Posted by Anne

How do you move past a rough beginning?  Take the following examples…

• The book whose first 50 pages are slow at best, snooze-inducing at worst.
• The first date filled with slight promise, but even more awkwardness.
• The new job that creates anxiety throughout the entire first year.
• A vacation that begins on the wrong foot—with a flight delay, a bad hotel, or a disappointing meal.
• A new town that disappoints you—a town that’s different than you imagined.

How long do we give something—a relationship, a book, a job, a town—before we give up on it?  Do we let these rough (and sometimes disappointing) beginnings taint us before we gather the full story?  And how long do we wait?  How much patience should we allot before making our decision, breaking it off, or packing our bags?

This dilemma has been at the forefront of my mind since moving to a new town—and a new coast—a year and 7 months ago.  I knew moving to the Northwest would be an adjustment, but I was optimistic.  I was ready for a lush green landscape, berry farms, and countless destinations for outdoorsy recreation.  Our town has totally delivered on those expectations.  But culturally, I knew I was in for a change.  And I thought I was ready…excited even.  It’s been harder than I imagined. 

When we first moved here, there were some not-so-pleasant surprises…

• My 2^nd day in town, when someone shattered my car window at a local park (at NOON on a TUESDAY), and stole my purse and computer. (Yeah, I was stupid to leave those in my car…but still…)
• The arrival at our new home—a fine and cute rental, but a street that lacked the kind of Northwest charm I’d envisioned.
• A community that was certainly laid-back and kind, but one that also lacked the outgoing and open friendliness I’d known for my entire life in the Midwest. 

In short, it was a rough beginning.  And after 8 months, I started planning my escape.  Life would be better, I thought, when we moved.  The Douglas Fir trees would be greener, taller, and better in another city. 

But we didn’t move.  The opportunities weren’t there yet, and when push came to shove, we weren’t ready to pick up and start over, or leave the security of jobs we like.  So we stayed.  And people told me, “Give it two years.”  People encouraged me, “It takes awhile to feel at home…the Northwest can be a tough place to break into.”  And they were right.

This August will mark our 2-year anniversary in our new digs.  And since the 8-month mark, our life has changed.  We have friends instead of acquaintances.  And we have more acquaintances that could become friends.  We have a Church, hobbies, favorite restaurants, and favorite neighborhoods.  Those first few months of rough beginnings are still there (and hard to shake), but beginning to fade slightly.  I’m still not convinced this town will be my home forever—I don’t have that sense.  And there are many days I still dream of moving.  But not in the urgent, restless way I did before.  It feels positive to have made it through a rough start, and to make the best of the situation I’ve got.  It feels a little…life in pencil. 

Sometimes a false start can indeed be a sign of things to come.  And our instincts are often correct.  But there’s something gratifying about pushing through the stumbles, and finding something worthwhile on the other end.    

Have you ever experienced a rough start?  When those rough starts occur, do you “put down the book” so to speak, or do you keep plowing through? 

Counting our blessings...

March’s theme at Life in Pencil is Beginnings

Posted by Elizabeth

“Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could; some blunders and absurdities have crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; you shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense. “   — Ralph Waldo Emerson

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about ruminating.  In fact, I guess you could say I’ve been ruminating about ruminating.  So what, exactly, is rumination?  According to Depression’s Upside, a recent article in The New York Times Magazine by Jonah Lehrer, rumination is derived from the Latin word for “chewed over,” describing the act of digestion and regurgitation that cows go through.  While it’s kind of a gross image, it’s really effective in describing the mental process that we go through when we process and then reprocess information over and over (and over) again in our tired brains.  In its exaggerated state it’s the thought process that underlies depression, as rumination tends to “lead people to fixate on their flaws and problems, thus extending their negative moods.”  Some of us are more prone to rumination than others – I happen to be an ace ruminator – but I think all of us ruminate from time to time.  So how does rumination both help us and hurt us in our quest to live our lives in the now and make fresh starts?

