Building sturdier walls out of the stuff that matters

So, I don't know how it could be a more stressful time. But after today, it also could not be a more wonderful time.

Jeph had been looking for a new job for about eight weeks. Two weeks into the search, we learned we were expecting. About three weeks ago, Jeph landed a job in Arkansas, and we found ourselves needing to find a new place to live, and to move in a very short period of time.

The boxes have been stacking up around me as I have continued to work, and to be waylaid by the trials and tribulations of the first trimester. I haven't eaten much but macaroni and cheese, French fries and cheese enchiladas in weeks. Swirled into the stressful mix was whether to continue working after the move or to become a house frau, and how we would handle the really important things like health care and keeping me healthy.

I had been managing a lot of the crazy pretty well up until a couple of weeks ago. We've lived in our house for fifteen years. That's the longest I have ever lived anywhere. To top it off, our house is in a neighborhood I fell in love with while getting to know Kansas City and trying to embrace it as my new home. It became the home I never really had before, and a place that I dearly loved--cracks in the walls, yellow kitchen, bumble bee bathroom and all. Change is hard.

And I'm not just the average, garden variety, crazy pregnant lady who doesn't like change. I also happen to be a survivor of some pretty unfortunate emotional abuse growing up. My mom and stepfather used to fight all the time. It was terrifying. I often found myself creating a fort on my bed by surrounding myself with stuffed animals. I believed they were protecting me, and I never wanted to part with any of them. They were always my favorite gift to receive.

But several times a year, my stepfather insisted that I must sort through my stuffed animals and choose which ones to give up. He claimed I just had way too many and that I simply couldn't keep them all. No matter how much I cried and protested, there was no exception to this routine. It taught me to be something that no one should be--very protective of my things. Sadly, that protective streak also has encouraged me to also be somewhat of a pack rat. I've written and joked about it in the past, but this week, it has proven to be very difficult.

Having not felt well for many weeks, my off time has consisted mostly of holding down the sofa and watching hours of television, often falling asleep in the middle of the day. The first trimester hasn't proved helpful in the sorting and packing of fifteen years worth of accumulation. Given the energy and a far better mental state, I would have been tackling the task along side Jeph. This week, there has been no choice. Things either go or stay, and there is very little time to consider the value of those things.

I've heard and read that associating things with memories and happy times can detract from the value of the moment itself. And while I logically understand this concept, the things I have become attached to are the fort that surrounds me when I am faced with things that create a sense of stress or worry. I don't think of them in that way, but as things were going into the recycling bins and wastebaskets this week, I knew that's what was really happening. My fort was being dismantled. My safe place was being taken away. The things I had control over were gone.

It reminds me of one of the final scenes in the movie "Labyrinth." Sarah is packing away things in her room that seem immature and silly for someone her age to care about. Hoggle reminds her that if she ever needs him or the others from the Labyrinth that they will be there. Sarah tells him that she does need them, and he seems surprised. "I don't know why, but every now and again in my life - for no reason at all - I need you. All of you." she tells him.

And when I think of scraps of paper, magazines, and any number of seemingly useless or worthless things, that's the thought that enters my mind. For no reason at all, I form attachments to things that represent memories and happy times for me, and when I am forced to make hurried decisions, or even no decision about what to keep, the walls I have carefully constructed are undone.

Last year, I miscarried our first pregnancy. I had purchased a pregnancy journal, but had never written a word in it by the time we found out there wouldn't be a baby. Along with that,  my copies of "What to Expect When you're Expecting," and "The Girlfriend's Guide to Pregnancy," I packed away a few cards of congratulations we had received, and a pair of puppy dog baby booties. I wanted to be hopeful, but I just couldn't bear to see them any place in the house.

I finally pulled that box out about six weeks ago. I don't know what made me feel secure enough to do that at seven weeks, but I just did. The journal already has the wrong home address in it. I will have to find a new doctor and add that name to the section about my prenatal care, and I've barely bothered to touch "What to Expect" this time around. But that box of things symbolizes lost hope renewed. In the deepest moments of my pain from last year's loss, I easily could have seen myself discarding all of those things. They were worthless without the hope of a child.

The sonographer was having a good time. She's really sure this will be our Willow.

Today, we got to see our baby wave at us--just before she decided to turn her back to us. She will be a tricky child. I have a two or three foot strip of pictures of her. The moment I saw her move, was the first moment that I really believed she was truly there. It was the first time I have cried for the love of her.

I know all of the things in boxes, recycling bins and wastebaskets don't really matter. This new little branch on our tree is more important than the neighborhood we live in, the journal I have been writing in, or the silly hippopotamus bank I knew she had to have, before we had any reason to believe she was a she. And I know that I will rebuild my "fort" with other things that are more real than the things that I can hold in my hands.

It doesn't make the rebuilding less frightening. The lack of control I feel is no less unsettling. But this tiny little one will never know the worry of parents who do not love each other. She will never fear for her own life in her home. She may not have every physical possession that she desires, but she will know that things are just that--things. And she will know how to make choices that aren't tied to intimidation, fear, pain or loss. Those are the walls we will build for her. Those are the walls that last.


Magic Dance--David Bowie

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