Showdown of the Oregon Ice Creams

Eating rich ice cream and drinking whole-fat milk, and using heavy cream for coffee, may help reward women shooting for pregnancy, researchers here reported.

I'm not going to question this research too intensely. It sounds good to me, and so I have been eating ice cream every night. I never thought I liked ice cream. That is until I moved to Oregon.

There are two major contenders in the Battle of the Oregon Ice Creams: Tillamook and Umpqua. The Umpqua Dairy is a family-owned business that has been in Roseburg since 1931. Tillamook is a 98-year-old farmer cooperative located on the coast of Oregon. Both make damn fine ice cream.

I had the fortune of having both ice creams at my disposal this weekend, and two similar flavors of the finest sort: Tillamook's Mudslide and Umpqua's Chocolate Brownie Thunder.

So, here goes...Tillamook vs. Umpqua:

Round 1:

Tillamook's Mud Slide is chocolate with a fudge ripple.

Umpqua's Chocolate Brownie Thunder is chocolate with a thicker fudge ripple. (Ka-pow!)

Round 2:

Tillamook's Mud Slide has fudge pieces sprinkled throughout.

Umpqua's Chocolate Brownie Thunder has fudge chunks that melt on contact with the tongue. (Bam!)

Round 3:

Mud Slide is milky and very sweet.

Brownie Thunder is creamy and has a slight coffee aftertaste. (Ding!)

Round 4:

The Umpqua packaging reminds me a school supplies. (Huh?)

The Tillamook cow is much less threatening. (Weak jab.)

So, the winner is...Brownie Thunder. But don't go wasting your Tillamook if that's all you've got. Eat it up, and then go make some babies!

Time Off to Procreate

September 12th is Russia's "Day of Conception" decreed by Ulyanovsk Gov. Sergei Morozov. Couples who participate in this annual contest will be given a half-day to stay home and make a baby in hopes of increasing birth rates in this dwindling region in central Russia. Those who are successful--meaning the women who give birth on June 12th, Russia's national day--will win prizes. Money. Perhaps a car. A brand-new Frigidaire.

Sign me up.

Where is my mind?

Song of the Decade: The Twenties

Since turning 30, I've felt the need to come up with a theme song for the past decade, one that would well up as the credits roll and, one by one, the years brush the popcorn off their lap and leave the theater.

My research has consisted of careful contemplation and compulsive listening to my iPod until I have located the song that most accurately describes the fears, angst, frustration, joys, and dilemmas of being twenty-something.

Here it is: Dreams by The Cranberries. One of my first CDs ever.

Actually, the "twenties" decade starts at about 17 and goes until 27.

I still have a ways to go on the next decade, but if I had to choose now, I'd pick Feist's Mushaboom.

My choices are more optimistic than I would have expected.

"In the Light, Stella remembers, there was music."

In today's newspaper, I learned of a 2005 Gallup poll that reports that people had started (but did not finish) reading five books on average during the year. This is added to a more recent survey that reports that one in four Americans read no books at all in the past year. I have to admit that my own reading life has been suffering a bit of a slump lately. Blame it on work, hormones, and the large tome beside my bed that promises that if I just read enough I can "take charge of my fertility." It can be easy to lose sight of the reasons I read in the first place.

I was at risk of becoming one of these statistics when I first picked up Kim Addonizio's book Little Beauties. I was about twenty pages into it, sleepy, distracted, and ready to add it to the growing pile beside my bed of books started but never finished. Here are the reasons I kept reading.

I picked up the book because I recognized the author, a poet I like who is edgy and funny. I'm interested in cross-over writers, and I wanted to see how a poet handles the demands of narrative, character, plot, etc.

The book is an interwoven narrative of three separate characters: an obsessive compulsive hand-washer, a pregnant teenager, and her unborn/newborn daughter Stella. I've seen this structure before in many books, most notably by poet-novelist Julianna Baggott. And it's risky. When you lay out three voices side by side, you encourage people to play favorites, and if you don't give them enough of what they want, you could lose them.

Diana, the washer, opens the book and is the controlling voice so far. I'm not so interested in her in part because I feel like her compulsions are a bit of a gimmick to give her character depth. During the first chapter, I couldn't place her voice. How old is she? Why is she at Teddy's World? Why is she telling this story? Who is she talking to?

I was more receptive to the story of the teenager Jamie. Her crisis was more commonplace, even if slightly sensational because of her age. Jamie's story is told in third person, and I think that gives me some distance from the character and room in my imagination to create her voice. Perhaps I feel more engaged in this story because it requires more participation.

I have to admit when I read the back of the book and saw that part of the story was told from the perspective of a fetus, I thought, "Ok...let's see if you can pull this off." These sections tend to be shorter, and I doubt that the entire book could have been written in this voice. However, this is the part that keeps me from putting the book down. It's what has kept me up past my bedtime, long after my husband has switched off his reading lamp.

