The other day I was arguing with my pardner about my name. Really, in this instance, I was bemoaning the fact that since my mother — Constance Jean Lewis Miller — died, the number of people who call me "Annie" is dwindling. In fact, only a handful of folks still use this name when referring to me, and only under special circumstances: when they are asserting their relationship to me, when they are feeling playful and/or especially loving toward me, and/or when they are the recipients of my adoration.
In case you were wondering . . . Losing a name is a big deal! It's like losing a major piece of one's identity. And really, I didn't lose it; it was stolen from me by a band of thieves who go by the names of Silence, Memory, Heartbreak, and Ciao. These badass bandits not only took "Annie" from me but ripped-off years of my existence, my youth, part of my personality!
Things are a little spooky sometimes.
Shortly after this discussion about my name, my daughter — Cecelia Helen Barrett — informed me that my granddaughter — Orion Constance Barrett-Sims — is calling me "Nanny." I, of course, am tickled, as not only is it nice to be called something by those that we love, but "Nanny" — especially from the mouth of babes — sounds very much like "Annie!" Making this appellation all the more meaningful is the fact that Orion's middle name — Constance — honors my mother, Cecelia's grandmother, and the last person to consistently call me "Annie" (Cecelia's middle name — Helen — honors my grandmother, btw, and my middle name — Lewis — recalls my maternal surname).
Orion's use of language is coming on fast and furious. Every single day, she has a new word at her command, and her developing fine motor skills include those tasks dependent on her lips and tongue; her pronunciation and her enunciation improve daily as well. Days after first hearing "Nanny" from Orion's perfect rosebud lips, I could have sworn that she called me an outright "Annie." I acknowledge my desperation to hear this name again, and I admit the possibility that my ears may be deceiving me, but O! Dear darling Orion Constance! Please, O please, continue to call me Nanny and/or Annie or maybe, for the moment at least, "Nannie Annie!"
Helen, Constance, Lewis, Connie, Ann, Lewis, Annie, Cecelia, Helen, Cece, Orion, Constance . . . These are the names of strong, beautiful, intelligent females! I am awed by the association established and reinforced by these shared names!
9/23/14
Emergence
"I don't think you understand what I'm saying."
Cece has that certain look in her eyes — a black stillness that terrifies me. For over twenty minutes now, she has repeatedly asserted that she "can not do this." The midwife, on the other hand — sitting in the lotus position on the corner of the bed — smiles and blithely assures Cece that she can.
My mind reels back twenty-six plus years, to November of 1987, to Cece's birth — an emergency c-section performed by a male OB-GYN entailing terrifying complications in the aftermath; forward eighteen months to May, 1989 and the successful natural birth of Sebastian by midwife; forward to April, 1994 and another emergency c-section for Dante. In the first instance, I blamed the doctor; in the second, I credited the midwife; and finally, I blamed institutional incompetence and Dante's whopping ten pounds of birthweight.
Despite the first crisis with Cece, I entered the next two labors with confidence. The midwife I rushed to when I became pregnant again assured me that Cece's situation, with her cord round her neck like a noose, was incredibly rare. "It's like being struck twice by lightning" Patsy claimed, "and it should have been handled differently."
'Handle it differently' is exactly what Patsy did when she discovered Sebastian in a posterior position and (GASP!) also wrapped in his cord: a twist, a turn, a change of my position, and of course patience — something sorely lacking during Cece's birth — and VOILA! A healthy, howling Sebastian! Dante's birth — miles away from Cleveland, where Cece and Sebastian were born — was also attended by a midwife, but she was nothing like Patsy! However, I don't think even Patsy could have prevented the panic that characterized Dante's delivery. Just minutes into my labor, Dante flatlined, and an anesthesiologist was nowhere to be found! Nurses, midwife, emergency staff, all scuttling around whispering, looking toward the door, waiting for the phone to ring and/or for an anesthesiologist to finally appear. Not only was I sure that Dante was in trouble, I was positive that my own life was on the line as well.
"I can not do this." Cece says it again.
Trying to hide my concern from Cece, I peek from the midwife's face to the nurse's, looking for reassurance, but their expressions are vague, their voices silent.
Cece has that certain look in her eyes — a black stillness that terrifies me. For over twenty minutes now, she has repeatedly asserted that she "can not do this." The midwife, on the other hand — sitting in the lotus position on the corner of the bed — smiles and blithely assures Cece that she can.
My mind reels back twenty-six plus years, to November of 1987, to Cece's birth — an emergency c-section performed by a male OB-GYN entailing terrifying complications in the aftermath; forward eighteen months to May, 1989 and the successful natural birth of Sebastian by midwife; forward to April, 1994 and another emergency c-section for Dante. In the first instance, I blamed the doctor; in the second, I credited the midwife; and finally, I blamed institutional incompetence and Dante's whopping ten pounds of birthweight.
