Mister Finn has been talking a lot about zippers lately, except he says zippet instead of zipper. I started singing him Push It by Salt-n-Pepa, except instead of “Push It” of course we both say “Zip It.” He zips my sweatshirt up and down and says “Oh, zip it.”  I say “Zip it good.”  And the cuddly thing in a purple panda sleeper sweetly replies “Zip it real good.” The whole routine makes me nutty and I devour his cheeks.

I have very few moments where my domestic abilities flourish into a prowess that I fantasize might make Martha Stewart faint with envy. Ok, maybe there’s just one. I make Mister Finn’s food. I cook him meat and vegetables (because he bizarrely prefers them to fruit and grains), purée them in the blender, fill these little BPA-free containers, and freeze them in labeled bags. It’s actually not that hard. But I always feel proud when I peer into the freezer and see these colored bricks glistening with freezer dew.

{clockwise from top left: cherries, spinach and beef, mango and chicken, sweet potatoes, pears and pork}

As is common with preemies, Mister Finn has a now-ingrained physiological suspicion of new textures coming towards his face and going down his throat. Chunky foods cause much distress and usually end in gagging and vomiting. We are making improvement with chunky solids, but it’s really slow. We’re seeing an Occupational Therapist who maintains that we’re all doing great; even though our 17 month old can barely choke down a miniscule bite of pineapple.

Also, he is a blossoming tyrant toddler who must assert that he is the agent who will decide what and how much he eats.

Eating is emotional and precarious for all of us now. Sometimes we have peaceful lunches of roast beef (puréed to perfection, of course); other dinners feature screaming refusals of chicken and avocado (which he gobbled up happily the day before). The romance of my frozen orange and green cubes dissolves quickly. Along with the smattering of rejected offerings on the floor, which the puppy eagerly laps up while dodging more air strikes from the high chair.

The whole process can be exhausting.

I am grateful that my child is at least eating, as I’ve heard that many toddlers can’t be bothered with the activity. I figure the worst thing that could happen is he could end up eating soup and smoothies the rest of his life. Which won’t happen. (right?)

You need to vote YES on Referendum. 71.

What is Referendum 71?  It is a question to voters: Should gay couples be allowed to keep the rights that they already have in Washington state?

I can’t believe this is even a question.

Coupled straight people: Imagine the citizens of Washington state voting on whether or not you should be allowed to visit your spouse in the hospital without harassment.

Fathers: Imagine having to adopt your own child.

Iowa is looking really good right about now. Or sundry states on the Eastern Seaboard. Or Canada. Or Europe.

In order of appearance:

Mama (sometimes “May-May” for Mommy, for Wifey)

Puppy (always whispered like a secret)

Book

Winnie (Wee-Wee)

Up

Walk (pointing to stroller)

Eat (usually an excited chorus after we suggest eating)

Read (pointing to bookshelf)

Milk (after every swallow of milk, often followed with applause)

Asher (first he said “Ash-way” then “AsheT”)

Good Girl (meaning Winnie)

No (often)

Yup

Ummmm….  (holding the phone coquettishly to his cheek)

Hi (usually “hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi hi”)

Poop (first said today, after he pooped)

Sentences:

Read book.

She’s a good girl.

Aside from books, dominoes are Mister Finn’s favorite toy. They are scattered around our house in a fashion that could appear meaningful, like abstract mathematical equations.

He taps them together, pleased with the sound. If we bring two with us when we go out, they will keep him amused for a long time. (Which in baby-time is about 7 minutes.)

He uses them to touch other things around the house, too, like Winnie and the DVD player.

I think it’s because things feel like they’ve settled down here that I’ve been having thoughts of wanting another baby. We feel more grounded as a family: we have an awesome babysitter who comes 6 hours/week so I can go to the studio, we’re more financially secure, Wifey’s work schedule is more manageable, and A. gets more wonderful every day.

For me, it’s not necessarily a logical thing to want another baby; it feels more biological, or hormonal. Or something. I’m having baby urges again. It’s hard though, because the exuberance of the urges is tempered by the thought that I can’t get pregnant again (because I might have the same complications as last time, my liver could shut down and I could die).

Last night I had a dream that I had just found out I was pregnant. I was giddy with joy, but then I would remember the warnings of the liver doctor, then happy again, back and forth. I was walking down a street in a foreign country (Spain?), and there were women singing on the side of the street. I was wondering excitedly, “I wonder if it’s a boy or a girl?” And just as my mind formed the word “girl,” my favorite girl name came as the next word in the women’s song. I was sure it was a sign that I was having a girl, this would be my S.  I was light with joy.

I’ve had an ache in my heart all day, because this won’t ever happen. It seemed so real; it is not that crazy a thing: to already have a beautiful child and then to get to have another. I won’t ever be pregnant again.  It was such a beautiful dream. It felt so natural. I felt so at home with the feeling of having a baby girl growing inside me.