A sample: "In the Light, Stella remembers, there was music. Or a feeling like music. Or was it that in the Before, she had the memory of something like music? She knows this song. When she was inside of Jamie already, soon to come out, Jamie had played it. She tries to remember more. Rock rock rock. It's hard to stay awake, hard to remember what the Light was really like."

I'm on page 194 and I'm now invested. I have the day off, and finishing the book is on my list, along with exercising, making dinner, and scheduling a haircut. I feel sorry for the almost 27 percent of the population that has forgotten the joy of reading and finishing a book, of losing themselves in other stories and characters. You snooze, you lose. Suckers.

The Golden Chalise: Is it half full or half empty?

Thanks to wedding guests, I have cabinets full of matching glasses: champagne, wine, martini, beer, water. But how does one go about choosing the cup into which one will urinate? And furthermore, can the cup ever be clean again?

I say no. Resoundly, no.

So, in choosing my pee cup, I had to carefully consider my options. I didn't want to break up a set. That ruled out wine and martini. Margarita was too shallow and champagne too narrow. My water glasses are too common, and unless I'm willing to shatter it after use, I'm afraid it will find its way back into rotation.

It had to be glass -- mugs are out of the picture. That left me with one contender: a promotional glass I got free with a bottle of Bailey's. Short, with a wide opening, perfect for a pregnancy test, or in my case, ovulation predictor sticks.

Anxiety Dream: Baby in the Closet

Last night I had my first anxiety dream about pregnancy and motherhood. I've had other dreams that were more metaphorical in nature about my fears of bringing life into the world (in such dreams I give birth to kittens that fly out of me like furry pin balls and scatter around the room). But this one actually involved a BABY.

In this dream, I’ve given birth and my house is filled with guests. The baby is passed from hand to hand, and I can’t keep track of her. Plus, I’m very tired. So, I go lay down, and I wake up the next morning. For a moment, I forget that I’m a mother, and I stumble downstairs to get coffee started. My houseguests look at me like I’m insane. Where’s the baby? they ask. I run upstairs and run into the closet/storage space that we use for all the things we don’t need. The Christmas tree stand, a stack of books for my husband’s thesis, our old CDs. The floor is littered with pillows and wrapping paper, and in the corner I see a toy crib. It's empty.

The crib is one my sister and I played with when we were kids. I paw through the tissue paper, and beneath it I find the newborn, who looks like Suri Cruise. She's alive, and I pick her up and carry her downstairs like nothing happened.

Psychoanlayze that, baby.

Birthday Ephiphany Remembered

A Tardy Report from the Queen of Obvious Epiphanies (part 2):

Since forgetting my birthday epiphany in the local grocery store, I remembered it and forgot it at least three separate times. I’m 30 now, so I will learn my lesson and write it down. For posterity, no, really just for me, here it is:

You only notice what you’re missing and at the same time you only notice what other people have. For everyone, what you’re missing seems to be the only thing that matters. But once you get what you were missing, you begin to notice other missing pieces. You will never be satisfied as long as you are concentrating on absence.

DUH. But it took me 30 years to articulate this.

To illustrate my point, I will begin this experiment: instead of looking at women with children and saying, Look at what I don’t have, I will look at myself and acknowledge what I do have: free time, tight stomach, disposable income, full night’s rest, a room of my own that’s not filled with plush toys.

Birthday Epiphany

A Tardy Report from the Queen of Obvious Epiphanies:

The day of my 30th birthday, I had an epiphany. It was a common and fairly obvious revelation, as epiphanies go, but it felt like a cold sip of water after hours hiking through the desert – it chilled me all the way through. I was driving in my car and had reached a crossroads. While I was looking one way, then the next, it came to me. The epiphany. It was so clear, so amazing, that as I turned onto the main road, the sun shining through the windshield, a new world ahead of me, I thought, there’s no need to write this down. I will remember this moment forever.

Then I pulled into the parking lot at the big box grocery store and began my shopping. Somewhere between the fresh vegetables and the bulk bins, I lost it.

With or without my moment of clarity, I had a wonderful birthday. Pink champagne, a custom-made birthday cake with pink frosting and champagne cream filling. A patio set (see background of above picture) – a joint gift from my father and husband. A couple visits from friends. Good career news.

Turning 30 has worked out for me, a mental shift that allows me to muster will-power previously untapped. There’s been a lot going on since my birthday, but I’ve weathered it pretty gracefully. My mantra: “I’m thirty. I don’t cry about the little things anymore.” It’s so simple, but it’s working. Similar to the way a long distance runner plays a mental game to keep the body moving forward, my birthday has been a mind milepost that has granted me instant access to maturity when I need it. Who needs epiphanies?

Other Complications: Turning 30 (part two)

I'm a little tired of how people exaggerate by reduction. For example, if you're running late, the exaggerator will say you have less time than you actually have. If you're balancing your checkbook, the exaggerator will say you have less money in the bank.

Recent studies have shown that fertility starts to drop off at 35 for most women. The exaggerator says that fertility starts to drop off by your thirties. People hear "thirties" and think 30. That makes a lot of women in their late twenties who are being needlessly threatened with barrenness.

