A pile of paper

Well, I printed out my novel. I have to say that although I thought I would be prepared for the weight of it in my hand, I wasn't. I've never printed out 277 pages before. It felt a bit heady and, well, exciting. It felt good to write the last lines. I've been reading it during C's nap time and making minor edits. The big editing will happen later.

Although that has been a fulfilling accomplishment, one that I am still savoring for its timeliness (I so wanted to complete it before delivery), I awoke this morning feeling very low. I think it's because my hormones are high. But, also, it feels like the more difficult moments of life sometimes rise closer to the surface, become more visible. The rest of the time we can hide away in the relative bubble of our own lives, focused on the daily goings-on that affect us and our immediate existence. Last night I learned about the loss of a friend's father and I went to bed with a heavy heart and awoke feeling sad and lost. My friend is pregnant, due in a month, and already lost her mother to breast cancer several years ago. I know of a number of people who are very ill, or battling cancer, or dealing with severe financial strain. Reading the daily headlines over at msnbc doesn't help, either. The repercussions of the current economic crisis splash themselves across the page in hectic reality, and then, too, it seems that we have entered a particularly stormy environmental time filled with earthquakes, disasters, and massive oil spills around the world.

I am aware that one of the greatest antidotes to sadness is gratitude. There are many things to be grateful for, in my life and in the lives of my friends and family. And, truly, the view of my daughter as she wandered through the house with her teddy bear this afternoon as she sang him a song before her nap ranks right up there as a reminder of the continuum--the cycle of life and the palpable feeling of watching life beat by, one pregnant moment at a time.

Getting there

It's getting close. I can see the finish line. 270 pages written and, I think, about 20 or 30 more to go. Three to five weeks until the little guy arrives. I'm almost there. A baby and a novel. Somehow this feels like this might be the most productive (passively and actively) nine months of my life. Still a ways to go, but this feels pretty good.

Things have slowed down lately without the cadence (and the free time) provided by Cora's nanny share. This is our second week without it, and I am finally tucked away in my neighborhood coffee shop again while she enjoys a play date with one of her favorite little girls and our incredibly energetic, fun babysitter--a woman who teaches PE to elementary kids all day long and still has energy to babysit, work at a coffee shop on the weekends, and play soccer several times a week. I left the house listening to Cora and her friend shrieking while they catapulted themselves off the downstairs couch onto a giant pile of pillows, blankets, and down comforters--one of C's most favorite pastimes, as loftily illustrated in the photo above.

Memorial

On Sunday I went to a memorial for my crew coach Senior year. He was also my coach for a short time my Junior year when I rowed as a replacement with the heavyweight JV boat in the San Diego Crew Classics (I was a lightweight for three years, varsity for two of those). It was an emotional day, for a ton of reasons. First, there is no way for me to attend a memorial without needing Kleenex. I went through four sheets. Seeing people cry is enough to move me to tears, anytime. Listening to people cry while saying kind, loving, inspirational things is a heart-filling experience that always makes me brim over.

It was also emotionally exhausting to remember high school sports--the strength I used to have, the competitive spirit, the awkwardness of being a teenager, the things I don't like to remember about being young. And I realized how foggy my memory is. There are so many things I don't remember. Faces, yes. Names, no. Erg tests, yes. Timed runs and wind sprints, yes. Races, strangely, not really. I remember feeling so strong and capable, able to run 30 hills and 30 stairs and run Green Lake in under 19 minutes, hold a boat steady on my shoulders, and sit at the starting line with adrenaline flying through my blood. I miss that. I miss seeing the value of hard work in such a tangible way.

Dave was a fantastic coach and he tested everyone. He tested me, and he made me a better person. It is rare to be able to say that about someone.

"It's not always your height, your size, your weight, a lot of times it's the size of the most important muscle--your heart--that matters." --Dave Baugh