I’m haunted with the thought that maybe there’s some way I could get pregnant again and stay healthy. Maybe my complications in my pregnancy with A. originated with the placenta, as opposed to originating with my body. The doctors acknowledge that this is a possibility, but maintain that there is no way to know. It could have been the placenta, and I could be fine next time. Or it could be that my liver shuts down when I’m pregnant. If I were to get pregnant again and my liver started shutting down, it could be at 27 weeks, or 34 weeks, or 16 weeks, or 23 weeks. The baby would have to come out and most likely struggle in the NICU for months, and be at risk for many many complications we were so fortunate to have dodged with A.  I would hopefully survive and hopefully my liver would recover after 3 months of steroids.

I’m totally on board with the logic that it is not worth these risks.

Wifey would probably do splendidly pregnant, and yes, we are lucky that there is another uterus among us. She has never had the subconscious/conscious/bodily urges to be pregnant. She’s also not sure she wants another child. Which is totally reasonable. She’s (I admit, rightfully) terrified of increasing the chaos in our life. She agrees that it would be doable, it’s just that our resources are thin. Our place is just barely big enough for the three of us, our income just barely enough, our time with each other and for ourselves is already stretched thin.  It’s the logical thing to enjoy the settled feelings we’re experiencing now with our little family, rather than throw it into upheaval and invite more unknowables.

I still often feel like I can’t believe I was really pregnant. We had a pregnant friend over last night who is having a great pregnancy, and she looks perfectly healthy and totally wonderful. I guess even if I never looked like that, I was still pregnant. Our pregnancy was terrifying most of the time, but I was still pregnant. I was swollen and not beautiful, but I was still pregnant.

August 2007, didn’t even know I was pregnant yet:

Just a few weeks pregnant, already nauseous and zonked.

13 weeks:

15 weeks:

17 weeks

20 weeks, Christmas

21 weeks, January 2008

25 weeks

26 weeks

27 weeks

27 weeks 3 days: February 9th 2008

Hello friends in the real world and inter-world alike.  I’m making a mix of music for Mister Finn and his babyfriends. Do YOU want a copy? I will mail you a CD! A real, live one, that will traverse over hills and mountains and maybe even oceans to get to you.

Mister Finn has been doing this really lovely thing where he acts tired (rubbing eyes, yawning, fussy, wanting to nurse) and then the minute we begin the process of getting him down for a nap his eyes spring open and he starts babbling and orating animatedly, doing everything he can to tell us that he is WIDE! AWAKE! Usually, lately, he has been sucessful with his tomfoolery; that is, his dumb parents see his spritely behavior and conclude, “why look! he’s not tired after all!” So we don’t put him down and go on with the day’s activities, only to find a once-again sleepy baby an hour later. But now I’m on to him! And presently he is screaming in his bed, awake.

{I wrote this for Mister Finn a few weeks ago but it got lost in the hospital adventure.}

To my A.,

You are only one year old and you can’t read yet (though sometimes it seems like you can), but I am writing you a letter today to tell you about Pride. You went to your first Pride parade yesterday!  We walked through the streets of Seattle and people cheered for us, for you, with colorful flags waving and music playing. You bobbed along in my “pouch” like a baby kangaroo, excited by the drums and costumes and people clapping.

You are growing up SO FAST, that I imagine it won’t be too long before you’re asking us, “What’s Pride?” just like you’ll ask us “What’s Halloween?” or “What’s Christmas?” I feel both happy and sad at the thought of explaining Pride to you. I’m happy because Pride is a fun, joyful holiday where people all over the world celebrate the people they love. I’m sad because the Pride holiday exists because of prejudice.

I wish I could only tell you about Pride, and not prejudice; I wish I could shower you with all the beautiful things in the world, and protect you from anything bad. But I think the best protection I can give you as your mama is to teach you about the world and how to survive in it. You are a strong, happy, smart boy, and your heart is the size of an ocean. I don’t doubt that even with its flaws, you will find the world beautiful.

So, sweet thing, there are a lot of unhappy people in the world that live their lives in fear. People do crazy things when they are unhappy and afraid. They are so scared of everything that instead of seeing other people as potential friends, they see them as enemies. They hate people without ever having met them! They are “prejudiced” because they are judging people prior to knowing them. The unhappy people in our country have hated many people in the past. They’ve hated the Native Americans, the African Americans, the Japanese Americans, the Mexican Americans, the Muslim Americans. They often hate people that are different from themselves. Then, a few years later, they realize they should not have hated those people. Right now, in your lifetime, the unhappy people in our country are afraid of families that have two mothers or two fathers.

We can’t explain what makes people so unhappy, we can just hope that they find love and happiness in their lives someday. We celebrate “Pride” because we are proud! We are proud to be alive and to be happy, and proud to love other people. We play music and dance and we look for rainbow fairies. We celebrate families of all kinds: familes with two moms, families with two dads, families with zero moms and zero dads but one grandma and one brother, families with one mom, families with one mom and one dad, families with two uncles, families with one dad and two aunts: there are SO MANY different kinds of families and none of them is better than the other. We all get to live and love on this planet together, and we are proud.

Every June, people celebrate Pride in Hong Kong,

in Dublin,

In Atlanta,

In India,

In Israel,

in Seattle,

and in many more cities all over the world.

Pride is a reminder of the beauty and bounty in a life filled with love.

I am so happy that you are the sundrop I get to love and find rainbow fairies with.

Love,

Your Mama

I say to Mister Finn, “I love you.”  And he says, “I la la.”