As I prepare for the big 3-0, I'm trying to remember how little numbers mean. Scott Adams has a theory of permanent age. Here's what he says:

"Some people are kids all their lives. They will admit they are 12-years old. Other people have always had senior citizen interests and perspectives. If you’re 30-years old in nominal terms, but you love bingo and you think kids should stop wearing those big baggy pants and listening to hip-hop music, your permanent age might be 60."

I think my permanent age is 13. But I may be exaggerating by reduction. I may actually be 14 1/2.

Other Complications: Turning 30

This entry falls under the category of "other complications" in the Ponderous House collection of diatribes.

I'm turning 30 in five days. It didn't really hit me until I flipped my pug dog wall calendar to June. It's my January 1. My new year--requiring resolutions, fireworks, and reflection.

As I was explaining to a friend who recently crossed this threshold: "When you're 30, everyone expects you to have your shit together. No one says that about 29-year-olds."

To evaluate my current status, I will be using Scott Adams' (creator of Dilbert) happiness formula:

Health + Money + Social Life + Meaning = :)

Health: I am pretty healthy. My ankles creak a little. My weight matches my height and body structure. My temperature readings show that I'm ovulating. I eat rather well, but could improve my intake of vegetables. I exercise three times a week. I have not been sick since early spring. Overall rating (out of 10 possible): 8

Money: I am currently unemployed, which may explain how I'm able to keep this blog rolling so consistently. However, just before leaving my job and moving, I received a grant for my writing, most of which is still in the bank. My husband has a full-time job with benefits, so the situation isn't dire. We have more on the credit card than I'd like, and it'll be several years before we can afford to buy a house. Overall rating: 6.5

Social Life: I just moved to a new area, so I don't know many people. The few I've met have been very nice. My social life consists of seeing family once a month, my husband daily, and my cats sporadically through the day and night. I don't need a lot of people to make me happy, and the few I need, I've been trying to keep in touch with (though I could improve in this area). Overall rating: 7

Meaning: Tough one. Am I doing anything that's worthwhile and that's contributing to the greater good? Well, right now I'm blogging, so...no. Writing consistently helps me translate my world into meaning. Sharing writing (both mine and the writing of others) makes me feel like I'm contributing. I'm searching for jobs that will also promote this area. Overall rating: 7

Ok. I'm whipping out the calculator. My average happiness score is 7.125. That's about a C minus. As an over-achiever, I'm simply not OK with that.

Perhaps I need to do a little extra credit. My husband and I play this game called the "three good things." Each night before we go to bed (if we can remember it), we tell each other the three best things that happened that day. I can be a Sullen Sally, so this prevents me from moaning, "Nothing. Nothing good ever happens to me!" I must find something, even if it is a cookie or a cat cuddle or a good sneeze. Sometimes that's all it takes.

The goal is to teach the brain how to search for the positives and to pull out of a downward spiral. If it's getting late and I only have two things on my list, I know that I need to create something good so that I have something to report. Some days are harder than others. Some days my husband covers my mouth and says, "That's enough, Pollyanna."

Right now: three good things.

Breeze through the window.
A good song on my I-pod.
I'm almost done.

Done.

Beauty and the Beast

Vanity Fair's controversial cover of a very pregnant Demi Moore published in August 1991 came out the same month I got my period for the first time. Some people, especially those who were a part of my conservative church, were horrified. Female nudity was evil, according to church leaders, but to defile the sacredness of motherhood by publicly showing the pregnant body was an abomination.

Others found the image refreshing. Finally, there will be an acceptance of the human form in all its marvelous variations, they breathlessly exclaimed.

I remember staring at the magazine cover in grocery stores. For me, a cultural phenomenon intersected my life at the exact moment when I became aware of myself as a woman capable of having children. The image and the controversy are part of the way I think about femininity. I thought she was beautiful, but there were people lining up behind me ready to proclaim her body "the most disgusting thing they'd ever seen."

The image revealed an undercurrent of thought about women and their bodies that isn't often seen or discussed directly in mainstream culture. It's like someone reached down, pried up a rock, and showed our ugly, squirming thoughts. Not everything sensational provokes thoughtful discourse, but there are definitely times we need to be prodded.

Motherhood: The New Celebrity

I recently went to a grocery store and ran into a woman who happens to know that my husband and I are trying to have a child. (By the way, never say anything in a Curves gym that you don't want the entire world to know.)

I was in the short line and had one thing in my hand: a bottle of wine. My husband was at home fixing up a nice dinner of prosciutto and pasta, and since I am clearly not pregnant and outside the range of possibly getting pregnant, we decided to make a nice meal and celebrate NOT being pregnant. Why not?

While chit-chatting, she looked down at my item and said, "Well, it looks like you're not pregnant yet, I see."

I was a caught off-guard a little bit because I'm not used to having my sex life (and really, when it comes down to it, that's what we're talking about) discussed in the 10 items or less lane at my local market. I've only told a few people that I'm actively trying to get pregnant, and I guess it was a little surprising to have an acquaintance bring up the topic. I mean, she doesn't know my name, but she does know that I'm trying.

