my own arrogance. My husband used to call me “Joyce Brothers of the telephone” – not always kindly and I used to get mad at him. Only now that I’ve been retired for seven years and can see how much I’ve grown, learned, and changed do I realize that my ego and need for approval were often what drove me. But at least I’m learning.

I hold the cards from my adult children and start to laugh because I think I’m finally starting to let go. For years I thought I accepted their decisions on how to live their lives with their families, but of course had not, always wanting to suggest that this idea or that one might provide a better solution to a problem. But recently I noticed that even when the three of them were experiencing craziness and hardships in their lives at the same time I was still going to sleep at night just fine. My husband gets annoyed when I use “whatever” as the answer when asked about their problems. But is there another answer? They make their decisions and have to live with them. All my husband and I can do is let them know we’re always there when they need us.

Some friends and relatives are more than twenty years older than my sixty-five, and many have much more energy and ambition than I do which makes me feel ashamed. They’re out volunteering, enjoying a stroll every day with their walkers’ groups, going on vacations to exotic locales, and enjoying life tremendously. I have to get off my backside and be and do this year. Life is short and I have to stop talking about what I’m going to do “someday”.

The most poignant card came from my cousin who is in her late eighties. We don’t keep in touch the rest of the year and I call her infrequently. She’s been widowed for many years and was always an active and vital person, accepting what life brought her, which was often impossible heartache. This is what she wrote in her card: “I’m fine and now a resident in a nursing home in Pennsylvania. It’s very nice and they are good to me. I had to give up keeping house and cooking for myself. Old age finally caught up with me but I don’t mind. Life is easier here.”

I know she is accepting and satisfied with her life because that’s who she is. My wish is to have the same acceptance.

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Copyright 2005 Gerry Di Gesu

Shedding My Extra Hyde

Every year since I was a teen, I would vow to lose weight for my New Year's resolution. When this search for the newer, thinner me began, I probably weighed all of 100 lbs. If I were at that weight now, I would have to be hospitalized for malnourishment. Now I just want to be able to wear a sweater without worrying about back fat showing.

Yes, since I've had children, I have developed fat in places I didn't know fat could exist. In fact, I seem to be growing another me. I've got double of everything -- two chins, two butts, four breasts -- a sort of Jekyll and Hyde all in one body -- one in front and another in back. It's pretty damn scary.

I gave birth to the Hyde part of me sometime after my son was born. Like Jekyll, though, I seem to have amnesia about where and what my Hyde is doing. I only know she's there because I see the effects. Somehow, Godiva chocolate raspberry ice cream disappears in the dead of night. Halloween candy -- miniature Snickers, Mounds, and Butterfingers-- goes missing from my daughter's stash. Torn wrappers and dishes rimmed with ice cream residue litter a path from computer to kitchen -- and of course, there's the tell-tale extra pounds on my butt.

Like Hyde, my actions are not going unnoticed. I have my own Utterson, my own Enfield researching the case. I have Emily, my six-year-old daughter. Emily is a fan of Kim Possible and likes to use all sorts of detective gadgets to solve mysteries. So when "The Case of the Missing Three Musketeers Bar" ensued, she deduced who the culprit was by tracing the path of candy wrappers right to my computer chair.

"Moomous!"she says (a version of Mommy she's made up for me unrelated to a cow, I'm positive, I hope), "Did you eat my candy?"

This is a rhetorical question. She knows that I ate it. She knows that I probably ate well over half her bag of candy. It all started innocently enough. It started with the stress of the hurricanes. I measured the hurricane categories, not in numbers, but in bags of M & Ms and Hershey's kisses. Hurricane Charley was a quarter bagger, Hurricane Frances was a whole bagger, and Hurricane Jeanne was just a half bagger.

These hurricanes, and consequently, bags of candy were right on the heels of just giving birth at the end of April. I only had about six weeks to recover from a C-section, when in rolled the bad weather and in rolled the rolls around my middle. I stocked up on batteries, canned goods, flashlights, and chocolate, all of which laid dormant in my pantry.

Then the hurricanes struck in succession just as I had to go back to work from maternity leave. That was just too much stress and I coped by drowning my anxiety "about whether our roof would be ripped off and our home or lives devastated"-- amid candy and canned food, the first being much more satisfying. Thus began my transformation.

