Just some dry statistics...

Since I've been opining away for the last several posts, I thought I'd include some pertinent facts without the pressure of a narrative of things that I will potentially want to remember:

1. I am 25 weeks gestation today. 6 months. WOW!

2. I now regularly feel the baby move. His favorite times to make his presence known are directly after a meal or when I am awake in the middle of the night. Daddy has yet to truly feel him, however, as he calms as soon as I put Nathaniel's hand in the area where I've experienced the greatest activity. I am not so secretly hoping that Nathaniel has this calming effect on him in the future as well!

3. I am now tired... a lot. It's a totally typical kind of tired and going to the gym (oddly enough) makes me feel better. But, getting motivated to move is tiresome in and of itself. I'm not concerned... I am still working full time, traveling, participating in family activities and so on... but, I am just more tired than ever before. Oddly, I rarely, if ever, sleep through the night.

4. At the last check (December appointment), I had only gained 6 pounds. With my bump now becoming more pronounced, I anticipate that number has raised. However, I am directly on track for a healthy pregnancy with rational weight gain. The doctor was very complimentary and encouraging at the last appointment and, although I am still supposed to monitor my sugar levels, there is no significant concern at this point about any gestational diabetes-related side effects.

5. I have yet to find a crib I truly like. We have plans for the nursery sketched out vaguely. Grandma Shirley will be spending most of the month of January in North Carolina - I guess that is when we'll make most of the crib bedding. We don't want to do too much too early, in accordance with Italian superstition... errr.... tradition. It is quickly becoming time, though.

6. I have been sick to my stomach twice - once the day after Thanksgiving and once December 21. Both times, I have been unable to control gastric function - something that is foreign to me. Apparently, I am, indeed, more susceptible to sickness and bugs while pregnant. The second one was a particularly vicious bug, attacking Nathaniel as well. I am not rational and called the doctor's office several times to ensure my little boy would be ok without fresh food supplies during the sickness.

7. I am crazy emotional. I cry. A lot. often. with tears.

8. I am finally at the stage when I am eager to meet our child. I remember how quickly the time between the holidays and our wedding went last year. I anticipate a similar level of frenzy and preparation during these few months. Nathaniel is even in on the act, betraying little moments of anticipation.

9. There is light at the end of Nathaniel's dissertational tunnel. Our little boy will make his debut at Nathaniel's PhD music premiere at Brandeis on May 8, 2011. His father will, in all likelihood, be in the final stages of his defense at that point. Hallelujah!

10. We've pretty well settled on a name. We are not going to call him anything specific until we meet him, but are pretty determined that, unless the boy comes out looking like an Arnold or an Oscar or something equally undeniable and definitive, we are going to give him our first place contender. We aren't going to give it away until we're sure, but I'm going to prepare everyone: it's old fashioned and no longer common. I'm excited about it, but have had to make a case to my peers I've told. The older generation will love it, though :)

We have our next appointment on January 7. There is also a trip to Salt Lake City on New Year's Eve wherein we will celebrate my sister in law's wedding. I'll hopefully add some new information after all that!

Tradition!

"A fiddler on the roof. Sounds crazy, no? But here, in our little village of Anatevka, you might say every one of us is a fiddler on the roof trying to scratch out a pleasant, simple tune without breaking his neck. It isn't easy. You may ask 'Why do we stay up there if it's so dangerous?' Well, we stay because Anatevka is our home. And how do we keep our balance? That I can tell you in one word: tradition! Because of our traditions, we've kept our balance for many, many years. Here in Anatevka, we have traditions for everything... How to sleep, how to eat... how to work... how to wear clothes. For instance, we always keep our heads covered, and always wear a little prayer shawl that shows our constant devotion to God. You may ask, "How did this tradition get started?" I'll tell you! [pause] I don't know. But it's a tradition... and because of our traditions... Every one of us knows who he is and what God expects him to do."

