Two months of Jack

Our first photo as a family



 

Jack Henry, born at 7:26 PM on April 30, 2009. 8 lbs, 11 0z, 20 inches long



He came via C-section, after 19 hours of labor (thankfully I had an epidural), four hours of pushing, and a few unsuccessful attempts to vacuum his poor head out of my hoo-ha.





 

 

We took him home



 

We gave him a bris (he didn't cry at all!)



 

And he just grew and grew.













Happy two month birthday, little man.

What a Father Looks Like

 



 



 



 



 

What's real is real

"The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain."                  Kahlil Gibran

Yesterday I was reading Rebecca's post "The Almost Divorce" over on Girls Gone Child. Her blog is one of the few I found during my frenzied Internet search for other unmarried women who found themselves pregnant.  I've taken a lot of comfort from her story, especially her love story. She got pregnant with a man she'd been dating for only four months, and they decided to elope to Vegas and make it work. The key word here being "work." Because apparently the first two years were so rough that they were on the brink of splitting up most of the time.

In my case, David and I were together for a year and living together for four months when we got pregnant. We were also older, and in a more stable financial position. So this should have made it easier on us I suppose. But in reality this pregnancy has been unbelievably hard on our relationship. I have never been more in love with anyone than I was with David before I got pregnant. But somewhere between going off a strong antidepressant, living with radical hormonal changes, and surviving months of uncertainty through a particularly cold and depressing winter, I lost a lot of that feeling I once had. We have had fights so frightening in intensity that they make me feel like I want out. Glaring and seemingly irreconcilable differences between us have appeared from nowhere. We disagree constantly, we bicker endlessly. In fact I've never been in a relationship that has felt this difficult.

So when I hear about Rebecca and her husband now, how they weathered a storm every bit as powerful as the one we're going through, came out the other side, and love each other all the more for it, I feel quite a bit of hope that there is something salvageable here. Because when I'm not concentrating on the negative things about David--a horrible habit I've developed--I can see the wonderful things about him and something vague makes its way into my heart, something like the memory of love that promises to return. I sound awfully melodramatic here, but then melodrama has been part of the problem since I peed on that damn stick. Anyway, the point is, some people are lucky right away. Love comes easily to them, their partnerships are relaxed and tender and easygoing, they wax poetic about how much they love their significant others on blogs much more uplifting than mine. But it's not like that for all of us. Some of us have to fight for it, circle and spit and growl and conquer each other--and ourselves--all at the same time. This is my love story. It's not perfect, but it's mine, and hopefully the fight will lead to love far greater than anything I might have had that came free of struggle.

Snow in April. Lovely.

After a few weeks of almost Spring, winter has of course come out with one last dying gasp. Outside there is what is hopefully the last blanket of snow I will see for a long time. I am ready for some sunshine.

I am also ready for this baby to be out. Pregnancy is a magical time, but it would be just as magical if it were, oh, one or two months shorter. More magical, I submit. Because there is so much I want to do, and I just can't. I am not, not have I ever been, comfortable with the word can't. I'm more than happy to throw the word won't around, but can't? As in, am unable? No, no, no. And right now I can't go more than a few hours without a serious rest. I can't make it through an entire night actually sleeping. I can't  fid the energy to clean my house, let alone paint and finish furnishing. I can't do everything. 

David is being wonderful, however, at picking up my slack. Over the weekend he surprised me with a trip to the spa for a manicure and pedicure, which felt so good on my swollen feet I almost fell in love with him again. He also routinely carries anything and everything that must be carried, does all the dishes, keeps the house clean, and forces me to lie down and take it easy--albeit a bit more angrily than tenderly--but I suppose I can be a bit stubborn.

Things are better between us. At least they're stable. It's a whole other post to explain the strange dynamics of this the most important and currently most infuriating relationship in my life. Best summed up right now by this little example: The other night we got in a huge fight over the baby's name. For a long time we were hovering around James Kerry for the baby, James for my grandfather and Kerry for David's dad, but even then we were just hovering and couldn't quite attach ourselves to it. Then we get the family phone-chain call that my cousin Marne had finally produced her week-late son... and his name, dear friends, was James Gary. JAMES GARY. Which pretty much cancels out our plans. At first I was pretty upset, but seeing as I was having doubts it may have just been the sign I was looking for. So after much soul searching, I thought I had landed on the perfect name. I shared it with David, who not only point-blank refused, but who laughed in my face. This made me (hormones, people) very angry, and resulted in a large screaming match that went something like this:

Me: You just hate it because I like it!

Him: No, I hate it because it's a stupid American name.

Me: You suggested it originally! You just forgot and now that it's MY idea, you think it's stupid! Because you hate everything I like!