I thought I could control myself, keep a lid on my longing for the rich, dark cocoa powder confections, but my need was stronger than I realized. In no time at all, I found myself needing a new wardrobe -- this was the first sign that I wasn't alone. Of course, I could have worn my maternity clothes, but I had my pride. My Hyde was a bit of a fashionista too. I reasoned that I had to return to work looking professional.

To add to my stress, I was hand-selected to attend a high-powered conference with VIPs from my college. Ordinarily, I would have relished this great honor, but I found myself wishing they would have honored someone else, someone who wasn't just coming back from maternity leave with no wardrobe and an infant whom I would have to bring along to a hotel. Obviously, the mostly male assembly hadn't had to travel with an infant.

Luckily, my husband came along to help me with childcare and we packed up two suitcases -- one for the two adults and then one for Emily. Then we packed up our moving van full of stuff for the four-month-old -- his stroller, his special infant formula for his lactose intolerance, his bottles, his diapers, his wipes, his clothes (many tiny clothes), his blankets, his diaper rash ointment, his infant Tylenol (just in case), his tummy trouble medicine, his pacifiers, his burp pads, his washcloths, his bibs, and well, you get the picture. We weren't traveling light.

The only thing that we didn't bring was my son's pack-n-play, which we would later regret. The hotel promised us a crib. When it was delivered, the "full-size" crib turned out to be portable
death trap, with a thick, mushy mattress in which my son would have suffocated had I not stayed up most of the night watching him. Having no where else to put him, I put my son in the crib on his back and prayed that he wouldn't roll over. Luke woke up about every hour and so did I.

After a sleepless night, I was barely awake for the next morning's meeting. I coped with coffee and candy bars, hoping that all the sugar and caffeine would keep me awake. My husband, kids and I made a run for the local Wal-Mart after the meeting and bought a new pack-n-play, some portable crib sheets, and more soda and candy bars. The whole trip cost me a ton of money -- and two inches more on my waist.

My semester wore on this way -- hurricane, candy, work, pounds . . . hurricane, candy, work, pounds . . . hurricane, candy, work, pounds. Until finally hurricane season officially ended. Of course, I was well into my candy addiction by then.

Prior to the hurricanes, I had gotten my son to sleep through the night, a major coup. But after the hurricanes, Luke began to get up at 4:00 a.m., which was a bit too early for me, considering that I graded papers until midnight on most nights.

I was totally exhausted and the Hyde side of me was like a zombie. I had to fortify myself with Hershey's kisses. After a while, I didn't care what type of candy I got into. I'd even started to eat Sweet Tarts left over from Halloween, and those little Nerd candies. I had gone downhill-- from Godiva, to Dove, to Hershey, to Palmer, to Generic. Likewise, I had gone from a size 6 prior to pregnancy up to a 12, back down to an 8 after giving birth, and back up to a 10 after the hurricanes, where I am currently stuck in a holding pattern.

As I make my way into a new year, I want to rid myself of this candy fiend. I want to stop the madness, stop the lust for chocolate, but I feel powerless amid the lingering holiday goodies. The pastries and pies call to me. I must have my powder, my cocoa powder, or else I become a raving lunatic. Though I thought I could control myself, I realize that I am at its mercy. I am powerless. I have tried to stave it off with power bars, but the grit of them is too unsatisfying compared to the creamy center of a cordial cherry. I have tried to avert the tragic effects of my addiction with body shapers, but I have yet to find one that extends up to my neck.

And so this January I pledge to rid myself of my evil doppelganger. I will not be turned into the chunky monkey of my nightmare. No, I will slim fast and furious this new year as I make my milky way toward that newer, thinner me, revealing the sexy kit-kat trapped inside this $100,000 extreme-makeover-needing, new and improved star bursting out from inside of me.

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Copyright 2005 Joanne Detore-Nakamura

New Year's Eve

“I haven’t had a drink since New Year’s 2000,” my mother said as I offered her a strawberry daiquiri wine cooler.

I knew it was a lie, and I couldn’t resist reminding her.“But you tried a Kahlua and Cream when we were at Friday’s, and…”

“I don’t count those. Little sips don’t count. The last I had was champagne.”

It could have gone on, and I could have protested her little escape from reality, but as I was standing there in the kitchen, pouring a few drops of the cooler into an old Windsor Canadian shot glass, I knew it was futile, possibly even cruel. I stared at the miniature Canadian Mounties officer on the glass, his red painted uniform chipping with age, and wondered for a split second how many shots of Southern Comfort and Yukon Jack I had measured in that old glass.