As is usual for me, Broadway speaks my heart. The above quote is recited by Reb Tevye, the main character from "Fiddler on the Roof" at the very beginning of the musical. The rest of the musical is a journey alongside his family as their traditions are challenged and, ultimately, either changed or preserved by the force of time. It's so funny that I've never been a fan of this musical to the degree that I love others. I've given it its due as a staple to Broadway repertoire and genealogy, but never truly embraced the heart of the story. Pregnancy does some funny things.

My family is at a place where our traditions are being tested. As someone who finds comfort in tradition and runs to tradition for comfort during any given storm, my heart weeps at the challenge and potential changing of these traditions. However, like Tevye, I must learn to keep my balance by embracing the traditions which matter most (like my firm belief in God and His grace), while relinquishing those that are, in actuality, preferences (like waking up in mom and dad's house every Christmas morning). In so developing flexibility, I hope that the new reality that emerges alongside the preserved traditions, as well as those modified traditions, will be a durable and significant beauty and future for our family. As we prepare for our job as mother and father to this new, unharmed, untainted life, I want so much for Nathaniel and I to be able to give him something firm and enduring to which he can and will anchor himself. However, I want to give him the latitude to become who he will and have the freedom to pursue passions with a desire and drive for excellence without unnecessary burden or distraction.

Christmas this year was a year of new patterns in which we fought hard to preserve cherished traditions. With everyone working full time and stretching ourselves thin (as well as stomach bugs and other exhaustion), we managed to sneak in a cookie baking session, albeit at the 11th hour. On Christmas Eve, Nathaniel and I trekked up to Youngsville for cookie baking and dinner prep (Nathaniel worked on his dissertation - I prepared his meal... I guess that tradition is in no danger of changing). Even at the lateness of the hour, our current circumstances pressured us. Mom had to leave to show a house. Nathaniel fixated on writing until after dinner. I needed to sit down and rest as my energy is good, but not endless at 24 weeks gestation. Dad had to check in at work via his laptop. While rolling, icing, and sprinkling our beloved tradition of Knot cookies, time and change were standing at the door.

Later that evening, we welcomed a change to tradition: we celebrated Christmas Eve with our adopted family, Jimmy and Donna Maher and their kids Kim and Jeff and Melissa. We played Apples to Apples, increased volume with Limoncello consumption, made jokes about the implications of the game's outcome, and enjoyed a fireplace's glow. This change to tradition was very welcome, but for those who aren't aware, let me tell you about the Christmas Eve we used to spend. We used to observe a combination of the Hispanic "Noche Buena" and Italian "Seven Fishes." However, my father (the main seafood consumer) developed an allergy to all things pulled from the water. Despite his willingness to still have the food prepared and enjoyed, we all lost our taste for stuffed calamari and other Italian seafood delights if we couldn't enjoy it with him at the helm of the feast. The reverent evening would usually end with Bobby and I drifting to sleep on a hard pew at a midnight mass in a candlelit Catholic church. To move to Chicken Picatta and laughter-filled wondering about what my father meant when he picked "Rubber Gloves" for his round as judge in Apples to Apples is quite a shift - welcome or not.

Thankfully, one tradition remained: My mother, who annually protests that she did not do so, provided us all with new pajamas. Her beautiful grandmother from Panama used to get the entire family new pajamas in which they would sleep Christmas Eve. The next day, the entire family would gather to open presents in fresh, beautiful new pajamas. Aye-aye (a name I've only recently learned I gave to my great grandmother - I thought EVERYONE called her that!?) would ALWAYS claim she did not buy pajamas for the family each year. Yet, at the final moments before bedtime, she would produce some new garment for sleeping for each one. My mother kept this favorite tradition alive and well this year. However, she modified it marginally. Typically, the package of pajamas and the package of pajamas alone are to be opened Christmas Eve. My mother made an exception for her new son in law: She got him the Pumpkin pancake mix and Chai tea he asked me to prepare for him and gave him the foods so that they could be prepared for him on Christmas morning.

