Learning to Knit

Learning to Knit

I.

The fates, otherwise known as Moirae, are three female deities that knit the story of my life into a tapestry. Clotho spins the wool, Lachesis allots the length of the yarn, and Atropos does the cutting. Joy may be a knit, sorrow may be a purl. Sometimes they drop a stitch. The finished product, made from random bits of colored wool in a chaos pattern of no discernable stockinette, garter, or cable, is uniquely mine. I imagine that every decision that I make is woven in, but the reaction to follow the action is worth lighting a candle to those three: a little drunk, they stitch, they bitch, and they run a very private knitting bee.

I imagine that the ladies judge most harshly those of us that attempt to live a righteous life and those of us who judge others. The more I try to behave and claw my way up to the higher moral ground, the closer they keep an eye and try to decide if I should fall. The Moirae hate hypocrisy. Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos listen to how I spit my judgments about gluttony, sloth, and greed, but how would they react to a night in front of the television with a pint of Haagen Dazs? Small clots must form in my legs. Each time I disobey my own rules of human conduct, the clots grow more dangerous until they fail to pass through my heart.

The fates are pristine. They live their lives purely. Yoga, organic yogurt, macrobiotics. They soak in a hot tub of gratitude. They expect this of everyone. For example, each time I fly in an airplane, which already tempts them because humans are earthly creatures and should remain with both feet on the ground, they listen for my prayers of gratitude: Thank you, ladies, for this opportunity to visit the warm weather in the bitter white of winter. Thank you for allowing me to find Michael at the end of that long-traveled, steep and rocky trail towards love; thank you for the baby in my womb, who spins in my belly at thirty-thousand feet. Please note the sincerity and gratitude in my silent benediction. Please stop this metal bird from rocking. Note that these panicked tears are for real.

II.
At eight months, with more calendar of fetal days marked with an “x” behind me, and very little ahead of me, the baby does a headstand on my bladder. He pushes my digestive juices into my throat and he presses the soles of his feet against my diaphragm. His space has gotten too small for comfort, and so he tries to muscle a little more room, the brut. I try and rub him back to sleep, but he does his best impression of womb pacing. Easy there, tiger. Should I name him Rilke? Elliot?

The baby blanket grows faster during commercials, but the hands slow when the detective show comes back on. My knitting is careful, because I am a novice, and so I must watch my hands when I do it. Who killed the D.A.? There are two blankets in the works. I am only working with knit, because I forgot how to purl. I am knitting blankets because they are simple squares. His confession will be omitted. What makes them pretty, I think, is the softness of the baby yarn. One blanket is a weave of familiar pastels in blue, yellow, and green. Will he get the death penalty? The other blanket is orange and yellow with multicolored threads woven into the yarn. The pastel blanket will be finished with fringes. Mistrial. The yellow and orange blanket will earn a blue crocheted border of the same yarn with multi-colored threads. Oh, it was the wife. Of course it was. During the commercial, I take a break to fetch the frozen yogurt as a sort of pregnant dietary compromise.

III.
In my eighteenth year, summer to summer, I had two identical experiences. I can only remember them as one, because if you were to view them as transparencies, you could overlay them and see the experience as a singularity.

There must have been seasonal differences beyond the windows of the bus. Memory only gloms on to the larger themes. Events are sequence of sceneries. Let’s say that it was fall the first time, and summer the second. The bus ride was ninety minutes, give or take. Those of us from the small town who dated without condoms had to travel to the larger town to deal with our problems. I had a license but no car.

On the way to the clinic, a belly full of worry; on the way back from the clinic, a belly full of clots. The ride there was, first time, sun at the angle of cooling, the colors of the phoenix, and then, second time, sun right above, hot, the phoenix risen. The ride back was both end-of-the-day, end-of-the-day. The ride back was some pain similar to contractions, as I imagine. My teenaged body sought to expel the remainder of my uterine lining. Ninety minutes of wrenching, overlapping.

