28 Weeks and Counting...

"So, are you done with blogging?" asks my faithful (read "pesky") blog-conscience, a.k.a. Matt Elliott. The truth is I just haven't felt like blogging lately. Part of it has been the summertime heat, which is thankfully coming to an end. However, being fairly heavy with child at this point, one would think I would be waxing rhapsodic about all the impending joys of motherhood. Fact is, it's pretty darn hard work. Some days I think I have it figured out, but leave it to a 2 1/2 year old to knock you down a notch or two. Gabe and I have good days and bad days. Actually, I don't even try to measure our success in such large increments. I prefer to view it by smaller segments -- morning, afternoon, evening perhaps.

As I pummel ever closer to the birth of Thompson boy #2, I find that my emotions are even more mixed than they were before #1. This time I know what I'm in for in some respects -- the c-section, nursing, sleep deprivation, night sweats, etc. And further along, constantly adapting to the changing needs of an infant who is growing and developing at the speed of sound. However, this time I also have an older child who will still need my attention and care. I am beginning to doubt my ability to juggle the needs of these two little beings while maintaining my own sanity.

I'm also saddened by the fact that it won't be just Gabe and me anymore (during the day, that is). I know everyone wonders how it is possible to love a second child as much as the first, and apparently I am no exception. (I hate being so cliche!) At the same time, I'm really excited by the fact that I get a second chance to be a good mother to a newborn. You see, I had a pretty rough start with Gabe. It wasn't his fault. He was an incredibly easy baby -- slept through the night at 6 weeks, no colic, rarely sick, easygoing. The problems were all mine. First, I was pretty traumatized by the whole birth experience. I had never even considered the possibility that I might need a c-section, but after 30 hours of unproductive labor I was begging for one. Gabe was 4 hours old before I even got to touch him. I didn't change a diaper for the first two weeks at least. I didn't get to participate in his first bath at home. I couldn't even carry him for two or three weeks. Then I had complications from the surgery followed by an extreme flare-up of another chronic medical condition, which ultimately caused me to be unable to nurse. Bottom line, after a smooth pregnancy, the first two months of Gabe's life were shockingly painful and difficult. As a result, I didn't really bond with him until he was several months old, and it was longer than that before I really felt like a mother. Throw in hormonal changes and a whopping dose of guilt, and you can imagine that my memories of becoming a mother are less than idyllic.

So, all that is to say that I hope to do better this time. Knowing what I know now -- how much fun it will be to watch this new little guy grow and change -- my hope is that I will take to him right away. Then again, I'm terrified that he is going to be the most difficult baby in history. After all, I can't possibly have two easy babies, can I? Why didn't I start this whole process when I was younger????

Sun and Storm

Oh no, I'm hitting the one-month mark again -- I'm just going to have to accept the fact that I am not a very disciplined blogger. "Discipline" and "blog" -- somehow those two words just don't seem to go together.

We just returned from our annual Thompson/Murray vacation at St. George Island, Florida -- a vacation that has, for the past two years, coincided with my birthday. This birthday was particularly special, however, since I weathered it in the midst of, well, some pretty nasty weather. Yes, we caught the front end of lovely tropical storm Arlene. Now, you might expect some complaining at this point, but on the contrary, I must say it was one of the more awe-inspiring experiences of my life (although whale-watching in Boston still holds the top spot). We were fortunate to have perfect weather all week until the storm rolled in on Friday. Not many of the 14 residents of Smiley's Beach Getaway slept very soundly that night as the winds buffetted our incredibly posh sleeping quarters. And the waves on Saturday morning were unlike anything I've ever seen firsthand. It was the kind of experience that reminds you how small and fragile we are (props to Sting). I hated to miss one last day of sun on the beach and playing in the ocean, but this was a new adventure after all. I do have to admit, though, I wasn't too sad to drive over the bridge and get back on the mainland, and I was even more relieved when we turned north and away from the shore.

By the way, the most amazing thing about the whole vacation...none of the very pale Thompson three got sunburned!!!

Red, white and blue

And now a little more on my recent parenthetical reference to growing more patriotic with age... I sing (or shall I say "sing") with local group called the Decatur Civic Chorus (I know we have a website, but for the life of me I can't locate it right now). We just held our annual Spring Concert this past Sunday, which included various anthems to spring, a few spirituals, and then a lengthy section of patriotic music accompanied by a slide presentation. In addition to the slides of beautiful scenes from America and photos of military veterans who are in or somehow connected to the chorus, we had representatives from each branch of the military, a police officer (the fireman had a death in the family and could not attend) and a first-rate color guard composed of high school students.