Despite the first crisis with Cece, I entered the next two labors with confidence. The midwife I rushed to when I became pregnant again assured me that Cece's situation, with her cord round her neck like a noose, was incredibly rare. "It's like being struck twice by lightning" Patsy claimed, "and it should have been handled differently."
'Handle it differently' is exactly what Patsy did when she discovered Sebastian in a posterior position and (GASP!) also wrapped in his cord: a twist, a turn, a change of my position, and of course patience — something sorely lacking during Cece's birth — and VOILA! A healthy, howling Sebastian! Dante's birth — miles away from Cleveland, where Cece and Sebastian were born — was also attended by a midwife, but she was nothing like Patsy! However, I don't think even Patsy could have prevented the panic that characterized Dante's delivery. Just minutes into my labor, Dante flatlined, and an anesthesiologist was nowhere to be found! Nurses, midwife, emergency staff, all scuttling around whispering, looking toward the door, waiting for the phone to ring and/or for an anesthesiologist to finally appear. Not only was I sure that Dante was in trouble, I was positive that my own life was on the line as well.
"I can not do this." Cece says it again.
Trying to hide my concern from Cece, I peek from the midwife's face to the nurse's, looking for reassurance, but their expressions are vague, their voices silent.
9/2/14
An adult, As far as I'm concerned . . .
is someone who makes an adult decision and lives up to the responsibilities of that decision. Of course, it's not that simple. Think of the astronomical number of people who fall outside Arnett's proscribed age range - who do not qualify as "emerging" - yet have failed to live up to one or more of their responsibilities.
8/30/14
"Emerging Adult"
I can't help thinking of larvae, pupae, bugs.
This term, "emerging adult," coined by Jeffrey Arnett, refers to folks between the ages of 18-29, people who haven't quite found themselves, who are perhaps still on the parental dole, who have every intention of becoming an adult but have thus far failed to make the cut.
The Cut - a matter of definition, I suppose. What exactly constitutes an "adult?"
My daughter was once an "emerging adult," but when she made the conscious decision to have a baby, she grew up, or rather hatched.
This term, "emerging adult," coined by Jeffrey Arnett, refers to folks between the ages of 18-29, people who haven't quite found themselves, who are perhaps still on the parental dole, who have every intention of becoming an adult but have thus far failed to make the cut.
The Cut - a matter of definition, I suppose. What exactly constitutes an "adult?"
My daughter was once an "emerging adult," but when she made the conscious decision to have a baby, she grew up, or rather hatched.
Tick Tock
Time travels with her tail between her legs.
Three plus months ago, I witnessed a miracle.
I still see the moment as if it were now.
I will remember that moment as I do
the birth of my daughter and both of my sons,
now adults themselves, or well on their way.
I still see skinny legs, unsteady steps.
Sidewinding, submissive—the years slink by.
The past is in the present, but where am I?
Three plus months ago, I witnessed a miracle.
I still see the moment as if it were now.
I will remember that moment as I do
the birth of my daughter and both of my sons,
now adults themselves, or well on their way.
I still see skinny legs, unsteady steps.
Sidewinding, submissive—the years slink by.
The past is in the present, but where am I?
8/25/14
Home is where I hang my hat.
Damn it. I am doing it again. This is the last time I will make a home out of mere material structure. If this house ever becomes less than a home, "home" will just have to become a space inside my head, a state of mind. In fact, isn't this really what home is?
Day after day, I travel between hardware, paint, and furniture store, click through pages on the web, spend countless hours and too many dollars gathering various and sundry goods that might "make this house a home." I moan over my failure to acquire or accomplish an item on my list, argue over someone else's incompetence, tally time and effort and lament a glaring lack of return. And for what? So that at the end of the day - after I have put away tools, assembled an evening meal, and finally kicked off my shoes - I might feel at home?
Day after day, I travel between hardware, paint, and furniture store, click through pages on the web, spend countless hours and too many dollars gathering various and sundry goods that might "make this house a home." I moan over my failure to acquire or accomplish an item on my list, argue over someone else's incompetence, tally time and effort and lament a glaring lack of return. And for what? So that at the end of the day - after I have put away tools, assembled an evening meal, and finally kicked off my shoes - I might feel at home?
8/24/14
Oh O!
My darling granddaughter, O, has just recently discovered that her feet are with her wherever she goes! Not only are they apparently attached to her body, it seems she might have some actual control over them (wide-eyed gasp)! Credit to her O-so-obvious genius, O (at the very tender age of three months) knows a good thing when she sees it. Those toes do indeed look delicious! No doubt it is only a matter of days before they find their way into O's mouth.
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