In the waiting-room, he sat beside me, both times. He read magazines about music. My chart had two circle stickers on the tab for two visits. Some folders had as many as four that I could see. The chairs were very likely molded plastic like all waiting-room chairs.

We lived together with his mother who started drinking Gallo at noon. She was a Spanish beauty once. We smoked pot because we were too young to buy booze. I watched him play his red guitar in the unfinished attic, and I watched him beat his younger brother mercilessly. We listened to hard music where people died for the devil. He slept with other girls downstairs while I was actually asleep upstairs. He had the facial features of a girl, long dark hair, and the testosterone tinge of anger. He never finished high school. My nails were always painted black.

After the procedure, they give you juice and cookies and a little time to recover. The procedure was more expensive if you chose general anesthesia over a local. I wanted to be knocked out. Both times. He helped to pay.

The genes of the unwanted children? A man whose father was a drug addict, whose mother was an alcoholic. A man who called my new boyfriend after he and I broke up, and he told my new boyfriend that he shouldn’t date me because I had two abortions. I was damaged goods.

IV.
One blanket may be for swaddling and the other for the stroller and car seat. I thought to knit a swimsuit and sew in a liner for when I shrink back. I may knit a hat next or maybe some booties for the baby and a scarf for my husband. I need to refresh my memory on how to purl. I need to learn how to increase and decrease. Knitting is for the ages. My mother has done it since I can remember, and she will continue until her knuckles no longer bend.

V.
How many times have I been unconscious? Half-a-dozen. It occurs to me that twice I have been intentionally so. The other times I dropped into a faint. Pregnant women are prone to drastic changes in blood pressure.

The experience progresses as such: First, you get dizzy and light-headed; second, you get nauseous; third, you break out in a cold sweat; fourth, you experience a sudden need to shit; and then, finally, you wake up staring at ceiling lights. And, then, when you can stand or crawl, you make your way to the bathroom to take care of step number four.

I was alone in my kitchen, which has very hard ceramic tile floors. I had to lie down on the floor twice, on my side, so that the blood missing from my brain could get there. When my fainting spells passed, I was able to get up. I drank water and made sure that the baby was still whirling around in my belly.

I count fetal movements. One kick is good. A little roll feels better. Following a knee’s movement beneath the skin from navel to the top of the uterus is affirming. When he sleeps, I worry. He moves most when I’m driving. I lift my shirt above my belly so that the baby can hear the car stereo, and I believe he likes Eric Clapton, unplugged. He moves when I am still, like when I’m knitting his blankets, which grow with each row to cover my belly.

VI.
I would have a 20-year old. No, I would have two children. No, I would have a 20-year old. If I had kept the first child, I would have been pregnant when I would have conceived the second child. It is likely, however, that I would not be pregnant now.

Do I regret? If asked about regret, never answer the question. The fates are listening. In their great room filled with spinning wheels, beeswax candles, and skeins of yarn, they each keep one fickle ear to the wall while deft hands dip and weave, and they don’t even watch the needles fly. Beware.

If I say that I do regret my actions, then the Moirae will take insult because I did not like how they stitched a row. Beware.

If I say that I do not regret my decisions, they may reconsider their generosity, given the clarity of hindsight. Beware.

I have two months to carry this child. Let him emerge unharmed by his mother’s fate. Kick, squirm, roll, and quiver. I have years to raise him up. One wrong word, one wrong move, and Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos could tear him down. Be kind.

Last Trip B.C.

I just returned from Florida. This was my last trip B.C. (Before Child). It was lovely to get some sun. But, in many ways, the trip was kind of strange, too:


Mims, Florida


The min-pin named Toby is
a stuffed cocktail weenie, and he wets
my leg with excitement in this

tin-can house with little metal rooms
sagging from its side. All the trailers

are dust-covered cream and rust with wheels
that never turn to the road. The grapefruit
trees sprout dingy fruit and the clotheslines
sprout discount boxers. Another day in the Florida

sans Everglades. The couple claim Carolina
hillbilly fame. His Bud-Light tall boy sweats
in the hot, dark room of early afternoon.