Rumination is generally unproductive. I am planning a trip to Italy next month.  After spending a number of days researching different lodging options, my heart leapt when I discovered a boutique hotel that looked like something out of Roman Holiday.  After happily confirming our reservation, I spent the next two days rehashing the options, even adding new properties into the mix, finally convincing myself that I had made a poor initial choice.  After much prodding from Maikael, I eventually accepted the decision I made and moved on with my life.  But those intervening days?  A complete waste of my time.  According to Lehrer’s article, “rumination hijacks the stream of consciousness, and we become fixated on the perceived problem.”  Research has continually shown that “rumination is a useless kind of pessimism, a perfect waste of mental energy.”  So why do we do it?

Sometimes rumination is a good thing. Lehrer’s article explores the notion that rumination might actually have utility in our lives.  While rumination is undeniably unpleasant, it’s often exhibited in response to a real problem, such as the loss of a job or end of a relationship (I admit: my lodging dilemma was not a real problem, even though I perceived it to be at the time).  Some prevailing science suggests that rumination might help us to learn from our past or prepare for our future.  Before meeting with the perinatologist a few weeks ago, I was in a major ruminative cycle, projecting all sort of worse case scenarios onto my mental screen.  Had something been wrong, perhaps I would have been a little better prepared to deal with the fallout.  According to Lehrer, rumination underlies the ability to stay intensely focused on a problem for long periods of time and analytically break down those problems into small parts.  When I face a complex life problem, turning it over and over again in my head, studying it from every angle possible before deciding on a path forward, rumination can be my friend.

Rumination is the opposite of living in the now. While the scientific jury is still out as to the function of ruminating, when it comes to living life in pencil, rumination seems to do more harm than good.  The problem with rumination is that we spend our time replaying the past or projecting our worries into the future, rather than living in the present.  When we ruminate, each moment becomes a reenactment of the past or a dress rehearsal for the (unknown) future, robbing us of our opportunity to start anew.  So how do we ruminate less and live more?  I think there’s a lot of wisdom contained in that Emerson quote.

“Finish each day and be done with it.” I have a tendency to let the problems of the day leak over into the next.  Sometimes my dreams are plagued with bits and pieces of my ruminations, spilling forth the vestiges of my unfinished business and loose ends.  When I was little, my mom bought me a set of Guatemalan Worry Dolls, tiny woven figurines that nestled snugly in a little oval box.  The idea was to “assign” a specific worry to each doll before bedtime, letting them “hold” the worry until the morning.  Although I don’t use my worry dolls anymore, I sleep best when I truly get ready for bed (we’re not just talking teeth brushing here, people).  Taking my time to review the day on paper – be it through an email to a friend, a note in my journal, or simply scanning my day planner – helps me to put the day to rest and prepare for the next one.  (Anne’s gratitude journal could also come in handy here.)  I also benefit from make a conscious choice as to what problems are worth picking up tomorrow, and which ones I can let die with the day.  What doesn’t help is talking about my worries from the day as I lay in bed readying myself for sleep; for me, it lacks the “containment” of the other methods.

“Tomorrow is a new day; you shall begin it serenely.” I don’t do a great job of easing myself into the day, and mornings are a hectic time for most of us.  Within the first five minutes of rising I turn on my cell phone, dash to my day planner to see what’s on the agenda for the day, and snap on the computer to check my email to see what crises have materialized or interesting news has transpired in the past eight hours.  It recently struck me that this is a particularly ugly way to prepare myself for a new day.  Those first moments of the day are precious, before the outside world has encroached.  Instead of throwing myself into activity, I could have a cup of tea, jot down creative ideas that have emerged overnight, do a few yoga stretches, talk with Maikael, or even make the bed.  Choosing just one of these activities that lasted no more than 10 minutes would be better than how I currently start my day, serving to help me ease into things rather than pick up right where I left off.  And maybe then I’d worry a little less about the problems of yesterday.