“You remember where that glass…”

“Yes, mother,” I said flatly, lifting the lip of the bottle away, and going to the cupboard to get a tumbler. As I stooped down to pull ice cubes from the freezer, I could see her from the corner of my eye, picking up the shot glass. She stared at it for a moment as well, lost in her own thoughts, before taking a sip, barely taking a drop from the half-filled glass. Her wincing was either an indication that I would end up rinsing the remainder down the drain, or her outward show that she was still opposed to drinking.

There was a certain hypocrisy, and fear, attached to her attitudes about alcohol, since in one breath she could say that she would love to get extremely drunk, and in the next, preach the perils of alcoholism.

I poured the rest of the bottle into my own glass, added a straw, and took a sip. “You shouldn’t drink alcohol from a straw,” her words came out, barely above a whisper.

“I know. I’ll end up getting drunk quicker.” I stopped short, and didn’t pain her by mentioning the fact that I had “inherited” my father’s tolerance for alcohol. It would just turn into a tirade about my drinking habits, and denial of the fact that tolerance was acquired, not inherited.

By strictest rules, I knew I was probably an alcoholic, but then again, so was every old lady who took sacrificial wine at Sunday Mass. I drank on a specific schedule, which was a sign of alcoholism in the eyes of the experts. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t remember the last time I had gotten really drunk, or that I could skip the evenings out for weeks at a time. She didn’t know I had spent three months straight drinking only club soda, just to prove I could.

“You’re your father’s daughter,” she spat out, while staring at the red liquid in the Windsor shot glass.

“That’s a problem?” I asked, trying to put an innocent air in my voice, but probably failing miserably.

She glared at me for a moment, then stepped away from her drink, picking up a dishtowel, to dry invisible dishes, I supposed. Looking at her, I could see the years drop away, and her image with the towel over one shoulder, her hair pure brown without the help of a bottle, came to my mind. She always had a dishtowel over her shoulder when I was a child, back before my father bought her a dishwasher. Force of habit, or some obsessive-compulsive trait made it impossible for her to tolerate even well rinsed dishes sitting in the sink. They had to be washed immediately, and her towel was her weapon against disorder.

“You’re going out for New Year’s?

“Yes. James and I are going to the club.”

She winced as I mentioned our destination. I knew the phone number for the club before I knew our home number, because my mother always asked me to call my father there. Something about saying “no” to a little girl, when being asked to come home, he always complied.

“Do you want to come with us?” I asked, even though I knew she wouldn’t.

“No.”

“Are you sure? Some of your old friends will be there…”

“If they were true friends, I wouldn’t have to…” she stopped, and I assumed it was her Catholic upbringing that halted her tongue from disparaging the men and women she had known when I was a child.

“They have short memories. I guess you’ll blame that on the alcohol,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to keep the bitterness out of my voice.

She nodded without looking at me, and I knew she really wasn’t listening. It was rare when she passed up the opportunity to condemn others for drinking. “I don’t have anyone to go out with, so I’m not going out.”

It was my turn to cringe, as I knew all too well. Between my father’s anti-social attitudes after he went on the wagon, and the years spent nursing him during his illness, my mother had become isolated. She didn’t belong to any groups, like some of the neighbor women, no bowling, cards, or books. The closest she came to that was a support group from the hospice, but that was more depressing than anything.

I knew that isolation very well, since I had lived it only a few years earlier. My marriage served to drag me to the depths of depression, and between my ex-husband and myself, I had managed to end up closed off from the world. Even then, I was still trying to pull myself free from that cycle, and James, the man in my life, was a big part of that.

“New Year’s isn’t a beginning. It’s an end,” she went on. I wanted to protest, but the images of my grandfather’s suit cut to shreds came unbidden. He was my father’s stepfather, the only grandfather I had known from that side of my family. When I was young, he had died on New Year’s Eve, and the family had been at my grandmother’s house to support her. I nodded numbly to my mother’s words, unwilling to carry on the argument.

I’d heard of “deafening silence”, but didn’t truthfully understand it until the first few years after my father’s death. It became an integral part of life in my childhood home; beginning on the day they brought my father home in an ambulance to die on the rented hospital bed in our living room. Silence was a curse in those short days, because there was nothing to drown out the mechanical noise of the machine that fed oxygen to my father. The hiss of air through tubing became fodder for nightmares for me.