This is my first public encounter with celebrity in the form of motherhood, or in my case, pre-motherhood. Pregnant women are high-profile these days. All the movie stars are showing off their bumps and baby weight. And everyone has an opinion about what pregnant women should and should not do. Once you start growing a life inside you, people start to treat you differently and not necessarily in the opening-doors-for-you and smiling-knowingly kind of way.

For now, I'm enjoying the incognito life of a woman without children. I have no screaming babe at hip to call attention to me. And I'm no big-breasted 19-year-old either. I can move unencumbered through the crowds for now.

The Problem that Has the Name Schroedinger

Schroedinger (a.k.a. Schroedie, a.k.a. The Stupid One) has been waking me up starting at 4 a.m. Who says that cats aren't decent preparation for children? He tries to be quiet, pacing up and down the length of the bed, but he just can't contain himself when my alarm goes off at 5:30 and I stick the thermometer in my mouth. He has a habit of sitting on my chest and rubbing against the thermometer. At 102 degrees, he's got to be affecting my basal readings!

And though he is stupid, he has learned that after the thermometer dings, it's alright to start purring and making noise. This morning, to wake me up, he started pawing at The Feminine Mystique that's on the floor beside my bed.

"Look, he's reading Friedan!" I said to my husband, who was half awake and therefore didn't find me humorous. "The cat's a feminist!"

Well, the cat also ran off with my bookmark, and now I don't know where I'm at. I'm taking my time with this massive tome, and I have to say it doesn't make the best bedtime reading. My husband, a history nerd and know-it-all, said, "Hey, I know how it ends. Want me to tell you?"

But that's beside the point. I need to figure this out for myself. In the meantime, the cat is demanding equal kibble for equal pets. I've created a monster!

Happy Fathers' Day

I found these stats in the June 18, 2007 edition of Time (yes, it came from the future):

• Worldwide, 10% to 40% of children grow up in households with no father at all.


• In the U.S., more that half of divorced fathers lose contact with their kids within a few years.


• According to a 1994 study by the Children's Defense Fund, men are more likely to default on a child-support payment (49%) than a used car payment (3%).

Ouch.

Other studies are showing that men are spending more time with their children than ever before. Still, that works out to only about an hour a day.

I'm an optimist, though. I'd like to think that fathers don't spend time with their children--not because they don't want to--but because financially it isn't feasible. Women still get paid less for doing the same work, so it just makes sense for most couples, both biologically and financially, to have the woman stay home to care for the child during the earliest months.

However, I believe that Family Medical Leave, established in 1993 (thank you, Bill), is changing how new parents care for their off-spring. The numbers do not yet show this new reality: men as well as women are entitled to up to 12 workweeks of unpaid leave to care for a new child or other family member.

Even though men and women are federally guaranteed this time and to be returned to their position or an equivalent position without penalty, who wouldn’t be fearful that in doing so they would be side-lined for a promotion or shuffled off into an “equivalent” but clearly less desirable position? I struggle with the idea that parenthood obviously requires sacrifice while maintaining that individuals should not be financially penalized for bringing a new voter into the world.

I’m gearing up for a manifesto of my own, so here it goes:

1) Men and women should take EVERY SINGLE MINUTE OF FMLA granted by federal law if they can afford it and fight for PAID LEAVE in order to care for family members.
2) Women—if you are married to a good man and a good father—talk about it! If your man doesn’t pull his half of the chores or change every other diaper, you should be ashamed and keep your mouth shut. We can create change by facilitating AN ENVIRONMENT WHERE FAIRNESS AND RESPONSIBILITY ARE VALUED AND EXPECTED.

As you can see from my reading, I am aware that a manifesto must make use of ALL-CAPS. This is, of course, a work in progress.

So, for starters, I would like to praise all dads and men who are doing their part with little fanfare from their partners. First my father, who at first called me a “femi-nazi” but later figured out on his own that the term wasn’t that funny. And secondly, my husband, who on his own unloads the dish washer, starts dinner, sorts laundry, and resists me forcefully when I start to lump him in with other men.

Taking Charge of Your Creativity

Taking Charge of Your Fertility by Toni Weschler is a book that every woman of child-bearing age should have. I know I could have really used this book several years ago when I desperately wanted a child but my life circumstances would not allow it. I lived in fear that once my situation changed, once my husband and I were stable enough, we would not be able to have a child. "There's no way you can possibly know if you're fertile until you start trying," I cried. But I was wrong.

This book dispels myths (including the most infamous one that all women operate on a 28-day cycle and therefore must ovulate on day 14) and gives women tools for understanding their bodies and cycles. Until I read this book, I had no concept of how many hormones were at play at any given moment in my cycle. The charts helped me see that my body is in constant flux, and with a few simple notes I can start to keep track of my pains, moods, and, um, fluids.

