November 26, 2004


I am in a house with clocks that are not right. In the land known as vacation, knowing whether or not it is 10 p.m. is not important in my book.

As a person who thrives on knowing the exact time, learning to live in a world where time does not exist is daunting.

As I lay on my bed tonight, pumping milk as my child slept in a portable crib at the foot of the bed, I found myself reading a book and feeling inspired.

Inspired by the story I was reading. No, the story wasn't one like "Good Will Hunting," where I find myself desiring to enter Harvard and become a mathmatical genius. I found myself inspired to write.

Since having a baby in July, my interests have fallen by the wayside. My once-daunting desire to write has become lackadaisical at best, just another thing I had added to my "things I'll never finish" pile.

But the book, a "chick lit" book about relationships, made me want to write.

It felt good to want to be alive, to want to do something. Even exiting my normal spot in front of the television to play a game of Yahtzee felt unusual. When I found myself winning, I felt pride.

I could do this! I could win Yahtzee!

It always astonishes me when someone who I feel doesn't know me that well says they think I'm bright. They think I'm smart, think that I could go places. I find myself in awe of the fact that someone could think that I'd be more than some average schmuck just living the day to day life.

They think I could go places. They think I could win.

I'm not always sure of being a winner, but I'd rather take my chances. Acting complacent isn't going to be enough.

Posted by Rachel at 05:50 AM | Comments (3)

November 11, 2004

The Baby Matters

I recently overheard a phone conversation between my husband and a longtime friend. They were discussing what was going on in their respective lives when, somehow, my husband declared that I wanted more kids.

However, the way he said it made it sound as if I were lying on my back, spread-legged, just begging to be inseminated.

Not quite.

When I was younger, I decided that I wanted to have seven children. Yup, seven. Of course, at the time, I also wanted to name one of them "Tabitha," which I can say I've changed my mind about that.

However, after seeing the how babies are born video, I decided I only wanted three, if any. The husband, who was more than content leading a childless life, wanted none. If children were to be had, two would be the maximum.

I always thought pregnancy looked kind of fun. You wear cute new clothes (hello shopping!) and everyone talks about how much you glow and you eat all you want and nobody cares!

Then I actually got pregnant and discovered pregnancy acne, maternity clothing that didn't fit until the seventh month and dimples on my thighs. And nausea. All day nausea that never ended and made me want to jump in front of traffic to end my misery.

My husband found it so entertaining that he created a video montage of me eating and then running to the bathroom to vomit.

Once I actually went through the process known as birth, I remember thinking that I Never Wanted To Do That Again. The birth itself, after the epidural was administered, was not too bad, no it was what happened afterwards that scared me.

Blood. Swelling. Stitches.

Now my child is four months old and sometimes I find myself thinking that I'd like to have another. Not now, I mind you, as I couldn't imagine having two little tikes running around at the same time. But eventually. Within the next few years.

And I talk to people who have more than one child, especially those considering having a third or fourth, and I find myself in awe. You mean you actually want to have more? Go through this again?

Isn't there a magical baby pill one can take that brings the stork around with a non-crying baby that doesn't poop or get sick?

Posted by Rachel at 04:54 PM | Comments (12)