Do you tend to ruminate or not?  Do you have particular things that you ruminate about?  Do you agree or disagree that rumination has utility?  What strategies have you found helpful in allowing you to leave one day behind and start a new one afresh?

March’s theme at Life in Pencil is Beginnings.

Posted by Elizabeth

Last Friday I finally got around to doing some much-needed pruning in my yard.   I clipped back the sage bush, a tangled mat of crisp vines supported by a thick carpet of decaying leaves.  I tore at shards of dried iris leaves with my bare hands, strips of coarse raffia removed to reveal tiny green shoots of new growth below.  New life was emerging, unseen and untouched until I folded back the blanket of winter.  March is an elusive month, filled with tentative beginnings. Daffodils and crocus – the front-line soldiers sent out before the rest of the troops – hesitantly shoulder their way out of the hard earth, peeking their fresh heads out for a look around, then seeming to retreat.  One moment the cold wind is howling at our doorstep, and the next the sun is peeping through a curtain of grey.  March is an identity crisis, unable to decide whether it’s time to continue hibernating or come out of our holes.

These days, my life seems reflective of this shift of seasons.  Last week spring fever was in full swing, the promise of new beginnings swirling around me like a happy whirlwind.    The energy and excitement of new writing projects, social engagements, an upcoming trip to Europe, and impending motherhood – all emerging on the horizon – was enough to carry me full-throttle into a new season.  I crossed off items on my to-do list, many of which had languished for months, in an inky flourish, cheerily wondering to myself, “Why did it take me so long to get to this?”  I wrote.  I made reservations.  I researched.  I returned phone calls.  I got a lot done, and as I result I felt happy, alive, and energized.

I planned for an equally productive week, enthusiastically sketching an exceedingly long to-do list on Sunday evening.  But yesterday morning I woke up groggy and out-of-sorts, immediately feeling the shift of energy that had taken place overnight.  I scanned my to-do list, the items of which now seemed daunting and unachievable.  I moped around the kitchen for awhile, then killed time checking my email, feeling that familiar sensation creep in around me.  Now what?

Humans are just like the seasons.  There is no clear breaking point between winter and spring, but a number of weeks on either side of March 20th where the seasons “slosh” back and forth, an ongoing arm-wrestling match until spring finally wins out – and such is the case with new beginnings in our own lives.  There is an uncomfortable push-pull that takes place before new life firmly takes root.  We tend to revel in those spring-like moments of action, clarity, purpose, and productivity, but fight those inevitable small slides back into winter, often characterized by inaction, confusion, and low energy; in other words, mental hibernation.  If we endeavor to live our lives in the present moment, though, we need to learn to accept whatever the day (and the season) brings us – even if it’s not what we would have chosen for ourselves.

As I thought about how I’d like my day to unfold, accepting the parameters that had been given to me, I knew I had a decision to make:  I could retreat back into full winter hibernation mode or step tentatively back into spring.  Here’s what I considered:

1. I needed to embrace the “sloshing point.” Year ago, I took a series of classes at an organization in Seattle called Centerpoint, which teaches clients how to better manage their careers and their lives through periods of change.  At Centerpoint I learned to think about my life as seasons of the year, and the inevitable “sloshing” that happens between stages and seasons.  Even though the sun was shining, yesterday felt more like winter than spring:  so be it.
2. I need to realize that activity has to be balanced with periods of non-doing. Last fall I wrote about the importance of plateaus, those inevitable periods of inactivity that pop up in our lives.  While plateaus can last weeks or months, sometimes I think we experience mini-plateaus that last just a day or two.  After a week of total productivity, I needed to give myself permission to take a mini-break.  In fact, this dip in energy was probably just a natural balancing-out.  New beginnings require both activity and non-doing.
3. I need to set small(er) goals for this week. This week isn’t last week, and my metric for what I accomplished yesterday need not dictate my level of productivity today.  Although I’m not ready for full-fledged spring, at times like these it’s easy for me to slide back into full hibernation, which usually leads me to falling even deeper into winter.  Instead, I decided to take a smaller step into spring, setting more manageable goals for where I’m at today.  Will I get as much done as I did last week?  Probably not, but I’ll get something done, and won’t feel like a slug.  At Centerpoint, I learned to ask myself, “What do I have energy for today?”
4. I don’t need to chastise myself for a waning enthusiasm for these new beginnings. We naturally praise ourselves for being active and productive – as products of the Western world, it’s hard-wired into us.  But last week, I didn’t read, or think, or do any of the contemplative activities that make my periods of activity possible.  So rather than berating myself for not moving in a steady “onward and upward” pattern, I will recognizing that every new period of beginning involves a few steps back.