In perhaps the biggest change of this Christmas season, I woke up somewhere other than my parents' house on Christmas day. In 31 Christmases, this is the first one I was not in their house. No matter where I have been in the country, I've always come home for Christmas. Sometimes, on a smooth airplane. Other times, in a smoking RV from Miami. But, I've always gotten to their house. Waking up next to my husband was a FINE trade off, but still a change wrought from the pressure of inevitable time and change. This change was followed by another: Christmas Day at OUR house. Mom and Dad trekked down here and made Christmas Day special in our new home. Nathaniel got to play the new Wii game I got him, which worked out well for him. I got to bless my new kitchen with another holiday meal prepared from scratch in the tradition of my Italian and Hispanic grandmothers and aunts. And I got to think fondly of my beloved Nani as I set the table with her china for the second time in as many months. Additionally, I got the unmitigated joy of sharing Christmas with one of the people I love most in the world and consider family without wavering: Matt Webb. Again, our tradition was changed. Our number was diminished. Our location was modified. But the heart of the love and sharing that is at the center of the traditions I love remained the same.

Mom and Dad and I have already spoken and conjectured about how the adaptations we made for this year are not likely permanent. Next year, I will have a little boy who is approximately 8 and a half months on Christmas. While we all think the locations for Christmas Eve/Christmas Day are likely to stay the same, the timbre of a celebration that has children involved will be flavored very differently. The important thing, though, that was preserved this year and will (hopefully) be preserved for years to come is the family's commitment to sharing. To taking time to sit with one another. To passing on the smells and stories and tastes and hopes that have sustained previous generations and may prove comforting, if not beneficial to the next. To loving loudly. To loving completely - even when flawed.

This is the heart of the tradition with which I hope our son learns to balance himself in the precarious world to which he is born.

The grandness of grandparents...

I am excited for our child to experience so many things. Somethings are question marks: Will he enjoy sports? Will our love of music translate to him? Will he be able to reconcile his father's preference for the Red Sox with his own passionate devotion to the Yankees?

Thankfully, not everything is a question mark. I know, without hesitation, that our son will enjoy his experience with his grandparents. On every front, he will be met with an older generation that loves, cares, prays for, and nurtures him. With the exception of my husband and me, so few children have been given such a well-rounded gift of love and acceptance.

In my father in law, our son will see a wry sense of humor. He will be the butt of jokes and recipient of puns at a record level. He will see an oldest Eschler son, whose own oldest son has now born an oldest Eschler son - the direct lineage to which he belongs. His Grandfather Eschler also has a not-so-secret, quasi-magical workshop. In this workshop, Grandpa Eschler whittles ordinary chunks of wood to trains, cars, tractors, trucks, and any other vehicle imaginable. Having had a grandfather of my own who suffered through hours of wood crafting, I think this aspect of my husband's father is one of the things that excites me most about this relationship in our son's life!

In my own father, our son will see selfless devotion. He will learn the importance of a strong work ethic, careful planning and devotion to family. He will see a man who will spare no inconvenience, expense, or difficulty to ensure healthy and full development into a man who is respectable and respectful. Having been given the protective cloak of this man for my whole life, I place my confidence unwaveringly in his ability and right to develop and shape a relationship with the next generation.

In my mother in law, our son will get the benefits of a grandmother who is not only chomping at the bit to smother him in love and affection, but also a woman who will be endlessly patient and devoted to him. She is the ultimate provider of unconditional love and relentless grace. In her own son's life, she has been a constant source of love and acceptance, despite even the challenges that were provided regularly. Her patience has been demonstrated already in the beautiful blanket she's made for our little boy - something he will be wrapped in for his trip home from the hospital.
And, lastly, in my mother, our son will get wit and quickness and loudness. My mother is effusive and irrepressible in her love. My mother will carry on her father's tradition of spontaneous, undeniable exclamations of love and loosely controlled expressions. She will defend him when he is at loss for defense and call him out when he is in blatant violation of family law. She will make sure he eats well and smells nice. She'll make sure he knows the virtue of small governments and internal moral compasses. She'll impart passion and love and excitement and expression in its purest form. Already hoping for an Alex P. Keaton, she has wholly endorsed my love of argyle sweater vests and is ready to assume her role in April.
My husband and I share stories about the wonderful memories we each have of our grandparents. Sadly, all of our grandfathers have passed on. Nathaniel still has 2 wonderful grandmothers around (1 is 100 YEARS OLD!), and I've got one. While I am still disappointed that my Nani could not be at our wedding, I am thankful she knew and approved of Nathaniel.