Me, too. The couple are lean and yellowed
to grey. An old TV replays westerns
in that sort-of Sunday ennui.

God, the stench of cigarettes is dire.
Small pleasure here must be found
at the business end of a Marlboro’s fire.

Can a Pregnant Woman be Sexy?

I think it's great when a pregnant woman says that she feels "sexy." I do not.

Pretty is in the face; sexy is in the body. I feel "post-sexy." This is the body of one who has succeeded with the primary purpose of sex. It's biological. Here is the body of a woman who has been sexed, and, thus, the seed has been planted. There is no need for seed. Full tank. The nozzle seeks another tank to fill. And so, in many ways, I go through the world now round and undesirable, and yet perfectly content as such.

Am I desirable to my husband? Of course. This is his fine accomplishment. The way my body is changing is a direct result of his handiwork. Does he look forward to the return of a defined waistline? Of course.

Some say that pregnant women are beautiful. Beauty is something exotic. Pregnancy is the antithesis of exotic.

Chocolate is sexy. A really good creme brulee is beautiful. Apple pie is pregnant.

A pregnant woman is cute. Like a baby elephant. Like a harp seal. People come up to me and want to pet me.

Sometimes I feel as though I am in a clown suit. The exaggerated belly. The overly abundant boobs. A pregnant woman's feet even get bigger. I'm already a size-10 shoe. Much bigger than that, and I might as well get the foam nose to go with my floppy shoes. We even get to walk funny.

Here's an image for you: Imagine an 8-month pregnant woman dancing to hip-hop in her slippers and maternity pants. The reflection in the sliding glass doors is hilarious, and so she dances as sexy and nasty as she can. She's in the middle of the woods. No one can see, and no one is home. Comedy at its finest.

Mastering the Faint: Pardon the Scatology

I wouldn't say, necessarily, that I'm prone to fainting, but I will say that I have fainted about 4-5 times over the course of my life. Enough times, now, that I can recognize the pre-fainting signs to avoid the unconscious and dangerous face-plant. I have mastered the faint when once the faint mastered me.

For example, the other night, while enjoying my dinner alone in my in-laws' kitchen, I recognized the tell-tale signs. I was sitting, which was weird, because fainting doesn't usually occur until I'm on my feet. I was eating a salad and enjoying a few sips of wine while watching Countdown With Keith Olberman. I had just worked out.

So...for those of you who have never experienced fainting, the experience progresses as such: First, you get dizzy and light-headed; second, you get nauseous; third, you break out in a cold sweat; fourth, you experience a sudden need to poo; and then, finally, you wake up (with any luck) staring up at a very concerned face. And, then, when you can stand or crawl, you make your way to the bathroom to take care of the sudden need.

Well, I was alone (and pregnant!) in my in-laws' kitchen, which has very hard ceramic tile floors. But, luckily, I'm an experienced passer-outer, so once I reached the "need to poo" stage, I knew to lie down on the floor on my side so that the blood missing from my brain could get there. Well, I did this, but I had to poo, so I went to the bathroom to take care of "my business." While taking care of my business, I felt as though I was going to faint again. I had to stop in the middle of what I was doing and lie down on the bathroom floor to prevent fainting while on the toilet. Again, hard floors, and my skull alone in the house. Bad combo. Happily, my fainting spells passed, and I was able to get up, finish my business with most of my dignity intact (small bonus of being alone in the house). And then I drank water and made sure that Scooter was still whirling around in my belly.

What is the moral of my story? No matter how bad the heartburn gets, even if I feel like I could spit acid as if it were venom, I need to drink my water, and I need to keep my blood sugar up. Dehydration and pregnancy do not good bedfellows make.

And, as for dignity...it's not really *for* pregnant ladies, anyway...

Naming Names

We've checked the top 100 names of 2008, and none of the names we have come up with are on the list. For example, if Scooter is a boy, he will not be named Jayden, Cayden, Brayden, Hayden, or Aiden.

If Scooter is a girl, we've made sure to choose names that will not lead her to a life of lite porn (Summer), dirty porn (Amber), weight trouble (Claire), or reckless endangerment (Roxanne).