Birth control has always wreaked havoc on my body--and I've tried everything. This book talks about natural birth control, which is not the same as the Rhythm method, and shows how a woman can track her cycle and manage her fertility in the least invasive way possible. I'd much rather stick a thermometer in my mouth every morning than something else you-know-where.

This book has made me think about other areas of my life I've allowed to be controlled by fear, myth, and happenstance. Namely, my writing life. Though I've tried to create structured writing time, I still, sometimes, bow to the myth that the muse cannot be compelled to show up, that you must take inspiration when it comes. Often this has left me feeling helpless and in despair when I couldn't find the time or impulse to write.

Before reading this book, I had thought that all the charts and graphs would impede the excitement and mystery of conception. Not so. I should have known, but ladies and gents, information is SEXY. The more I know, the more I'm open to mystery and possibility. It's the same for making a baby as it is for making a poem.

A ritual is something systematic that becomes endowed with meaning. So saith the muse, stick that thermometer in your mouth and pick up that pen, and write!

Hormones and Men

So you think only women have to worry about hormones? Nah-ah.

Studies by Canadian biologist Katherine Wynne-Edwards and psychologist Anne Storey have shown that men experienced increased levels of prolactin toward the end of their partner's pregnancy. This is the same hormone found in lactating mothers. Furthermore, new dads, and even dads-to-be, showed a spike in prolactin and cortisol (a stress hormone linked with mothering) as well as a decrease in testosterone when holding a newborn. Men reacted in the same way when just holding a doll wrapped in blankets that previously held a newborn. The study reveals that the more the hormones change, the more the men feel compelled to care for and comfort a child when he or she cries. But, in order for these hormones to kick in, the dads need to be present and close during the earliest stages of the baby's life. This is definitely a topic worth exploring further.

Personally, I would love to see my husband on the hormone roller-coaster with me for a change. I told him that he is required to cry in the delivery room; even if I have to kick him in the nuts, he WILL cry.

Poetry Is Not a Hard Pill to Swallow

When I opened the June 18, 2007, edition of Time, I was excited to see an article entitled “Poems for the People” with a picture of young champions from the Poetry Out Loud National Recitation Contest. This excitement was quickly dispelled when I read Lev Grossman’s description of poetry as “the spinach in America’s media diet.” He comforts readers: “Chances are, you don’t read much poetry, at least not the new stuff. Don’t feel bad, hardly anybody does. To hit the best-seller list for verse, a book has to sell only around 30 copies.” As a poet, a writer of the “new stuff” desperately trying to get my manuscript published for a chance at selling 30 copies (which I’m confident I could do easily), this dismissal of contemporary poetry and its value to readers made me want to crawl under my covers, sulk for a while, and then, well, write a poem about it.

Grossman cites John Barr, president of the Poetry Foundation, a controversial and well-heeled literati who claims that poetry is going down the tubes because of all the sullen hacks infesting MFA programs and churning out substandard and inaccessible works. He is a former Wall Street investor, author of six books of poetry, teacher, and now handler of the $200 million endowment bestowed by heiress Ruth Lilly, great-granddaughter of Eli Lilly, who founded the pharmaceutical company that brought us Prozac, Cialis, methodone, and others. Barr wants more people to read poetry and for it to be less depressing. Now if he could just figure out how to get people to swallow it….

Barr is one of many who has recently heralded the death of poetry. I’m glad that he does not flinch from addressing some obvious problems in academia and the study of literature. Yes, some poetry is dull. Yes, some poetry is impenetrable. Yes, some poetry is limited and stale. But what bothers me is that he, seemingly without reservation, perpetuates myths about all poetry and poets: they are disorganized, irrelevant, morose, inaccessible, and slaves to academia. Grossman ends his article saying that “Even if you don’t agree with Barr’s solutions, he has admitted a fundamental and cultural fact: that something has changed, that the great voices of our time no longer speak in verse.” If Barr were doing his job properly, he would not leave the argument in this sad condition, bailing out the water but ultimately announcing that the ship is sunk.

Poetry, as a cultural institution, is in no worse shape than, say, historical museums, art galleries, music programs and orchestras, dancers, and schools. Poets are not just competing with television, the Internet, and iPods. Poets are competing with other purveyors of entertainment and culture, including other poets. People are working more, have less and less free time and money, and yet the options for spending this time and money continue to increase. Of course, no one large group is reading poetry. People, once they have graduated from high school, are under no requirement to read poetry. But the desire, I believe, is there. Don’t blame poets for crushing this desire (or MFA programs or school teachers), blame the overwhelming obligations and opportunities of living in a democracy. We have so much to choose from, and poets, who are truly considering their audience, must work under this weight, acknowledge this, and decide in what direction to take their poetry.

