matching tracksuits

fun in threes, sometimes fours

the girl

Enter: LMS, Part I :: Friday Afternoon

Thursday 21 December 2006 | 0 Comments

Three o'clock, Friday -- my phone rings. As always, I jump when I see it's K calling. "Is she having contractions? Is she?"

She always reassures me that that's not why she's calling, and this time is no different. She does, however, also inform me this time that her afternoon visit at the midwife's clinic revealed that she's one centimeter dilated and ninety percent effaced.

"Ninety percent?" I say. "Our daughter could pop out any minute!" I joke.

"Ninety percent," I mutter to myself after I hang up the phone. Saturday night's plans are probably for naught; I probably won't be coming to work next week; we're going to have a daughter by weekend's conclusion.

Nothing's certain; everything's certain. I rush back inside to flesh out my lesson plans for Monday and Tuesday. My skeletal outlines will never do if someone else is leading class.

"Ninety percent," I say again.

It seems certain we'll be meeting our daughter this weekend.

Feeding and Sleepling

Thursday 21 December 2006 | 0 Comments

L eats every two hours. And then sleeps.

After Dinner

I'm jealous.

Acclimation

Tuesday 19 December 2006 | 3 Comments

L's been getting used to so many new things. The most obvious are the temperature changes she endures -- a far cry from the constant warmth in which she spent her first nine months. Hunger is another novelty for her. She doesn't like it one bit, and tends to get infuriated if not satiated.

Light is another.

The first times she really opened her eyes (about fourteen hours after she was born) was in total darkness. Slowly she's been daring to open her eyes in brighter and brighter light.

And finally, after a bath, this:

Beauty

More at our Flickr slide show

Three Days Old

Tuesday 19 December 2006 | 0 Comments

Covered in cheese, she came into the world in a mix of blood, water, and mystery. That is to say, she is elemental, and sublime.

She poops dark chocolate, chokes herself with spit, and shivers violently when she's cold, which doesn't take much.

Her cry when she's hungry is different than her cry when she's mad, which is different from her cry when she's cold.

Her language is rich with grunts, squeaks, moans, trills, howls, and a thousand thousand variations of all those things.

She wakes easily and falls asleep easily.

It often takes little to get her crying, and sometimes even less to get her to stop. But crying stretches her lungs and provides definitive proof that she is still breathing.

She smells of pinkness and warmth and contentedness, a fragrance more stunning than the most expensive perfumes. Her face is more perfect than anything Vermeer conceived and her cry makes Bach seem juvenile. Her eyes, still mostly closed, offer mystery and promise when a slit appears and a flash of iris shows itself.

She is most content when bundled tightly and free movement only makes her feel lost and cold. A tight swaddle stops crying instantly, and a loosening of her protective wraps brings a screech.

She is as light as a bundle of rags and heavier than all the world.

A gift, a responsibility, a privilege, a promise, a thesaurus of all the warm and wondrous words in all languages.

Pink Thing

Monday 18 December 2006 | 1 Comment

"You make me want to laugh, you make me want to cry." Granted, Andy was singing about a baby boy, but for the most part, it works.

Lena Maria

Sunday 17 December 2006 | 11 Comments

Born Saturday, December 16 at 8:05 am


Seven pounds, fifteen ounces


The most beautiful creature K and I have seen

More details later in the week

We’re off…

Saturday 16 December 2006 | 1 Comment

It’s to the hospital with us!!

Kick!

Tuesday 24 October 2006 | 0 Comments

We felt L move some time ago — last week, we finally saw her move. That’s rather like saying “I saw the wind blow.” We saw the effects of L’s movement: a bump on K’s belly that grew and shrank and grew again, moving about slightly before disappearing.

Almost nightly, rubbing K’s belly, I say in amazement, “There’s a little person inside you!” Despite K’s increasingly rotund belly, the pregnancy is still so abstract. The coming responsibilities and joys are still little more than a daydream. It was like imagining being “grown up” when you’re a kid: you know it will come eventually, but it’s so nebulous that it might as well be a fairy tale.

But during those moments, when L is thumping and bumping about in K’s belly, it really settles in. The “we’re going to be parents” morphs into “we are parents.” We just haven’t met our little girl yet…

Music Box

Friday 11 August 2006 | 2 Comments

musicbox.jpgAt nine o’clock, K starts yawning. She says it’s the pregnancy, but anyone who drags themselves out of bed at five every morning needs no excuses. Since I generally get up later, I go to bed later.

L’s twenty weeks old — she can hear now. And so, on the advice of friends, K and I have begun a nightly tradition. Just before turning out the light, of putting a small music box — a gift from my oldest friend and his family — to K’s belly. The theory is that the music will later calm L, as it reminds her of her old, warm, save home. We lie there silently, K and I imagining what it will be like when she’s falling asleep in her crib to that music, barely able to keep her eyes open, yawning, and remembering how warm and cozy she was when she first heard that music.

Again, that’s the theory anyway. I’m under no illusions that it will work like a switch: wind it up to wind her down. But the hope is it will at least calm her when she’s very upset.

Hear the tune.

Teaching

Friday 15 April 2005 | 0 Comments

The end of the school year for seniors – today was the last time they’ll all be together, and as of this afternoon, they are officially graduates, with only the matura (exit exam) awaiting them. There was of course something like a graduation ceremony, complete with a series of skits and songs performed by juniors, as per tradition. Naturally, among the songs was that school classic, “Ale to już było / I nie wróci więcej”

(“But that has already been, and won’t return again”).

I sat there, facing the seniors, watching some of the girls get teary-eyed and sing along, and I couldn’t help but smile. I wasn’t happy because of their obvious sadness, but because of the privilege I was experiencing – to be that close to so many young people that are of no relation to me at all. I see their joys and troubles, and sometimes have to put up with their troubles jointly when they come pouting to class. When I’m extremely fortunate, I’m even part of the cause some of their joy; and unfortunately, I’m certainly the cause of their troubles too often. But young skin, hearts, and bones mend quickly, I tell myself.

I’ve taught these seniors for three years – their entire high school career. I’ve seen some of them go from being complete beginners to relatively eloquent English speakers.

I’ve seen some of them come in and leave with the same level. Most have improved, as evidenced by letters that I had them write to themselves at the end of their first year in high school and then gave back this week. What a feeling, watching them read and hearing them laugh at their own silly mistakes, and what a sense of accomplishment for them that they can now see those mistakes.

But it’s not only been their English that has improved. Girls have become young ladies, in appearance and behavior. Little boys in teenagers’ bodies have become responsible young men. Nerdy outcasts have improved their social skills and have even become semi-popular. Boys learned how to comb their hair and became young men, and awkward young girls became attractive young women.

That’s the best thing about having taught in the same place for a while – you see the kids grow up. It’s like parenting, without as many of the worries.