Goodbye to All That

I have probably done my last back flip. Also my last front flip, or for that matter, any other kind of flip. The days of me hurtling my body into a 360-degree rotation through the air ended sometime in college, though I couldn't tell you exactly when. I used to be able to do a flip on command as a kind of party trick, but one day that wasn't entertaining anymore. So I stopped doing flips, and I don't know that I could get them back if I tried. I did one on a trampoline a couple years ago and instantly regretted it (I don't remember my head spinning like that when I was younger); I could probably still do one off the diving board at the pool. But on the grass of a football field or the wooden floor of a basketball court? Nope.

I miss being able to laugh at gravity.

My youngest wearing a cheeky gift from a friend.

I have also probably nursed a baby for the last time. My hope is to have so many grandchildren that I can hardly remember all their names, so I think I still have many more diaper changes and bottle feedings and rocking chair sessions in my future. But nursing a child--feeling nourishment leave my body and watching it soothe and sustain another human being--those days have most likely come and gone. Nursing taught me reverence and respect for my body and the bodies of my children. Nursing showed me the impossible wonder of how humans are designed and the symmetry in the needs of mother and child. But I was bone tired almost all the time. I restricted my diet to bland, unexciting food so as not to upset little stomachs. I had limited time in between feedings to do everything else that needed to be done, and since my children all refused bottles with remarkable obstinance, no one could ever pitch in to give me much of a break. I remember bursting into tears in the baby food aisle at the grocery store after my youngest's four-month check up. I'd been so sure we would get the green light to start cereal that afternoon, but our doctor wanted to wait until six months. The prospect of two more months of being the sole source of nourishment for an already 20-pound baby almost did me in. (We did make it the full six months, though.) I am grateful I was able to nurse my three children for almost a year each, but I really won't miss it.

I still hold my children close and feed them in other ways.

Here are this week's prompts from 642 Things:

The time you went to bat for someone, and wished you hadn't.

Do you remember the first time you felt you had won an argument with a parent? Does that still feel like a victory today?

Make a list of things you've probably done for the last time. Say your good-byes.

On Bugs and Heights and Stuff

Great Wednesday classes start back tonight, and I hope to see many of you there! I know several will be joining different classes for the spring semester, so I hope this blog will be a way to help you stay connected to the group.

Here are this week's prompts from 642 Things:

• Write about your first vivid memory. Then write about all the ways you might be misremembering or mistaking it.

• Tell a family story that you think will be passed down and told generations from now.

• Think of someone you know well. Write about what you'll never understand about that person.

Right before I lost it at the Empire State Building

My Kryptonite and my Superpower

In family legend years from now, I will probably be remembered for two things: my fear of heights and my lack of fear of bugs. The reason I believe I will be remembered for these things (and also for my mashed potatoes, but that's a skill I hope to pass down and thus not unique to me) is because both qualities fascinate and delight my children to no end.

There is nothing more entertaining to them than watching me sweat and hyperventilate on the Ferris Wheel at the State Fair or Rodeo. Every year I consent to go with them in a blaze of optimism that this time I'll be fine, and every year I spend most of the ride cursing my bad judgment and ignoring their laughing and finger-pointing while I pray to return safely to the ground. Woe be unto the child who thinks it would be funny to rock the gondola during the ride, but it's a temptation they can't seem to resist. My son made a bucket list of New York City sights he wanted to visit before we moved, and one of them was the Empire State Building, which I am convinced was solely because he knew I would freak out. It is a testament to my deep, visceral love for him that I ventured out onto the open-air observation deck at all, and I can't help it that I eventually had to drop to my knees and crawl back to safety in the interior of the building.

The look of disgust mixed with pity from my mom and daughter as I finally cried uncle and went back inside.

My lack of fear of bugs makes me legendary with family and my former students alike. Every once in awhile something will catch me off guard, but even then, it's mostly the unexpected motion that startles me, not the bug itself. Even when I was married, any time a situation involving something with wings or multiple sets of legs arose, "Mom!!!!" was the alarm that went up. Once the trouble-making creature is dispatched--either removed to the outdoors or sent to its Maker via the nearest magazine or sole of my shoe--they look at me with such awe. My son was moved to reverence when I rid the world of a particularly audacious cockroach; he turned to me with his big brown eyes open wide, and there was respect in his voice when he said, "I can't believe you just did that."

I hope to also be remembered for my love of learning and sense of humor, for taking them on road trips and other adventures, for helping them grow to be confident, loving human beings. Maybe some of that will get passed down, too. But I'm almost certain my grandchildren will know that even if a bee didn't make me blink, the very thought of skydiving could make me cry.

Disclaimer: no foolish photographer was stung at any point during the making of this image.

New Year!

Happy New Year, everyone!

I hope you all enjoyed the holidays and are ready to tackle a new year.  I'm an unabashed optimist about fresh starts. I love the sense of having a blank slate to fill with a mix of all that seems new and exciting balanced by the best of the tried and true.

Here are the three prompts for this week followed by my response to the last one:

• What's the most confused you've ever been? Tell that story.

• That time you tried to do a job well, even though it was stupid.

• Write everything interesting you can about your worst scar (literal or figurative).

My Worst Scar

This is my pregnant belly at 38.5 weeks, the day before I gave birth to my youngest daughter. You can tell I was kind of arching my back to make my stomach protrude as far as possible; I spent the last three months of my pregnancy reassuring acquaintances and total strangers that while I was carrying relatively small, the baby was a completely normal size. Their eyes would usually dart toward my belly as they said something like, "If you say so..."

You can imagine the general surprise when my bundle of joy turned out to be 8 pounds, 2 ounces and 21 inches long. She was my third born via C-section, which makes her partially responsible for my worst scar.

Mira Nicole Moore was born 2/21/11 in Bridgeport, CT

When I took classes at Methodist to prepare for the birth of my first child, I remember stopping to cry near one of the windows on the bridge to the parking garage because I was so afraid I would need a C-section. I didn't want the risks and recovery from major abdominal surgery while caring for a newborn, but more than anything, it was the first taste of the fear that comes with being a mother. Those videos and lectures from the nurse practitioner leading the classes brought home the reality that something could happen to me or--God forbid--to my baby that would negate all the careful preparation and planning for how I wanted to give birth.

Sure enough, after about 12 hours of labor, my little girl's heart rate started dropping with each contraction, and the nurse called the doctor. While we waited for him to arrive, I looked her in the eye and said, "Is he going to tell me I need a C-section?" She said probably so, and I decided right then I wouldn't argue or ask for more time to wait and see how things would develop. Ten minutes later I was in the operating room, and three days later I left the hospital with a healthy newborn and a six-inch incision across my lower abdomen.

After three C-sections, I've learned a few things about scars. For one thing, it's a different scar each time. The first scar was pretty nondescript. The scar after my son's birth was bumpy in the middle. The one I have now is flat and smooth on my left side where the doctor started her sutures. Things must have been harder to manage as she got closer to the end, though, because the right side has a rise and fall to it with a little divot in the spot where she tied off the stitches. I don't have much feeling in the area, and for awhile my daughter's head hit right in that spot when she would give me hugs (which she does about fifty times a day), and it felt odd to see her bury her face in my body and not have a sensation to correspond with the visual. I feel self-conscious about the way it makes my abdomen look a little Frankenstein-ish when I wear bathing suits, but for the most part, I consider it a badge of honor for having brought three children safely into the world.