We need all kinds of poets. We need dirty limerick writers and experimental wind-bags. We need schools that inflict poetry on students, and individuals who decide to continue reading in spite of their “education.” We need poetry on the buses, but we also need it in volumes that the devoted reader can find and cherish. We need poets in the schools, not just universities and literary presses. We need poets in business and other cultural institutions. We need John Barr and people who will respond violently to him. We need more liberal arts in higher education instead of insisting that students specialize immediately. We need college English classes that are more than remediation for the failures of high school English. We need money to fund schools and the arts in order to improve the quality of our educational system as a whole. All of this is happening, but slowly.

Each generation on its way out wants to take its toys with it. John Barr is nearing the end of his second career. It has always been the role of the elderly to mourn the passing of time and the changes they’ve seen. As the Boomers get ready to retire from positions of leadership, we will continue to hear about the decrepit state of _______ (insert field of your choice). Just don’t let that stop you. Keep writing, reading, and supporting the arts. Soon enough, you’ll be old and can complain about the kids too.

Library for the little twinkle in my eye

I have to admit that I've started a library for my yet-unborn, yet-unconceived child. I convince myself these books are "gifts" for friends with children and that I simply haven't gotten around to mailing, but I know, deep down, that's not true.

Here are two of my favorites:

I Howl I Growl by Marcia Vaughn

Favorite line: "I sting. I sing."

The Pigeon Has Feelings, Too! by Mo Willems

Favorite line: "Boy, you sure know how to make a bird ANGRY!"

I plan on having one moody baby. Plus, I expect that, like my cats, baby will be my first audience for all future poems. It's only fair.

Mothers in AA

A decent resource I found at the library was Before Your Pregnancy: A 90 Day Guide for Couples on How to Prepare for a Healthy Conception. Basically, the book talks about pre-natal nutrition and overall health, under the assumption that anything that's good for you while you're pregnant is good for you before you're pregnant.

It's a useful book, especially if you're the nervous type. I used the book mostly to amp up my diet and get the most bang for my grocery buck. I'm eating more broccoli because it has calcium and other good stuff in it. And it's cheap. I'm taking my pre-natal vitamin and trying to drink more milk. I'm a lucky one: I don't have to figure out how to quit smoking or lose weight. I'm in good shape.

One thing I do and will struggle with: alcohol. I love it. I love having a glass of wine with dinner. I love hanging out with friends over a beer. The days of binge drinking are long gone, but I still enjoy my drink. For me, it's one of the few luxuries I allow myself.

The book, however, says that I should just stop that now. No more alcohol for you, baby. It says that alcohol, even the slightest amount before a woman even knows she's pregnant, can affect development. This same statement was echoed by my doctor when I asked her as well.

It begs the question: WHAT CHILD IN AMERICA WAS NOT CONCEIVED ON AT LEAST ONE GLASS OF WINE??? And then I look out the window at all the imbecile children throwing rocks at each other and think, well, maybe it does matter.

So, I'm good with that. I'll not drink while I'm trying to conceive, and I'm perfectly capable of not drinking for 9 months. It'll be a sacrifice, but I can do it. But then the book goes one step further. It says (my paraphrase): "If you feel resentful about having to cut alcohol out of your life, then maybe you should sign up for AA."

That's just ridiculous. What the hell happened to moderation? This book is not only dictating what I should be doing with my body, but also what I should be doing with my emotions. Throughout the book, it describes pregnancy as a "gift" and "miracle," and babies as "a bundle of joy." Well, I think women should limit their exposure to clichés if they're trying to get pregnant.

Here's the advice of my good friend who has two healthy, beautiful girls: don't drink during your fertile days, hold off until you get your period again, and then go ahead and have a drink until you start to near ovulation. If you're keeping track, you'll know when this window takes place.

Dear ones, moderation, MODERATION, in all things. And know thyself. Wisdom of the ancients.

Motherhood: Soft Focus

I went to my public library to pick up some books on fertility, and I was a little frustrated to find that not much is out there in terms of pre-conception planning, at least available free to the public. The library seems to have invested in plenty of books about having a healthy sex life (those crazy librarians!) but not much when it comes to helping that sex life produce life.

I did find one book about conception and fertility published by Goldenbooks. Yep, that's the same publisher of The Pokey Little Puppy. It has glossy pages and big-bellied women in gauzy shirts being lovingly caressed by their very obviously married partner. Have you ever noticed that pictures of pregnant women have the mandatory ring shot? Oh, and did I mention the book is PINK?

Now, I have nothing against pink. But I do have a problem with a picture book masquerading as reference material. I want INFORMATION, not cute soft-focus images of happy women who speak about their little bundles of joy. Needless to say, I put the book back on the shelf.

The Art of Losing Isn't Hard to Master

My husband and I visited a small country graveyard last month to look at tombstones. No, I'm not morbid; I'm married to a historian. The graveyard contained tombstones from some of the earliest settlers to this area, and walking the grass pathways, you could see the stories of hard, short lives. I was intrigued by the family plots, especially the one of a man buried between his two wives, both who died within a couple years of each other, flanked by children, most of whom died before their father.


In one area of the graveyard, there was a small tombstone marked simply "Infant" and the family name. According to my very smart spouse, it was not uncommon for parents to withhold naming a child until he or she reached the first birthday. Infant death was common, and perhaps this was a way of dealing with a hard reality.