Now, we've been practicing this music since January, and some of it has been in our repertoire for longer than I've been a chorus member. We've had several smaller performances this spring, including the opening ceremony for the moving Vietnam Wall exhibit at the GA International Horse Park in Conyers. However, nothing could have prepared me for what happened on Sunday. Honestly, I wasn't too crazy about singing all the patriotic stuff -- somehow it seems a little schmaltzy. Besides, the songs are driving me crazy because I wake up in the middle of the night with them running through my head ("Over hill, over dale....", "You're a grand old flag, you're a high-flying flag...", "And I'm proud to be an American..."). But when those servicemen and women began filing down the aisle to stand proudly before an audience of 300+ people from all walks of life, I flat lost it. Have you ever tried to sing when you're fighting back tears??? To make things worse, all the people around me in the chorus were doing the same thing. I think the sniffling from the choir loft was at least as loud as the singing. Schmaltzy or not, when you get smacked in the face with the fact that thousands of men and women have sacrificed time with their families, the comforts of home, their bodies, and often their very lives, you cannot help but be utterly humbled with gratitude and at the same time filled with the most amazing sense of pride imaginable. To quote one of the more annoying songs we sang, "If this is flag-waving, do you know of a better flag to wave?" God bless America.

My kid is a sports fanatic

Yes, at the age of 2 years and 3 months, my precious little Gabe is a raving lunatic about anything involving a ball and/or a helmet. Gloves are good too. Last weekend we bought him a t-ball helmet that fairly swallows his little head, and he hardly ever takes it off -- including to sleep! After spectating at a high school spring football game last night, the most common two words out of his mouth are "football helmet". A couple of the players were kind enough to let Gabe try on their helmets, only to have him throw absolute fits when he had to return them. My husband, Van, has been so conscientious about not pushing his own sports fantasies onto our child, but I think it's is crystal clear at this point that Gabe is a fanatic unto himself. What's really amazing is that he actually has some talent. Ok, I know you're thinking, "Of course you'd say that; he's your kid!" But I'm serious. He can lob a football like a bullet, and he's getting pretty good at catching one from short distances too -- as long as he remembers to make a "w" with his hands like daddy showed him. He can hit a whiffle ball across the yard and kick a soccer ball with an impressive degree of accuracy. After he finally finished throwing a fit in the car as we left the football game last night, he said, "I like play football." And his first words this morning were, "Where football sta-num go?" Having grown up with three fairly unathletic sisters -- with occasional exceptions in track, tennis and basketball -- this sports thing is a whole new experience for me. I wonder if it'll be this cute when he's a sweaty teenager dumping a grass- and mud-stained uniform on the laundry room floor for me to wash? Probably so.

A visit to Grandma's

OK, so I don't know if this would be considered a "wild hair" or if I'm just caving to peer pressure (thank you, Matt Elliott), but I am finally breaking my month-long silence to re-enter the blog world. The question is: what do I have to say? One thing I've noticed about writing is that the less you do it, the less you feel that you have to write. And conversely, the more you write, the more that bubbles up to the surface desperate for expression. I suppose that is why writing can be so therapeutic.

Anywho, I don't mean to wax poetic about writing. I want to talk about my recent visit to my only living grandparent. My grandmother, Gladys Lavera Wiggins Gatz (no, I won't be naming my next child after her should she turn out to be a girl) will turn 92 at the end of this month. I hope it is not ugly to admit that she has always been my favorite grandparent, and I feel very blessed that she has enjoyed such a long and healthy life. Although she has become feeble in recent years and struggles with her hearing, her mind is still sharp, and her hair is almost as dark as mine. I took Gabe to see her in Jan 2004 when he was not quite one, and then we retuned last month with my parents. The trip is not fun -- she lives just outside Tulsa, Oklahoma, a good 850+ miles from suburban Atlanta. Two days on the road with a two-year old and a week in a hotel room with my parents (despite how much I love them) is not exactly a picnic. Not to mention 9 days away from my sweet husband -- but that's another story.

On last year's visit, I had every intention of sitting down with Grandma and videotaping a conversation between us about all the family stories that I've never heard -- how she and Grandpa met, what my dad was like as a kid, what her childhood was like, what the war years were like, and so on. Well, that conversation never happened, and I feared I would never get another chance. Fortunately, I was wrong, and on this visit, my sweet parents took Gabe for a day to my uncle's house so I could have Grandma alone to myself. The videotape still doesn't exist, but we had the most memorable day together. We started by going through a box of photos -- she had recently moved from one assisted living home to another, so she wasn't sure what was in this box. The stories that came through those pictures were amazing. I could have spent days listening to Grandma talk. She told me about her great-grandmother who left her home for a forbidden marriage to a Choctaw Indian; he was later killed in the Civil War. She showed me pictures of my incredibly dapper Grandpa as a young man. She told me all about her wonderful father, Winston America Wiggins, who died when she was 13 and he was my age, 34. His was about the 4th known case of Hodgkin's Disease in the country. My great-grandmother, Jane Wiggins, then sold everything and moved her 4 children (all age 13 and under) to town where she took in laundry to provide for her family. Grandma later went to work as a switchboard operator for "the phone company" (don't we miss those good old Ma Bell days?) at the ripe old age of 15, a job she would have her entire life. We talked a little about what it was like to give birth to two boys in the same calendar year -- yes, my dad was born on Jan. 1 and his brother Joe came along in Dec. of 1934 -- and to raise them and then a younger son during the Depression years.