It's probably the time of year that has me reflecting on the value and benefits of grandparents. The anniversaries of both grandfathers' passings are in November. My grandmother's one year anniversary is coming up on New Year's Eve.

Even from the other side of the ocean, my grandparents were forces with which to be reckoned in my life. Nathaniel reports a similar experience with his grandfathers. I want, so much, to give our little boy even a fraction of the magic that marked my childhood that was fostered under the watchful eyes of my grandparents. Thankfully, the grandparents we have to work with are a great starting point for that sort of early life!

Let me tell you about my Beantown friends...

Nathaniel and I can often be heard repeating refrains of praise for our adopted hometown, Boston. While the rich history, lavish cultures, and glamorous metropolitan feel all helped form our positive opinion of the city, as well as our desire to return, the people we met there really cemented our feeling of belonging.

The people I met there model the generosity of spirit and life that I remember my family embracing throughout my childhood. In 18 months living there, the bonds created became so strong and durable that the Boston influence remains prominent throughout the life events Nathaniel and I are experiencing in rapid fire sequence. Who could forget the story of the wedding cake imported in the trunk of an SUV that carried an exhausted baker and 7 month pregnant friend? Or the Boston roommate that moved 5 hours up the road and was sure to dance with me at my wedding? Or the encouragement and love I get from 750 miles away on a nearly daily basis? The people I met in Boston embody the truest definition of love, selflessness, loyalty, honesty, and timeless connection. I feel so thankful to add them to the long tradition of love I've experienced in my life.

Another example of the depth of Boston-born friendships arrived on Tuesday at RDU airport. My friend, Jen, is the mother of 2 little girls, ages 3 years and 6 months. She works a job that is labeled "full time," but usually occupies her closer to 55 hours per week, as opposed to 40 hours. She and her husband work hard to make their family work well, manage to face the expense and pressure of life in the Boston area, and still have the kind of family life for their little Hayley and Taylor that I would love to be able to establish for our little boy. As a matter of fact, Jen and I have already planned that when little boy Eschler grows up, he can choose between Hay or Tay for romantic interests, so that we can preserve our common family values in that perfect union :)

In the middle of one of the most hectic times of year for her job, with her oldest daughter's birthday in the mix, her own birthday coming up, and holiday expenses running rampant, Jen's request was for a plane ticket to North Carolina and 2 days worth of childcare relief so she could come visit me for 48 hours. She sat in my office for a large portion of that time, watching me wrestle with the red tape of the mental health system, reading on her new Kindle. We went to the mall and baked and watched bad movies that entertain us greatly the rest of the time. The lack of pressure and enormity of her support and love were completely medicinal. And, while material expressions are not the clearest demonstrations of anything deep, the generosity of Jen's spirit, and the spirit of the people in our circle up in Boston can be gleaned directly from the material gifts she brought.

In Jen's carry on-sized suitcase, her clothing and personal effects took up less than a quarter of the space. The rest was an amalgam of niceties sent from Boston to make our parenting adventure successful.

Most notably, Jen brought me a BRAND NEW, TOP OF THE LINE MEDELA BREAST PUMP.
One of our friends, Adam, who is a chef in the kitchen where Jen works/where I worked in grad school, recently had a little girl. His girlfriend, Robyn, apparently never used the pump. When he found out I was pregnant, he sent me a message letting me know Jen would have it for me. He also sent a $40 Target gift card for whatever components I may have to buy for it! Thank you Adam, Robyn, and Rayna! Can't wait to see you all in May.


In addition to that fantastic gift and thoughtfulness, Jen collaborated with the baker-extraordinaire, Stephanie. Steph sent the cutest little boy outfits and a changing station!