Does naming something make it hurt more when it's lost? This makes me think of the common trend of couples not announcing the pregnancy until it "sticks" or until the pregnancy has made it through the first trimester. I've heard that about 20% of pregnancies end in miscarriage during the first 12 weeks and that the amount could be even higher during the earliest weeks before a woman even knows she's pregnant.



I'm all for not going out and buying a crib the minute the home pregnancy test reads positive. But, at the same time, I don't think I could keep it to myself. I'd want my closest friends and family to know as well as to be there if I needed their support if the pregnancy didn't last.



Loss, I believe, doesn't need a name. To carve any letters into stone, even the anonymous "Infant," could not have been easy.

Fertility Figures Found in Tombs

I recently visited a small local art museum that had a couple stone figures of naked women from ancient Egypt, circa 1540-1075 BCE. Since these carved chicks were found in tombs, archeologists at first thought they were replicas of concubines designed to pleasure the departed in the afterlife. But the theory didn't hold when they started finding the figures in the tombs of women and children.

It's more likely, then, that the figures are those of goddesses who oversee fertility and childbirth. But why in tombs? In answer to my question, the museum placard politely explained that in the Egyptian religion, birth in this world is closely linked to re-birth in the afterlife. The figures were placed in tombs to guide the way from one life to the next.

What with Clomid and in vitro and all the other technologies available to modern couples, I've often wondered what women have done in the past who struggled with getting pregnant. With all the charts and measurements, it's sometimes easy to create the illusion of control. But when you really think about it, it hasn't changed very much. No, not that much at all in several thousand years.

A Poem by Barbara Ras

Pregnant Poets Swim Lake Tarleton, New Hampshire
--For Emily Wheeler

You dive in, head for the other side, sure
that to swim a lake means to cross it,
whole. I am slow to follow,
repelled by edgewater rife with growth, the darker
suck of the deep. You lead,
letting go so surely you possess. I surrender.
Midlake we rest, breathless, let up our feet.
Our bellies are eight-month fruits
fabulous with weightlessness.
We have entered summer like a state of pasture,
pregnancy like a state of mind so full
nothing else can be.
Sharing this is simple: the surprise of a tomato
still perfect after days in a pocket.
Here is the circle made flesh.
How much water does it take to make blood?
Where do Tibetans get the conches
they blow to release the trapped sound of the sea?
Our talk slows to the lengthening loop of the blood,
pauses for tiny hands, tiny feet, to beat their say-so.
“Marianne” lasts as long as a complete sentence
before the next utterance floats up, “Moore.”
We are the gardens. We are the toads.
The season of wetness is upon us.
Leap. Leap for all the kingdoms
and all the waters,
the water that breaks,
the rain, the juice, the tide,
the dark water that draws light down to life.





Barbara Ras


The New American Poets: A Breadloaf Anthology

Love Works Like This

from Lauren Slater's Love Works Like This

"According to Susan Maushart, females are a whopping sixteen times more likely to experience psychosis after the birth of a child, and pregnancy for a woman with a history of depression is a known and serious psychiatric risk….It is nearing Christmastime and hundreds of women move through the dusk. I stand on the library steps and watch them, and I feel a new respect. Ninety-four percent of the world’s women bear children, which means they agree, knowingly or not, to navigate the most difficult terrain of the brain. Sometimes I am ashamed of being female, but not today. I like the snow, I like the salt-block sky, I like how we women move, en masse, toward the lighted trees."

The Maternal Wall

The Motherhood Manifesto
by Joan Blades and Kristen Rowe Finkbeiner

The writers of this book put forth some solid points about what our society needs to do in order to make motherhood a more viable option. The book is straightforward, a bit repetitive, and could be read by a woman with a baby screaming in her ear. Ultimately, I was disappointed by the book because it didn't present any points of action--a lot of WHATS but no HOWS.

Her points are that families need universal healthcare, excellent and accessible childcare, flexible work schedules, fair and realistic wages, family leaves that don't punish workers, and quality after-school programs. Duh, duh, duh, duh, and duh. Oh, and duh.

Yes, these are all very good ideas, but she never gets into how to accomplish these changes. She simply says, Get in touch with your legislator and convince him or her that these are important issues to support. So, I guess it's all who screams loudest, right? Global warming, immigration, healthcare reform...pick your sign and get marching.

The author makes one really good assertion: women overall get paid less than men, and are paid less even when you control for maternity leave and child-related absences. Employers pay women less IN ANTICIPATION of women having babies and taking time off. And then they don't promote them when they in time do take their federally guaranteed leave. Double-ding. So, I guess this book is a rally cry rather than a systematic set of solutions.

Got Milk?

Eek. Sorry. I feel a little bad about that title.

I discovered that the recently signed House Bill 2372 for the State of Oregon requires businesses with 25 or more employees to provide mothers a private place and unpaid time to maintain milk if there is no undue hardship.