I could go on with the stories she shared, but you get the picture. I was never really much of a history buff in school, but I find that as I grow older, I become more fascinated by the past. I am amazed and inspired at the fortitude and faith of those who came before us, and I often look in the mirror with guilt at the general laziness and self-centeredness of my generation. I wonder how we would fare in the face of a catastrophic depression, the rise of a maniacal and murderous tyrant, or any other threat to our life, liberty and pursuit of happiness (yes, I've gotten more patriotic with age, as well). Obviously, I can't answer that question, nor can I fail to recognize the ever-strengthening undercurrent of resolve in our nation for a return to common sense, strong values, and decency. I am a firm believer that the past -- both personal and universal -- shapes who we are. So, I'll go on my way living stories that I can someday share with my grandchild, God willing.

My Vander

Seven years ago this weekend (the actual date was April 4, 1998), I married my best friend, a man who fits me like a glove. Our courtship was relatively short -- only 9 months before he proposed and another 7 before the nuptials. Prior to that, we had only known each other roughly 6 months. The thing that set him apart, though, is that everyone around me was just as happy about my choice for a mate as I was. Anyone who knows anything about my past realizes this was a new experience indeed. Maybe because we were a bit older when we married -- I was nearly 28 and he had just turned 27 -- we never went through the difficulties encountered by most newlyweds in the first year. In fact, we have yet to really even have a fight. Oh, there have been some serious discussions, no doubt. But this man loves and respects me so much -- and expects the same from me -- that he never allows childish game-playing, hurtful sarcasm, or ridicule of any kind. He makes me believe that I am the ideal wife, and in doing so, he inspires me to actually try to fit that bill. I guess it's true that some people bring out the best in you where others bring out the worst -- I definitely married the former, for which I am daily grateful. When we were preparing for marriage, I remember one really important concept on which we agreed -- love. No, I'm not talking about the butterflies in your tummy and tingles in your toes. I'm not talking about the passionate need to be with that person every moment. These, of course, were present in abundance, but they also fluctuate and evolve over time. I'm talking about real, soul-deep, lifetime love. And our agreement was this: It's a choice, not a feeling. On the day we married, we promised to keep making that choice every single day of our lives. Seven years in, and I don't regret a thing.

To die or not to die...

I've been feeling really conflicted on this whole Terri Schiavo (sp?) issue. If you haven't been keeping up with the news, she is the woman in Florida who has been in a vegetative state for more than a decade due to brain damage inflicted by an injury or something. The courts mandated that her feeding/hydration tube be removed last Friday, and despite the desperate efforts of her family, this ruling still stands. Today is her fourth day without hydration or nutrition. Her husband, who has apparently been living with and fathered children with some other woman for several years, insists that this order is exactly what Terri would want. He says she had told him in prior conversations that she would not want to be kept alive artificially. However, she never put those wishes into a legal document; hence the dilemma.

On the one hand, I imagine what I would want were I in her shoes -- not that she probably wears shoes these days. I absolutely do not want to be kept alive by machines and to cause such an emotional and financial burden on my family. I have no doubt that there is something much better waiting for me after I'm done with this body. Don't get me wrong -- I'm not in a partcularly big hurry to get to it just yet. However, if something tragic were to happen to me and I could no longer communicate with the world or experience life in any meaninful sort of way, what's the point of sticking around??? Just let me go, for crying out loud!

On the other hand, I can certainly see her family's side of things as well. I can't make up my mind, though, if their motives are truly loving or selfish in nature. Of course, not being able to climb into the minds of others, I'll never know for sure. I know they don't want to lose her, but in a sense haven't they already lost her? I know it sounds incredibly inhumane to allow her to starve/dehydrate until she passes on, and yet I wonder if she even has any awareness of what is happening to her body. From what little detail I've heard, the multi-judge panel that made the ruling was shown by medical experts that she had no conscious awareness of anything, and yet her family says she regularly exhibits emotion, such as laughter and sadness.

If you listen to any of the radio pundits, such as Boortz or Michael Savage, you hear the above arguments plus some others much more political in nature. Is this act a step across the line of personal liberty? Is the court ruling the first pebble in an eventual landslide into such evil atrocities as those perpetrated by the Nazis -- first sterilizing those who were mentally unstable, then euthanizing societal untouchables, and finally exterminating an entire race of people?

I can't quite get my brain around those questions. All I keep coming back to is my gut. And it says, "Let her go."