How about you? What do you find helpful when you’re “sloshing” between seasons – especially between the “winter” and “spring” of your life?  How do new beginnings show themselves in your own life?  How do you “stay in the moment” when the excitement of new beginnings is on the horizon but not quite here yet?

Posted by Anne

Life in Pencil is getting ready to go in a new direction.  We’re not quite yet ready to unveil our new plans, but, beginning this month, we’ll focus on a new topic every month.  Since March is the beginning of spring, a time of new life, this month’s theme will be Beginnings.  How do we live our lives in pencil during that tenuous time when there is new life on the horizon?

Last week, you made me think.  I wrote this post on my life-to-do-list, and several of you admitted similar moments of panic, and asked this question:

What happens when we’ve checked off the items?  What next?

A great question.  A particularly great question when glimmers of spring appear—when daffodils begin peeking through the dirt, and we (or at least I) feel called to begin any one of a jillion different projects. And just as I can generate lists and lists of projects to go along with my new Spring swagger, I can likewise think of about a million (or at least 10) things I’d like to do with my life.  When I truly consider the options for my future, there is no shortage of ideas.  Rather, an overwhelming abundance.  “Beginnings” are everywhere.  I’m sure many of you can relate, and there are probably many reasons I struggle with this unending array of interests.  But there’s one root cause that came to mind last week, after a particularly stimulating counseling session with an adorably enthused student.  As I walked him through the results of his personality assessment, I found myself resonating deeply.  And this is the part where I get all career counselor-y on you, but it’s relevant…I swear.

Remember the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator?  If you weren’t around when I did my previous post on this ubiquitous personality test, then check this out—it’ll provide a little recap.  In that post, I wrote about that pesky part of my personality that’s very addicted to planning.  But last week, as I read your comments and listened to this young student, I realized there’s another part of my “type” (ENFJ to those of you who care) that’s becoming very Life in Pencil relevant these days.  So without further ado…

I’m an Extravert.

Now, pop culture totally screws up the whole “introvert/extravert” dichotomy.  Introverts are not necessarily shy (but sometimes are).  Extraverts are not necessarily loquacious social butterflies (but sometimes are…I’ve definitely got the loquacious part down.)  In actuality, a major difference between the types is where they get their energy.  Warning:  Massive overgeneralization of Myers Briggs Typology coming…Do you feel jazzed and refreshed after a stimulating presentation or conversation?  Extravert.  Do you feel exhausted and crave some major alone-time after you’ve been interacting with others all day?  Introvert.

But there’s another common quality of these types.  Introverts often have fewer interests, and even fewer friends…but really deep ones.  Extraverts?  We like to dabble in many interests, hobbies, and even relationships.  We’re broad.  And sometimes a little more shallow…at least when it comes to how deep we dive into these pursuits.

So…all those multiple interests of mine?  The fact that I can truly see myself pursuing several different options?  The part that’s a fan of beginning new projects?  It’s there—part of my personality.  Of course, maybe it has nothing to do with my personality, but it’s at least a theory.  And in some ways, I like this part of myself.  I believe there’s value in being a “Renaissance Woman”.  But I have to admit…when you’re obsessively calmly trying to craft a new “life-to-do-list”, this trait is also sort of a pain in the ass.  My broad interests regularly collide with the part of myself that’s craving sameness.  My quest for “beginnings” battles my internal need for stability.