Thank you, Stephanie, for your continued love, support, and excitement for us. We love you much!


And last, but certainly not least, Jen made incredibly sweet contributions as well. Knowing that our child is destined for Ivy League (or at least high levels of excellence), Jen was sure to start little boy's wardrobe well.
In addition, she PACKED her suitcase with little things that (I am told) will mean a lot: extra breast pads, storage bags, magazines, and other "little" big things...
Before Jen left, though, she made what is, perhaps, the biggest contribution toward our little boy's preparation: A VERA BRADLEY DIAPER BAG. It is BEAUTIFUL and makes me eager to carry around bottles and diapers and wipes and blankies! She said someone bought her a Vera Bradley diaper bag for her first baby and she could not imagine having to go without hers, so she wanted to share the joy. Getting the box in the mail was a thrill, as is the possibility of starting motherhood out in true style! The zebra print changing pad just makes everything better, too!

I wicked seveahly haht you, Jennifah Pike!
As I said, I know material objects are not the most important indication of the depth of affection or true regard, but when speaking of the generosity of spirit of the people I know and love from my time in Boston, their material generosity is unavoidably involved in the conversation. I canNOT wait to bring little boy Eschler to Boston to meet his extended family in May.

I wicked seveahly love and miss you all in my Bahstahn home!

It already takes a village...

In the 90s, Hillary (no last name needed - she's the Madonna of politics) made everyone familiar with the idiom "It takes a village" in reference to raising and nurturing children. Even my mother, who would rather face Bush-era torture tactics than admit commonality with the woman, has to give credence to this notion. As I prepare on the downhill slope of this pregnancy to bring a child into our "village" of acquaintances, I am mulling this concept more than ever.

As a biological and honorary aunt to an ever growing number of children over the past nearly 5 years, I have been struck by a particular idea closely related to Hillary's comment. As I have not had a biological horse in the race as a childless woman, I have been apprehensive to give voice to my recurring idea. However, even with raging hormones and appearing stretchmarks, this particular idea resonates clearer than ever within my head and heart. At the risk of alienating those who disagree, I have to admit to a very honest and simple realization to which I feel compelled to look for guidance as I engage in the task of parenthood. My realization is this:

Our child does not belong to us.

Clearly, Nathaniel and I are going to be a primary influence and role in little boy Eschler's formation. The responsibility of late night feedings and diaper changes will, obviously, give me a sense of entitlement in this child's life that not many, if anyone else, can claim to feel. However, this child does not belong to me or to my husband.

Instead, the reality is this: The moment this little boy was conceived, he was as much a grandson, nephew, cousin, great grandson, friend, and sibling to future little Eschlers as he was our son. The primacy of my role or the role of my husband in no way diminishes or can ever diminish our son's relationship to anyone else. Of course, this realization could potentially make life more difficult.

You see, if Nathaniel and I were (as we are with most other things in our life) able to follow our instincts and rely on research and trusted resources, we would be able to make decisions and execute our methodologies in a systematic, well-controlled environment. However, we do not live in a vacuum, our child is not being birthed into a familial vacuum, and any other role could potentially influence, if not usurp our best intention. If my parents are anything like their parents, our plans will be subject to last minute ice cream trips and ostentatious birthday gifts. To say that my parents would not be able to grandparent in the way they see fit just as Nathaniel and I should be able to parent as we see fit would be at best, futile. At worst, it would be a selfish way of robbing my child.

You see, after much observation, I have come to realize that each child gains something different from each relationship. Their parents (hopefully) teach a loving moderation. Grandparents give an unmitigated and protected excess. Aunts and uncles give patient adoration. Siblings give unadulterated humility. Each person executes his or her gift to the child in a different way, in different expressions. However, each one is a benefit to the child if done in a way that maintains a sense of loving respect for the others.

I know this set up does not make my life any easier. I know that full control is a much easier way for me to maintain sanity - especially as it is the way I've maintained sanity in the other life domains. However, I know that my experience was so enriched by those moments my parents surrendered their control and plans and allowed me to bask fully in the relationship with my other family members and friends. I intend to give our son the same benefit, even if it means I have to learn a parenting style that is flexible enough to account for the influences of so many people in this small one's life.