Here are the possible names we have come up with for Scooter the Fetus:

Boy:

Elliot Javier Eaton
Javier Danger Eaton
Dashiell Dexter Eaton
Spencer Thomas Eaton
Dexter Norman Eaton


Girl:

Wylie Rose Eaton
Sasha Rose Eaton
Elizabeth Rose Eaton


We were discussing ethnicity as it relates to names. Neither Michael nor I are Latino, but we still like the name "Javier." I like the name "Erik," but I don't think we're blond enough to name our child something so Nordic. We don't want Scooter to have a frat boy name, and we don't want him to be picked on because of his name (Is Dexter Norman pushing the envelope?). We'd like him (or her) to have a name that's interesting, but not "Hollywood."

If you look at our backgrounds, the largest portions of our nationalities are English, German/Austrian, French, Russian (Jew), Italian, and Native American. Name-wise, this means that Scooter, should he be a boy, can be named:

Claus Luciano Greenfield-Eaton
Vladimir Jaques Greenfield-Eaton
Carmine Cloud-Keeper Greenfield-Eaton
Chauncey Ira Greenfield-Eaton

And so on...

It's nice to have such a diverse background...

Of course, if you do have one of those names (like Summer, for example), the best revenge is to subvert the stereotype. You know, like Summer Laine, Esq.

Opinion: Keep your Opinion Off of My Body

My approach to pregnancy has been very relaxed and not draconian. Sometimes, I don't even feel like people are really concerned that I'm going to screw up Scooter; I just think that they like to tell me what to do.

I have a cup of coffee every morning. I dilute it pretty good with milk, and I'm unwilling to give this up.

I have half a glass of wine about twice a week with my dinner. I don't feel the wine. I drink it over the course of my dinner, and it amounts to about 3-4 sips. I don't want it everyday, and I never crave more than just a few sips, but I'd like to continue behaving like an adult and being treated like an adult. Thank you very much.

Sometimes I'll smell my husband's bourbon.

I got my hair foiled at the beginning of my pregnancy. The dye didn't even touch my scalp, so don't give me any grief about harming my fetus with chemicals. I'd get my hair done again if I could find a stylist out here, and if I wasn't so lazy.

Why do pregnant women need to be told that they should absolutely abstain from activities like the ones I've mentioned above? Here's why: Because women will give their babies fetal alcohol syndrome by drinking more than they should (common sense: if you get a buzz and feel like shit the next day, imagine how that must make your developing fetus feel), and then they lie about their consumption to their OBs. The only thing the OB can do is tell pregnant women to absolutely abstain because women will claim that they only had two glasses of wine their whole entire pregnancy, but their babies will be born with F.A.S. It just takes a few irresponsible expectant mothers to ruin it for everyone else.

It's a common-sense equation: Eat well + Treat your body well + Move your body around + Don't stress out = Happy Scooter.

Opinion: Reproduction and Social Responsibility

At this point, we're pretty sure that one child is the right way to go for us, especially given how hesitant we were just to reproduce. It wasn't something to take lightly; everything changes. My body will never be the same. We'll no longer be footloose and fancy-free.

We have the enormous task of forming a human being filled with intelligence, kindness, compassion, and responsibility. We want to raise a child with a sense of humor (The doubleness of this statement is appropriate). We want discipline and hilarity. We want to take Scooter to exotic places. We want him to be a beautiful human being.

Raising children is not something to take lightly, and the more children you add to the mix, the harder it seems to keep some semblance of oneself intact, and the harder it seems to pay attention to children as individuals.

If, after Scooter's birth and early development, we, through some kind of baby-induced insanity, decided that we wanted more than one child, we'd adopt. There are several considerations here. Responsibility to do it right, as mentioned above, but also, because of our "advanced ages," every time we would conceive, we'd be tempting the fates to give us a baby that's genetically malformed. Why gamble like that?