What does that mean? Undue hardship? Maintain milk? This sounds scary to me.

Welcome to the Ponderous House

Welcome.

This is a no shoes house. But even if you're not barefoot and pregnant, there's room for you.

I happen to know that Plath did not have a bun in the oven when she wrote "Metaphors," the poem that gives name to this blog.

In the poem, Plath heaps image on top of image without directly mentioning the tenor of the metaphors (the thing all the images represent). Yet, the riddle is an obvious one.

Ask any heterosexual woman of child-bearing age if she is pregnant, and most likely you will get this answer: I don't think so. There is always uncertainty. Always the potential. Doubt, after all, is the heart of metaphor. You are one thing, a woman, but you could also be something completely different, a house. I think Plath was playing around with that idea in her glut of poetic images.

I like to think about Plath writing that poem, imagining herself pregnant, perhaps hoping, permitting the doubt long enough to open to the possibilities that create the vital images of the poem.

The Pop Quiz

If a pregnacy test were a real examination, what kinds of questions would it ask?

More than an accident

You've got to be crazy to intentionally choose to make your life harder, right? I can barely think straight as it is. I don't have enough time to write. Money is tight. Why in the world would I want to have a child?

I'd like to think that if the choice were made for me, that if the test, unexpectedly, came out positive, that I would rise to the occasion. Like Plath, I would just hang tight to the strap as the train took me straight to Motherhood. I try to convince my husband that babies don't come out asking for twenty bucks and to borrow the car. Remember, I say, there's nine whole months to prepare. That's like a lifetime.

I'm attracted to the excitement of suddenly discovering that everything has changed. I imagine it's like the moment a poem takes a sharp right turn into the unknown -- the muse is on cruise control. But so little of life, or writing, is like that. Most of it is crappy drafts, rejection, and hard work.

So, why would I go out and choose to make life harder? As a poet it's my job to be disatisfied with the way things are, to see possibility in the ordinary, to demand more from language than information. Sometimes I stumble into meaning. Sometimes I have an ephiphany and it all comes into focus. But mostly, meaning is something that has to be made each day, like a bed. It can be a disappointing and dangerous task to look at the world and ask it to be more.

Poets get labeled often as being too sensitive. We're a fragile bunch. We jump off bridges or drink ourselves to death. We're selfish and wear berets. Not the type you'd consider the ideal parent. But I believe it takes guts, a hard head, and an iron and intellectual gaze to insist that the human experience is more than a series of fortunate accidents.

Take your vitamins!

As soon as I mentioned to my doctor that I was thinking, thinking, about maybe-perhaps in the near future, possibly a year from now, having the conversation with my husband about trying to get pregnant, she whipped out her RX pad and wrote me a prescription for pre-natal vitamins. Which happen to be a lot less exciting than Flintstones chewables, by the way.

Really, if you want to get pregnant, she told me, you should start acting as though you're pregnant right now. Perhaps sensing my resistance she added: A glass of wine, even before you know you're pregnant, can affect fetal development.

I'm still a bit skeptical about what sounds to me like a scare tactic. After all, what child in this country hasn't been conceived on a glass or more of wine? But I took the prescription the doctor wrote for me, got it filled, and am now diligently taking my purple pill with a full glass of water each evening.

I've seen plenty of people use the impending birth of a child as impetus for self-improvement. My friend quit smoking a full week before she got pregnant and never craved a cigarette after that. Others started to eat healthier, take walks, slow down a little. Me, I like the ritual. The glass of water and the quiet minute it takes me to drink it.

The emphasis on weeding out unhealthy habits in preparation for having a child has made me think about what I'm doing (or not doing) to ensure that my creative life doesn't develop a corkscrew tail or a third eye. The myth of the self-destructive writer, alcoholic or psychotic or both, is a hard one to shake. Live it up to write it down -- it should be on a flag somewhere. Whenever I begin to get seduced by the martyr for art syndrome, my husband offers to beat me or run off with another woman so that I can have something new to write about.

How do I ensure the health of my writing life when it feels like everything in my day is trying to keep me from it? I want my poems with all their fingers and toes. I want my poems to come out screaming. Every time I write, it feels like it's the only poem I'll ever write. But there are small preparations that I can make in the meantime: read something every day, writing something every day, and take my vitamins. You never know when the next poem will present itself. Can't hurt to be prepared, right?

What to expect when you're not expecting

"You know, if you're trying to get pregnant, you shouldn't have/do that." Here are things that are off-limits according to some unsolicited advice I've received recently:

--tuna
--hair bleaching
--scuba diving (??)
--brie and blue cheese
--alcohol
--green tea
--black tea
--coffee
--meth
--cat litter (changing it)
--cat litter (eating it)
--cat litter (inhaling it)
--herbs
--tofu
--not enough sleep
--too little body fat
--too much body fat

You've got to take it with a grain of salt (just not TOO much salt) of course. I think that's why I'm keeping this little project to myself for now. Each month, when it doesn't happen, I raise a glass of something forbidden and say, "Cheers!"