I just pray we have grace and humility enough to make this idea a reality.

An Ode to our little Abode...

I don't have a home that my family has owned for decades. My parents moved (and continue to move) a lot. My bedroom in their home is a multipurpose guest room in which I happened to be the longest term visitor to date. I've never been attached to a house or a bedroom set or any of those things common to people who go home to the same "Mom and Dad's house" they've been visiting since Kindergarten.

Because of this difficulty I've experienced hitting my family's "moving target," I have never found myself emotionally attached to any particular domicile. Instead, I've developed a few attachments to those things that make wherever my head is currently resting feel like my refuge from the world. My books and pictures are the biggest providers of the "homey" feel I take with me wherever I go. Four walls, however, have never tugged at my heart strings.

Well, never until 2600 Oberlin Rd.

Nathaniel and I have lived in less than 800 square feet since returning from the Dominican Republic where we spent our honeymoon. We chose not to spend much money or many of our resources on furnishings we would have to get rid of when we moved back north for school and our general life goal fulfillment. However, I loved the 1938 2-bedroom-1-bathroom-little-storage-tiny-kitchen-and-dining-room home. The nine months we spent there were blissful.

It was our first marital home. It was where Nathaniel and I were allowed to be alone without prying eyes after our marriage. We interacted with neighbors who knew us as a newlywed couple with the cute dog in the shire. We made good friends there (hi, Erin!) and walked to the near downtown areas for entertainment. I loved coming home each day from work. I loved cooking dinner there. I loved cuddling on the uncomfortable loveseat with Nathaniel as we strained our eyes trying to watch videos on the TV that was far across the living room and tuned using old-fashioned bunny ears with foil accessories.

Buying our new home was an incredibly logical and good decision for us. We need the space, the investment, and the stability. I am happy to bring our little boy home to this address. However, leaving the four walls of apartment T-3 was a bittersweet moment for me. Walking the empty hardwood rooms as I cleaned and made it ready to return to the management made me more sentimental for a home than I've ever been for any other.

Even moving forward toward good things is a painful process at times. I am thankful for our first memories being made in a home for which I can feel a true and abiding affection.

Thank you, 2600 Oberlin Road.

And, we're back...

We FINALLY have internet! I feel like I've been given an award! "I'd like to thank God... without Him, this would not be possible... Also, my husband... for raising hell when needed... oh gosh... I don't want to leave anyone out..."

I've been thinking a lot during my blogging silence about the things I want to write in my first entry since engaging in the next step of adulthood and subsequent journey into the land of internet purgatory. I have an entry to write about how sentimental it was to watch our first marital home stripped as we moved on to our first foray into home-ownership. I want to write about the excitement of furnishing and decorating. I want to tell about the Thanksgiving dinner I got to host and the stomach bug that caused me to wretch my guts the day after. I want to submit an entry about the new decade I began on Thursday, when I turned THIRTY years old. I want to let everyone know about the incessant moving I can now regularly detect in my body that makes me smile and giggle. I want to write about the sweet moments I am sharing with my niece and nephew before they move north and the understanding I share with my brother as we both move forward, but never in the same geographical location.

I have a lot of words to get out.

However, on Tuesday, November 30, I encountered something that should not be reduced to words, but cannot be ignored in the words I want to pour out.

My sister in law lost her baby. As those who read my blog know, her pregnancy was an encouragement and great source of joy to me. Jess and her husband, Matt, are joys to me. Their loss is devastating to think about and their pain is nearly tangible to me. I do not want to diminish their experience by trying to describe the experience in fallible similes and pedestrian metaphors. However, the bravery of Jess, who was forced to experience labor since she was so far along, and the sadness I feel for her, for the loss of my new little nephew, and for the cousin my baby will never know has to be articulated. I love my husband's family as my own more than ever as a result of this experience, but hate the pain that knits me to them at this time.

And then, there must be joy in the morning...