I don’t have answers.  But I do have deep thoughts.  Here’s what I’ve realized…

Epiphany #1: This whole “planning your life” thing?  It’s hard when your interests veer in twenty different directions in the course of a single day.

Epiphany #2: Attempting to stick to one vocation is not only uncommon these days, the linear “path” may not fit me as well as I thought it would.

Epiphany #3: When I’m done checking off those massive items on my life to-do-list?  I’m never going to hurt for other options, other hobbies, other interests.  My extraverted personality will see to that.

Epiphany #4: Beginnings are a natural part of our life course, and they appear all the time.  The key is to embrace them, and let them work their magic.

How about you?  Regardless of the introvert/extravert piece of it, are you someone who dabbles in a lot of things?  Or do you maintain a steady few interests/pursuits?  Do you feel overwhelmed by options, or starving for them? Do you get a literal “spring” in your step when March rolls around?

Posted by Elizabeth

I’ll never forget the year I graduated from college, when well-meaning people began peppering me with the inevitable question that strikes fear in the heart of every senior.  “What are you going to do when you graduate?”  The fact was, other than a vague notion that I might move to New York and try to be an actor – with no concrete plan as to how to achieve that goal — I was clueless.  Much like Anne, my life had always fallen along neat timelines, and while my peers would have undoubtedly described me as “goal-oriented” — a phrase I’ve always despised — the fact was that, other than an ability to put one foot in front of the other, I didn’t have any goals.  I suddenly realized that the only item on life’s to-do list was “graduate from college,” which I was about to cross off.  Now what?

Since that uncertain spring ten years ago, my life has taken me down roads I never could have imagined for myself.  I owe part of the adventure to the fact that I’ve never clutched the traditional to-do list, with predetermined milestones to meet at specified times.  In fact, I don’t know if I ever had a life’s to-do list so much as a life’s to-don’t list. I was never interested in setting goals to get married, have children, buy a house, and establish a successful career. (While most of these things have inadvertently happened to me – isn’t that always the way? – they certainly didn’t fall along any self-imposed timelines or according to a plan, perhaps because you’re supposed to place your intention on what you do want rather than what you don’t want, lest the universe get confused and mix the whole thing up.)  While I was comfortable expressing what I didn’t want for my life, I struggled to place any goals on that to-do list.  Looking back, though, it’s clear that I was living my life according to a to-do list; in fact, it happens to be a version of the same one I clutch in my hands today.  It looks something like this:

1. Find spiritual enlightenment
2. Solidify my identity
3. Lead an interesting and exciting life full of mystery and adventure
4. Pursue a career that is the deepest reflection of my soul
5. Figure out my purpose on this earth

Yesterday, Anne and many of you readers expressed frustration at not knowing what to do or how to proceed now that you’ve checked off the major items on your to-do list.  But what do you do when you will never experience the satisfaction of crossing any of the items off your to-do list?  It took me a lot of years to understand that I did have goals – they just happened to be lifelong projects that are so esoteric and abstract that I will never have a chance to complete any of them.  If I could boil down this list into one goal, it would read, “Learn to be human.”  Because each of these goals is some version of learning to be a fuller, more complete being, a task that won’t be completed until the day I die.  Fantastic, huh?

Although Anne and I maintain different sorts of lists, I, too, struggle with the same feeling of foolishly waiting to arrive at “that place;” the location where the puzzle pieces finally fall perfectly into position and I am fully transformed.  I read somewhere once that you should only set goals that are achievable, attainable, and quantifiable; that large goals should be broken down into smaller “action items.”  While this isn’t really my style, I concede that having such mammoth, nebulous items on my life to-do list isn’t really helping me towards my ultimate goal of learning to live contentedly in the now as a fuller human being.  In other words, to live my life in pencil.