Closing my eyes for a moment to clear my mind, I drank down the rest of my drink. My mother glared at me again, but said nothing about the alcohol. “I think I’ll go to bed.” I said it to break the silence, before I started believing that no noise could exist within the walls of our house. No reply.

A couple years would pass before my mother would even begin to seriously think about picking up the pieces, and trying to find someone. There will never be a replacement for my father for her, and that is just as well. She and I are still caught in the web of deceit and abuse that was built in our home over the years. For her, the spider is a ghost, and for me, it has a new face.

We promise each other that we won’t repeat the cycle, but the standards are so difficult to reach. Where is the line between surrendering to an abuser, and compromise with a decent man? I don’t have the answer to that question, and that has left me wondering if I am caught, yet again, or if I’m just overreacting.

My mother was right, in saying that New Year’s is an ending, but not in the overly morbid context she stated it in the first place. I find myself looking at my life each year, as I take down one calendar, and replace it with another. There is a shedding of unnecessary things, and decisions to stop others. Dead wood is cut away, ending the existence of those things I do not need.

In that sense, it is the ending, and I pause in that moment, waiting for at least a little while before stepping forward into what is new.

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Copyright 2005 Elizabeth Ross

Elizabeth Ross is a 32-year-old mother of four, freelance writer and editor from Pennsylvania. Her work has appeared in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, The Imperfect Parent, MomsVoice, and is slated to appear in Momentum, the magazine of the National Catholic Educational Association. She is the publisher of River Walk Journal, a bi-monthly online literary journal which is an expansion of her online editing group.

Kindling

Impulsively I say, "Well, you can have some of Warren's sperm, if you want."

I'm in Zinnie's for the first time since getting pregnant, having a drink with some good friends who have come to see the baby and take me out on the town. It is dark and smoky, despite it barely being past 8:00 p.m. We've all been here many times, though not lately, and never this early.

Vanessa has a small diamond ring on her finger. She and Liz have decided to become life partners. They want to start a family, she says. Liz's brother has agreed to be their donor, (a fairly common arrangement among modern day lesbians) but he has been having cold feet. Now that I'm a mom, I want everyone to be a mom, but especially Vanessa. Everyone thinks I am kidding, but I'm not.

I knew Vanessa in college, but we became good friends a few years later after I returned from the Peace Corps and she returned from doing a Fullbright in Honduras. We hung out in bars -- once even with Jane Evershed, read Starhawk books, had important discussions, went to Lilith Fair, and forged a friendship that easily survived the drama of everday life. The outing of my secret college fling with her future husband, her moving to San Francisco to become a midwife, her coming out of the closet, and her eventual divorce -- only brought us closer together.

Vanessa is the old soul variety -- the instant you meet her, you know she is special. She is wise beyond her years, a good listener, and easy to talk to (she was born with six toes on one foot, which according to some indigenous cultures, is a sure giveaway). Vanessa introduced me to homebirth in America. She didn't laugh when I said I was going to use cloth diapers (or even when I decided to STOP using cloth diapers). She was instrumental in my decision NOT to circumcise my Jewish son. She showed me how to make a belly cast and showered me with a Mother Blessing ceremony when I was pregnant.

When Satchel was three months old, we went to California to visit Warren's family. We also visited Vanessa and Liz. It was the first time that Warren had met Liz, and the second time for me. They had a cute little house in the hills of Petaluma surrounded by vegetable and flower gardens. Vanessa made us a yummy vegetarian dinner while Warren and Liz played basketball. We went to the ocean, the ice cream store, and the second-hand shop. We stayed up late talking; enjoying each other's company. It was clear to Warren and I that they shared a deep love for each other, and that we shared similar parenting philosophies.

A few months after this visit, Liz's brother changed his mind about being their donor. I offered up Warren's sperm again, all kidding aside. Of all of my friends, Vanessa was the one person I was sure that my husband would gladly donate his sperm to. I saw this donation as a way to expand our nuclear family. I knew that Vanessa was someone that we would always be close to and that this experience would make us closer.

They say that you can pick your friends, but you can't pick your family. In this case, we had the opportunity to do BOTH. I had visions of all of us vacationing together, their child(ren) spending summers with us, and Satchel going off to visit his cool aunties in San Francisco when he was older.