Him: This is because you have horrible taste!

(Unintelligible screaming, declarations of "you poop on everything I love" and "we're so incompatible" and "how can we bring a child into this world", etc)

Me: I wish you weren't so terrible.

Him: I wish you weren't acting like such a cow.

Me: You're calling me a cow now?

Him: No, I said you're acting like a cow.

Suddenly I found myself struggling not to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. Struggling, and failing, and then we were both laughing, and he was chasing me around the house saying "come here, I love you," and I was all "(snort) no, I'm still mad (hiccup), I hate you (guffaw)" and the like. Yeah. So that's pretty much us right now.

I've been feeling a little down lately

Mainly, things have been rough with David. There has been much discord in our little flat. I even spent the night away with a friend last week (Though it wasn't all that dramatic, since he drove me there and all. But still, I didn't speak to him in the car.), but when I showed up at work the next day at 7:30, he was standing outside the deli smoking a cigarette and saying he was sorry. Then he worked in the deli, apron and all, for an hour to make up for it. We seem to have a pattern of A) David saying something stupid, B) Me getting upset, C) Both of us shouting and/or loudly ignoring each other, D) David apologizing and doing something very, very nice. Last night it was cleaning the apartment. The ENTIRE apartment. I sat and watched television, and didn't even notice at first what he was doing, until I saw him on his knees scrubbing the toilet. Without any kind of pleading or nagging on my part. At all. He just up and did it. I walked around and the place was spotless, and he was vacuuming the floor and sweating and looking pleased with himself. I nearly cried. A man has never, never done something like that for me. Flowers, yes (though he got me those too at one point), little gifties, yes, a variety of aimed-to-melt-an-ice-princess compliments, yes. But cleaning my house? Just, you know, because? A first for me.

I miss both my babies now.

As soon as I stop enjoying myself so damn much I'll post about family vacation at Hilton Head. But for now, here is me and my beloved. Is it just me, or do we look like brother and sister?

Ruminations

I've been thinking a lot about love lately.  Normally when I get this way I turn into a somewhat removed theorist--waxing hypotheses in a detached, pragmatic way.  Love is such and such, to love is to dot dot dot.  Now I have no theories, no definitions or philosophies or even concrete ideas.  My mind has simply wrapped itself around a short refrain that repeats itself over and over in my head: 

Risk it!  Risk everything!

On the Mend

Finally went to the doctor today, and am now thankfully taking Augmentin. Hopefully I will soon be able to concentrate on something, be it my room, that still needs drastic attention, as the rug is a rusty, mildewed mess, or my classes, in which I am very behind, or any number of things that I have let slide over the past few weeks, due to traveling, or visiting, or illness...soon all will be in order again.

This is Jef and I atop the Tower of David last week, with all of Jerusalem beneath us. 

Chola B'lev

So now I am alone in my apartment, having dropped Jef off at the airport a few hours ago. I miss him already, and everything seems worse since I am sick sick sick. I never get sick, and yet it seems like I've been sick since I've been here. Why is this? All I eat are healthy foods. I walk a few miles a day. I take vitamins. When I was home, I never exercised, didn't take vitamins, and ate a disturbing diet of fried everything, and yet there I was healthy all the time. So what am I doing wrong? Should I eat more McDonalds and watch more TV? Maybe then I'll feel better.

As for my week, it was great--except for the sick part. Jef and I had to take turns trying to nurse each other back into health. Yesterday we were in Tel Aviv, and all we managed to do was take a taxi to the only open pharmacy (shabbat) where we loaded up on drugs and sat on a bench outside, barely speaking, waiting for the stuff to work. Finally we went to a movie. Last night we managed to make it to Jaffa, the "old city" of Jerusalem, and one of the oldest ports in the world. This was the place where Jonah took off when God told him to go to Nineveh; this was the place where Solomon received his Cedar from Lebanon. The city was charming and beautiful, but it took a lot of energy just to have dinner and take a few pictures. Maybe we'll laugh about this experience one day. We'll see.

Home Again, and Sick Again

Here I am back in Jerusalem, home from a wonderful (and very full) week back in Cleveland. I realize I've been very slack in keeping up here, but my whole life feels like it's on hold at the moment: I am super-behind in all my classes, Jef is here (the best part of it all), my radiator exploded while I was out of town, leaving me with a room submerged in a rust-puddle, and to top it off--I have the flu. The horrible, body-aching, throat-searing, fever-inducing, cough-shaking, moan and groan flu. So I am missing more classes, and falling more behind. Oh well. There is very little I can do about it.

And I certainly wouldn't trade my time at home with my friends and family, and my time here with Jef, for anything. If you want to know of Jef and my adventures, he's been writing more than me, so click here.