Over the coming weeks, I’m going to take a closer look at what’s on my list, examine how these items got there in the first place, and determine if they even belong there.  Along the way I hope to change my relationship to the list, and maybe rewrite it all together.  If nothing else, I plan on making these five items a little more tangible and understandable – not just for me, but for you, dear reader.  It may seem a little silly – even antithetical — to create a list for something as tenuous as living in the now.  But we’ve got to start somewhere on our journey, right?  My hope is that we can teach each other not just the why but the how of living in the now (wow, that could be the slogan:  “The How of the Now”).

Do you maintain a to-do or a to-don’t list?  Are you interested in reexamining or rewriting your life’s to do (or to-don’t) list?  If so, in what way?  What ideas do you have for me as I set about creating more specific goals to live my life in the now?  What topics are YOU interested in surrounding this idea of living in the now?

In other news, my meeting with the specialist went great!  Thank you all for your encouraging words and concern.  As of now (and is there anything beyond what we have right now?), everything looks to be developing normally and healthy with The Blob.  Although, it looks much less like The Blob now.  Check out this latest sonogram!

Posted by Anne

Life is full of to-do lists.  From school to retirement, we often find ourselves at the mercy of a timeline that we follow, and that someone else created.  School.  More school.  Marriage.  House.  Children.  We persist through the journey, crossing off the expected milestones—some fit us, and some may not.  Where do they come from?

Lately, I’ve been pondering my own life to-do lists.  I’ve generally followed them, and frankly these to-do lists have landed me a very good life.  It’s a life that doesn’t need to be completely erased or rewritten.  It’s a life grounded in a loving family, a solid career, caring friends, and really cute dogs.  So why am I always looking ahead to the “next step”, be it home-ownership, babies, or vacations I won’t be able to take for months or even years?

My life-to-do-list smacked me in the face last fall, on a hike with my husband.  The coastal trail we hiked was probably one of the most lush, gorgeous spots I’ve seen since moving to the Northwest.  The weekend had been so perfect—a string of pleasant and memorable moments.  So naturally, I began planning future perfect moments.  And the moments after those.  And suddenly, my mind was months and years ahead of me, nowhere near the majestic cliffs and misty skies right in front of my unappreciative face.  During the first quarter-mile, I asked my husband where he thought we’d be living next year.  I want to be settled, you know.  My husband, who is so darned comfortable with ambiguity, had no answers.  But I kept badgering him.  In the second quarter-mile, I asked him about buying a house.  When would we be ready?  Nope, no answers there either.  My pace quickened.  Oh…how about babies?  When should we start a family?  Silence.   I worked myself into a literal frenzy, until his exasperation came through, and he reminded me that he’s just trying to make it one day to the next.

I had a verifiable planning-addict meltdown on those craggy coastal cliffs.  I’ve since tried to unpack my freight-train of emotional panic because, frankly, it seems pretty unreasonable as I look back.  All I can figure is that my life has always fallen along neat timelines.  Graduate programs, temporary internships, and so forth.  Neat little segments of a life, predictable and finite; not unlike the items on the to-do lists I meticulously create every day, and dutifully cross off.  And now I’m in a phase where it’s become hard (impossible?) to predict how life will unfold.  I still have my life’s “to-do list”, with no clue how to go about checking off the milestones.  And every so often, I’m apparently emotionally unequipped to handle the ambiguity.

I’d venture to say we all have “to-do-lists”, but I wonder to what extent our “to-do-lists” are of our own design?  Is your list packed with domestic goals, travel destinations, or the pursuit of a relationship?  Since my meltdown, I’ve been on a mission (a la life in pencil), to adjust my to-do-list.  Or to at least avoid panicking when I can’t check off an item—when I need to just be patient.  Every day, I try to ignore my existential deadlines, and live.  It’s an ongoing project, and one for which I need the support of friends and family.  Because unfortunately, ambiguity isn’t going anywhere. 

What’s on your life to-do list?  Has your to-do-list given you the life you want?  Or have you ever crossed something off, and found it wasn’t all you expected?