I wasn't completely naive about it though. I could certainly see how the situation could get sticky. Like what if Vanessa's child was somehow bigger, brighter, or better than our own? Would I constantly compare myself to her? Would Warren? And really, it wasn't just about me. How would the child feel about his/her auspicious beginnings? What if s/he was less than thrilled with the situation? What if Liz and Vanessa moved to Alaska? Or broke up? Or worse...then what?

When we talked about the future, all four of us hoped for the best. We wanted everything to be out in the open. While Warren wasn't going to be the traditional "dad" and I wasn't going to be the traditional "stepmom", we certainly planned on being something. We would just have to wait and see what that something looked like exactly. We agreed to take things as they came and to always keep the lines of communication open. What other choice did we have?

Over a year passed between our actual offer and our actual discussion of the particulars. Warren and I agreed to give up all parental rights and Vanessa and Liz agreed to assume full financial responsibility for the baby. We also agreed that an eventual sibling was part of the deal. Although I felt a bit like Glenn Close's character in The Big Chill, Warren and Vanessa DID NOT plan on actually having sex. Since Liz and Vanessa live in California and we live in Memphis, our plan was to use "Overnight Male," a packaging system that preserves sperm in a special buffer for up to 48 hours, when the time was right.

After a brief cervical cancer scare and a few months of charting her cycle, Vanessa and Liz were ready to start trying. In January 2004, I was six months pregnant with my second child. I left work a bit early and before picking Satchel up, Warren and I made a wish for Vanessa and Liz to have a baby. We carefully mixed the sperm with the special buffer and rushed to the local Mailboxes, Etc. Warren sent me in to pay and I felt absolutely giddy. I secretly hoped that the guy behind the counter would inquire as to the contents of my FedEx package, but he didn't.

The package arrived safely, and the insemination went smoothly. After separating the buffer with a centrifuge, Vanessa got out her microscope and could see the little guys swimming. Vanessa told us that she and Liz had a special little ceremony. I was so excited; I just knew it had worked. I didn't know how I was going to keep myself from calling every day and asking, "Are you pregnant yet? Are you pregnant yet?"

Warren, Satchel, and I went to visit friends in DC for Valentine's Day weekend. On that Saturday, I received a message from Vanessa on my cell phone. She and Liz had just gotten married! I didn't get a chance to actually talk to her until a few days later. Although ecstatic about being legally wed, Vanessa was a bit depressed. As a midwife with unlimited access to pregnancy tests, she was sad to report that all tests had registered only ONE pink line. She said her boobs hurt and she was sure she'd get her period any day. Skeptical, I asked if she was sure, and she said she was.

Four days later, Vanessa still hadn't gotten her period. She tested one more time -- and this time was positive. It did work after all. We were all in shock -- but in a good way. Twelve weeks passed, and ripe with my own child, I started telling friends about Vanessa (insert joke about Warren's prowess here).

It was really fun having Vanessa pregnant. She had delivered over 200 babies, but had never experienced morning sickness, first trimester exhaustion, or that feeling of having a secret when your growing belly is still invisible to the world at large. As she entered her second trimester, I gave birth to my second baby -- another boy. I was stunned, as I had completely convinced myself, despite having no real evidence, that I was having a girl.

It only took a minute or two for me to fall completely in love with my new little guy. But for the next few weeks I struggled with how I might feel if Vanessa had a girl. Would I feel cheated? Would I secretly resent Warren for giving her girl sperm? I decided to just wait, and assume that Vanessa was having a girl so that I could have time to work through my feelings. I even offered to let Vanessa use my "girl name."

Vanessa came to visit twice during my maternity leave. As she held baby Jiro, I could see her trying to imagine what her baby might look like. Meanwhile, I tried to picture her big and round, since she was still barely showing. My best friend, Marlinee, and I performed the "ring test" on Vanessa and consulted the Chinese calendar. Both predicted that Vanessa was having a girl. I held my breath.

The summer passed in a blur, and in early fall Warren left for a twelve week dig, leaving me home alone with both boys. I'd occasionally get an e-mail from Vanessa -- "Do I really need a diaper bag?" or "How many cloth diapers should I buy?" We played a lot of phone tag, chatting on occasion. I continued to offer some name suggestions and Vanessa continued to rebuke them. With each care package I sent, I'd write a little note -- "What about Lyric? Flax? Are you sure you don't like Piper?"