If Scooter is a boy, and we also wanted a girl, why would we try and make one when we could adopt an unwanted one? I've met families with 4 boys, and they have four boys because they kept trying for that elusive girl chromosome. Is it that important for a baby to have the same genetic material as its parents? I believe bonding can happen without the genetic coding.

I don't understand the urge to create a large family. In many ways, I can see the pluses of having a sibling as a companion, and also someone to share memories with when you get older. Socially, however, I believe in zero population growth. Two parents, two children. Thus, the burden of humanity on our planet's resources does not increase. It seems like such a simple way to shoulder social responsibility. Given the state of our world, it was a big decision just to bring one more new human into it.

Age and Gender

Michael and I have gotten off to a late start. At 42 and 38, respectively, the choice to bring a child into this world has happened late in our reproductive career. We both had to meet someone we could imagine having a child with. Furthermore, it took us a while to find each other, and then it took us an appropriate amount of time to make sure that we were going to work out for the long haul. This seemed important.

We were incredibly lucky to be so fertile this late in the game. The method of conception that we used was very relaxed. It was the "Have-Sex-Everyday Method," and, for us, this worked; however, I don't ever take our situation for granted. I saw a woman on TV who makes realistic-looking newborn dolls because she had 7 miscarriages. So far, the fates have been kind to us, and I hope that they may continue to be so.

We didn't get the amniocentesis, so the fates have some wiggle room to screw with us. All of the screenings came out normal, which put the odds way in our favor of birthing a healthy baby. Apparently, though, at my "advanced age," the odds of some genetic misfortune are increased. I don't feel old, and I don't look old, but my eggs are as old as they are, and no amount of good skincare can make them seem any younger.

The choice not to get the amnio was affected by two things. My intuition, which said that Scooter is fine, and the doctor actually advised us against it. He said that the odds were so tilted in our favor of delivering a healthy baby that they far outweighed the amnio's odds. Apparently, the odds of a spontaneous miscarriage due to an amnio can be as bad as one out of two-hundred and fifty.

We're not sure of the gender. We chose not to find out, but our ignorance may have been thwarted by the ultrasound. We had to look, and we're pretty sure we saw "boy parts" on the fetus to suggest that Scooter is a boy. Also, my mother found out the gender from the ultrasound technician, and she keeps slipping on her pronoun usage when we discuss Scooter. There's a lot of, "He, uh, I mean she...," which is fine. I can't blame her, but we'll be pretty surprised to find out on Scooter's emergence that he is, in fact, a she. Also, and I know the experts say that you can't rely on such methods of gender prediction, I'm carrying like I swallowed a basketball.

So, we're old, but planning to do our best with Scooter, be the fetus a he or she. We have a cache of boy names with some girl names picked out, too, just in case. More on naming coming soon...

Bumps that Go Bump in the Night

At fifteen and a half weeks I experienced the quickening. The best way I’ve heard it described is that it feels as if you’re popping popcorn in your belly. It also feels like gas moving around in your GI track, except that there’s no gas to actually accompany the feeling of gas. This is how it was in the beginning: Just a faint finger-drumming on a very small table in my belly.

Somewhere in the late-teen weeks, it felt like Scooter the Fetus was plucking a nylon guitar string. Why nylon? Because the feeling wasn’t metallic, and the music wasn’t electric. It also felt like Scooter lets his fingers roll off of the strings when he plucked them like some kind of very lazy classical guitar strumming. And so the inside of my belly was the body of the guitar. Sometimes the strings felt rubber, too. This is when I imagined that Scooter the Fetus had constructed a guitar out of milk cartons and rubber bands, and the inside of my belly was the milk carton.

In the early twenty-something weeks, your partner may be able to get kicked in the ear if he or she puts his or her ear on your belly. This happened to my husband. And so he was endeared.

In the middle twenties, it felt like my belly was a dryer drum, and in this dryer I might have been tumbling very small baby shoes, balled-up socks, and small stuffed animals.

