Sunday, July 18, 2010

Happy Birth Day

My oldest daughter's birthday is less than a week away. The approach of each of my children's birthdays inevitably takes me back down Memory Lane to those long, long, long final days of my pregnancies. It's often said that the pain of childbirth is quickly forgotten. That's a big fat lie. You don't forget, you put it in perspective: Hours of insane pain results in a beautiful new baby. Definitely a fair exchange.
I was never one of those radiant pregnant women. I was tired, cranky, and frequently nauseated. But I was happy.
There's nothing to compare to the wonder of a first pregnancy. I remember where I was standing when I got the news: at a pay phone in a mall in Kingsford. I was selling ads for the local paper and called the doctor's office on my lunch hour to get the results. Hearing one sentence from a nurse changed my day, changed my life. When I picked up the telephone receiver I was me. When I hung it up I was me plus one. Amazing.
I talked aloud to my baby from that day on. I had an acute sense of having someone else with me at all times. I felt like a walking miracle.
My joy was tempered by moments of unbridled panic. I wasn't equipped to be anyone's mother! I liked staying up late and sleeping in. I loved spending hours curled up with a good book. Could I wilingly turn myself over to the constant demands of caring for an infant? No, probably not. I was too damn selfish. This child was doomed.
My friends who already had children assured me that I'd do just fine. Nature kicks in, they told me. It wasn't a matter of the proper mindset; good old motherly instinct would kick in by the time I held my newborn in my waiting arms.
Comforted by my friends' wisdom, I quickly found something new to panic about. I was going to expel an entire human being from my body. It was going to hurt in ways I couldn't imagine, and there was absolutely nothing I could do to stop it. I'd bought my ticket and boarded the ride. There was no turning back.
By mid June I'd quit my job and become a full-time pregnant lady. The brisk walks I'd taken through the neighborhood diminished in proportion to the rising, record-breaking temperatures. My husband's sisters and sister-in-law threw me a baby shower, where I was the awkward center of attention.
Then all that remained was the waiting. I spent countless hours lying on the sofa, my soccer ball-sized midsection forming a permanent dent in the middle cushion. I watched "Desperately Seeking Susan" approximately 792 times, grateful to have a story to focus on that was pretty much the opposite of everything happening with me. Susan was a free spirit, a guy magnet - and thin.
By the time my due date came and went my feet were so swollen I couldn't wear any of my shoes except my sandals. I imagined my baby lolling in comfort in my stretched out uterus. Why come out when you're in a temperature controlled cocoon that transports you everywhere and delivers all your meals?
When it was finally time to go to the hospital and meet the newest Pascoe, Ron and I were still debating names for a boy. In my heart, though, I was sure my baby was a girl. Jessica.
And after a lot of floor pacing and hours of back rubs from Ron, Jessica Lyn Pascoe met the world. Tiny, pink and perfect. Worth every minute, and then some.
I'd been told in childbirth class and read in books that new mothers feel awkward and unsure of themselves. Not me. I knew this little person. She was mine. There was no way I was going to make any major mistakes.
Ah, the bliss of the young and ignorant!
But Jess survived. More than survived. She grew up into an intelligent, beautiful, talented, whimsical, bighearted, hilarious young woman. Every time I see her, or any of my children, I feel a burst of pride, a little internal skyrocket. I put these people in the world (along with their dad), but they are their own creations, their own gifts to this life.
Happy birthday, Jess. Thanks for giving me the gift of motherhood.

Sunday, July 4, 2010

Digital scraps

This morning I left a voice mail for my friend Patty. We were planning to spend the afternoon precisely as we had the day before: lolling on the beach under a white-hot July sun, close enough to Lake Superior to keep ourselves comfortably wet and cool.
When she called back she was proud to report that she'd taken a new step forward in the ever-expanding world of technology: she'd learned to retrieve her cell phone voice mails!
"I deleted a bunch of them, but I kept the one you left me a couple of weeks ago when I didn't show up for breakfast. It was so sweet!"
"Well, that's nice. Thank you," I replied, wondering what I could possibly have said in that brief interlude between "At the tone, please record your message" and the point where time's up and you're disconnected in mid-sentence. Leaving messages is not my strong suit. I feel as if I'm standing alone in the spotlight and The Clock is ticking. Be informative! Be clever! Be brief! It's a lot of pressure for someone with too much emotional investment in being a wit.
I wonder if the digital age means the decline and eventual extinction of the treasure box. You know, that special drawer or container where you stash notes and cards from friends and loved ones. Not the Hallmark cards; the sticky notes and scribbled scraps you find on your kitchen table, nightstand, or desk at work, little messages that make you smile and make you want to save them for some later date when you'll be in need of a little dose of sweetness or smart-alecky humor.
My own digital treasure box is filling rapidly. I save texts from my friends and my kids until my phone informs me that the virtual filing cabinet is full. Something has to go. When this happens I scroll through my favorite messages with the solemn gravity of a Supreme Court judge.
"Moose ... moose," sent by my daughter Jess on Feb. 18. A hilarious message with a history if you're a Pascoe. Keep or delete? Let's see what else there is before we announce a ruling.
"Whts gud lilmama Mr. LeBlue." A cryptic message from an unknown sender that jolted me awake at 4:06 a.m May 24. An interesting bit of anonymous cyber-debris. Kind of like finding someone else's grocery list in your shopping cart.
"I'm a balloon guy. You know what I say? I say "gimme a balloon!" Sent by my son, Daniel, way back in August. Conveys no practical information but is one of our favorite George Carlin quotes.
"I am safe, mama! God is with me ... he's quite the backseat driver!" A message of reassurance sent last summer by my daughter Melissa, the newly-minted licensed driver.
Yes, this is what it's come to: ephemeral digital scribbles held in pocket-sized devices, available for rereading at the touch of a button.
It's kind of sad. Texts lack the intimacy of the handwritten note. You can't appreciate the particular slant of the author's handwriting, the wrinkled paper that softens a tiny bit more each time you unfold it. You don't have that happy miser feeling of lifting a lid or opening a drawer and seeing those little scraps of love and laughter, all meant for your eyes alone.
But when I need a little lift in my day all I need do is flip open my phone. There they are, arranged by time and date. Digital evidence that people want to chat with me, share with me, make me smile, let me know I'm loved.
The verdict is in: Save them all. They're only taking up 86 percent of available space. When the inbox reaches 96 percent full gud lilmama will have to go.