…is that the only time I reliably have to respond to comments is the same three hours Saturday morning that I write.
Author Archives: cbcabeen
How to Prepare for a Natural Birth
I revisited BabyCenter’s natural unmedicated birth group a couple times around Rebecca’s birthday. Like usual, people are asking how to prepare for a natural birth. Which methods? What are you doing? Like usual, the responses give sensible and encouraging advice, but I can’t get past how narrowly practical their focus is, as if birth were such a specialized activity that getting ready for it nowhere intersects with the rest of your life. (Note to elder family members: this post includes sexual content!)
Dear Readers
This post marks Rebecca’s first birthday and the beginning of the public life of this journal.
Remembering Tiamat
Sometimes with Rebecca I feel like I’m a place as much as a person. My body is her habitat: arms, a heartbeat, and two breasts. It makes me feel cozy. What can a place do wrong? All a place needs to do is be present and be itself, and that’s enough. That’s exactly the right thing for a place to do.
They’re Made of Meat
When she wakes me at night, she’s not staccato like an alarm clock. She squiggles against my belly, kicking my legs, quietly groping for a breast with her eyes closed, until I’m awake enough to do something about it. I roll onto my side, lift up my pajama top, and help nipple find mouth by the light of the clock radio…
Half Empty, Half Full
When we were pregnant, I didn’t grok the asymmetry of fatherhood and motherhood. I knew I had the boobs and would be doing the nursing; I hadn’t expected the corollary that Milky would then spend her first two months sacking out in my lap in full-bellied bliss. Usually I enjoyed it; sometimes I didn’t, but not enough to move her; either way I became default baby-holder…
Opentide
The word I use most frequently to describe new parenthood is idyllic. I can hang out in bed whenever I want, snuggling Littlest and studying her movements and swapping bodily fluids…
My Stuffed Animals Are Still Smarter Than Me
I used to collect realistic looking stuffed animals, the kind you buy at specialty toy stores, who aren’t always soft enough to cuddle and whose fur is thick and hard to clean. Up until sometime in middle school, I slept with one of them every night anyway, on a rotating schedule so that none of them would get jealous. We talked telepathically as I fell asleep. They kept me company and kept the dark safe from witches. When I went to college, they went into plastic bags and didn’t come out again until twelve years later, after my mom died…