Things were moving rapidly, yet slowly. It was September before I knew it and Liz sent us amazing pictures of Vanessa in a tank top at a peace rally. Her tiny, perfectly round belly was painted with the words -- "Baby sez no war." I immediately burst into tears. Vanessa looked absolutely radiant. Warren and I laughed at how different she looked from me. She was the fit, yoga mama, while I was more of the voluptuous earth mama. Vanessa was in her 35th week, and we knew it could be any day.

On a Friday, a couple of weeks later, as I was getting ready to go to lunch, my office phone rang. "Hey, it's Vanessa. [Long Pause] I think I'm in labor."

Vanessa was planning on having the her baby at home, like I had done. And she was having some nasty back labor, like I had. It was absolutely surreal to be on my end of the conversation, as she had always been one of the first people I called both times that I was in labor. I asked if she had any last minute predictions on the baby's sex (she was still leaning towards totally not knowing) and I told her that I loved her, and to have fun. I also promised to try not to call too much.

I immediately called Warren and, as usual, could only answer about five of his twenty questions. We were both really excited, but knew from experience that the baby would most likely not be born for at least another day. I went home and stood in my power spot -- the place in my bedroom where I had given birth to both Satchel and Jiro -- and I said a little prayer for Vanessa and the baby.

I talked to Liz a few hours later and got a progress report. All systems were go and Vanessa was doing great. Liz called back around midnight to report that things were still going well and that Vanessa was trying to rest. Somehow, I went to sleep that night, but my mind was in California. I woke up at 8:00 a.m. and desperately wanted to call, but refrained myself. At noon, I couldn't take it anymore. This time, the phone was answered by Jenna, Vanessa's friend who is also a midwife. I took this as a sure sign that things were getting close. Warren and I tried to stay calm. By 5 p.m. I decided to check in. Jenna answered the phone again. "So," I asked, "How's everything going?" Jenna told me to hang on and she put Vanessa on the line. "It's a boy!" Vanessa said.

A boy! How wonderful. I was relieved in a profound way. A boy felt familiar, right. I genuinely felt happy for them.

By naptime the next day, I had received an e-mail entitled, "Look who's here." When I saw the pictures, I was overcome. The baby looked a lot like Satchel did when he was born. He was beautiful. I wanted to hold him and sniff his head. I called Warren in and he was similarly smitten. "He looks like Satchel," he said. We both stared in silence at the screen until Satchel came prancing in. "It's Jiro!" he exclaimed, as he usually does whenever he sees a picture of a baby. I called Vanessa and Liz and told them that I was in love.

Seeing the baby's picture was a lot more emotional than I expected. I had intense baby lust. Jiro suddenly seemed huge. I wanted Vanessa's baby to be snuggled up next to me. He looked so familiar. I wanted him to be mine. I had a huge lump in my chest. I felt a little lost. There were no sign posts and nobody to tell me, "Your feelings are totally normal."

I wanted to tell everyone that the baby was here, but there didn't seem to be a vocabulary for describing our relationship adequately. I found myself doing an elaborate set-up: "You know my friend Vanessa? Well, she just had a baby...and Warren was the donor..." Then people inevitably asked, "He was the donor? What do you think of that?" I proudly responded that it was my idea. I wanted one word that could encapsulate this complicated story. And I wanted credit for my role in bringing this beautiful boy to life.

Even the relationships that had names seemed strange. We alternated between telling Satchel and Jiro that they had a new baby half brother/a new baby cousin. It sounded kind of weird when Warren explained further: "I'm the daddy, and you are the son. Vanessa's baby is also my son." Technically this was all true, but would these terms constantly need to be qualified and explained? Satchel seemed to be taking this all in stride. "I'm not the sun," he said. "I'm a cloud!"

As I try to make sense of everything, I have been having some great conversations with Liz. Each day I am learning more and more about her -- easily seeing why Vanessa has chosen to spend her life with Liz. I am amazed by Liz's thoughtfulness and compassion. Also, I love being able to give Vanessa advice on breastfeeding, co-sleeping, etc. I feel like the wise one now. I hope that I can continue to be a source of information and support for her always, and that our parenting experiences will only deepen our friendship.

I like that we are entering uncharted territory. It feels exciting. Important. New.

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Copyright 2005 Stacey Greenberg

Stacey Greenberg is an anthropologist, writer, and creator of the zine, Fertile Ground: For People who Dig Parenting. She lives in Memphis, Tennessee, with her husband and two young sons.