At thirty weeks, sometimes Scooter has an earthquake, and my belly trembles. Sometimes my belly moves around like something out of a horror movie. My belly has hard spots and soft spots, depending on whether Scooter has his butt or skull pressed against my belly button. I feel squirming throughout the basketball that is my belly now. There is some feeling that a whole, small body is moving around in there. All the way around my belly, from just below my breasts to just above my pubic bone. He sleeps when I sleep, and he’s awake most of the day, or he’s a restless little napper.

I imagine that Scooter is cognizant and playful. Thankfully, though, when I knock three times on my belly, he does not knock back three times.

In Sickness and In Health: A Foreword

In January of 2008, Michael and I went to Mexico for the fourth year straight. Mexico is complicated, and the landscape is wild and unforgiving. If you've spent any time there, you can understand the preoccupation with death. The cemeteries are scatter shot alongside winding roads punctuated with crosses at every curve. So much for "Curva Peligrosa."

In 2007, a man died in the surf at the beach yards from where we ate our shrimp tacos and drank our margaritas under a palapa roof. Mexican mortality grins like a Dia de los Muertos mask, but who can say whether there's any maliciousness in that toothy smile?

Of the four years I have been there, I became sick fifty percent of the time. It has been a biennial health habit. The first year, great. The second year, puking in a plastic bucket while the sea howled below us from the lush drop of our balcony. The third year, dead guy on the beach. And then there was last year.

The first two days at Casa Melissa were paradisaical. Coati gathered to drink from the infinity pool. The view from the infinity pool was infinite ocean. Whales were commonplace and fun-loving, or so the binoculars said. Cats and dogs wandered up from the village for a scratch and some scraps. It was sometime during that third day that I thought I was coming down with something like a little head cold.

Funny how the flu can come on so meekly, disguised as the common cold. I remember heading out for dinner that night, a little tired, my throat kind of tight. By the sixth day, I was completely bedridden and soaked through with sweat. My fever raged as I popped Xanax to try and get some sleep. The day: endless sun arcing across the walls. At night, Mars glared through the window. I guess this was some kind of war.

Not long before leaving, we decided to go whale-watching. This was at the height of my fever. On the boat, I shivered uncontrollably, but the whales were beautiful. It was like a waking dream when your body has been poisoned. Barnacled mothers and their calves crested so slowly. The filmstrip ran at 80 percent speed. After we got off the boat, and I fainted on the beach, I was comfortable for those first few moments after I awoke. As if the heat and chill that bickered in my body was a completely normal state of coexisting binary opposition.

Michael had to wheel me through the airport in a wheelchair to get back to Seattle. I couldn't walk because I was too weak and prone to fainting at this point. My cough was deep and wet and rib-shaking. This was no way to enjoy our first-class seats. The people sitting around us must have wished for surgical masks and a Purell dip just from listening to me.

After returning to Seattle, a trip to the ER, a few more days of delirium, and the possibility that I might have been improving, I ended up with acute bacterial pneumonia. I split a week between the Harborview ICU and an acute care floor. I don't remember much. An NG tube for feeding. A catheter. Oxygen mask. EKG. IV tubes. I skated around the vent. I had no control over my body; my bedclothes were changed often. Nurses came and went. My blood was drawn often. The arterial blood draws left my wrists black and blue. Michael, who was then my fiancé, slept in the room for the first two days. It means a great deal to me now when I hear of individuals who have died from the flu or pneumonia.

At one point, at the height of my illness, probably after Michael had to clean me up and change my bedclothes, he leaned over me and said, "You're going to marry me and we're going to make a baby, right?" And I nodded "Yes." These words were the rope he used to keep me tethered to my mortality. He was just reminding me of what I wanted. What I was living for. Not that I had any sense that I was going to die, or that I was going to "let go." Though, I don't know if anyone really knows. But, for him, I think, he was just reinforcing our future. If you say it, it will be so.

We were married this past May. I became pregnant by the beginning of July. Our child is due in March. We skipped our yearly trip to Mexico because of the pregnancy. I'm not sure if that means that I have missed the healthy year, and if we choose to go next year, does that mean I'll get sick?

I don't take anything for granted. We have been blessed.