Posted by Elizabeth

Sometime last summer, I made the first mention in these pages that I was thinking I might be ready to have a baby, a tentative whisper into the crashing world of the blogosphere.  And at that time some wise reader told me that not only would having a baby bring change into my life, but that the ability to live one’s life “in pencil” was the biggest prerequisite for having said baby.  These words were very reassuring to me.  As the resident change-a-holic around here, I thought, “I love change.  I understand change.  I embrace change.  And the ambiguity that “life in pencil” presents?  Easy breezy!”  But as my first trimester draws to a close this week I realize, in a stark and scary way, that my understanding of what it means to live one’s life in pencil is woefully incomplete.

During the first appointment with my nurse midwife an eternity six weeks ago, I was asked to fill out a family health history.  Aside from some cancer and heart disease – standard American fare – my background is pretty run-of-the mill.  No chronic diseases or major health issues here!  When I got to the part of the form that inquired about any infant deaths, I had to pause and think.  My dad had a brother who died when he was young from a defect related to malformed lungs, and Maikael’s dad had a son who also died, days old, due to a congenital problem.  These are parts of our family health history that we rarely give much thought to – so much so that we even debated whether it was worth marking on the form – so imagine my surprise when my midwife followed up with a phone call the next day to gather more details about these situations.  At the mention of “genetic counselor,” “perinatologist,” and “just to be sure,” every fiber of my being immediately went on red alert – and I don’t think the alarm bells have turned off since.

Despite my midwife’s repeated assurances that the chances of something being wrong are “remote,” it’s all but impossible to focus on the “what if” scenarios that dance across my mind (if not in the foreground, certainly in the background).  I find them to be particularly acute while dreaming, when my rational mind, who has such catchy phrases as “I’m sure it’s fine” at its disposal during daylight hours, is rendered helpless when the lights go out.  It’s then when nighttime visions of a fully formed fetus, with features as delicate as a seahorse but cast in frightening miniature, quite literally falls out of me without warning.   These are awful dreams that shake me from my slumber in a sweaty twist of sheets in the middle of the night.  It’s these moments where I realize that motherhood is uncertainty incarnate, that the best efforts to explain or pacify are for naught, and that I have no choice but to throw up my hands and say, “We’ll just have to see.”  I know that I am not unique or special.  Just as every life contains a cross to bear, so is every pregnancy touched by something beyond our control.  But it’s how we treat these uncertainties that reveal how well we’re able to live our life in pencil.

This morning Maikael and I are off to the perinatologist for a detailed ultrasound, which feels less like a meeting with a medical professional than an appointment with fate.  Hope will be divined not through the stars but through grainy images that I cannot interpret.  I am both relieved and petrified that this interminable period of waiting is drawing to a close, ready and not-ready to hear the conclusion.  The chances are good that my midwife is right, that I’ve spent the past six weeks worrying over nothing.  But what if she’s wrong?  What if there are no answers, but simply more “I don’t knows,” more “we’ll just have to wait and sees,” more “just to be sures?”  What if? It’s these “what ifs” that show me just how much I have yet to learn about facing the unknown.

Do you agree with my assessment that “motherhood is uncertainty incarnate?”  What situations have you faced in your own life that caused you to realize that you have much to learn about facing the unknown?

In other news, I’m pleased to announce that “Dear You,” my letter to this unborn baby who has already incited such worry in my life, won Momalom’s Love It Up Challenge!  We here at Life in Pencil are honored to have been considered in the company of so many great writers and entries.  Thanks, Sarah and Jen, for this award!

Posted by Elizabeth

Dear You,

How are you?  Can you hear me alright?  I know my voice probably sounds a little muffled, but I have some important words I want to share with you; words that I hope you’ll always remember.

It’s hard to believe that, just mere weeks ago, you were but a glimmer in my consciousness.  But even in that short amount of time you’ve already changed my life.  It’s hard to believe that I was so ambivalent about your existence for nearly 32 years, and that in 12 short weeks you’ve wiped away the slate of doubts.  Before you came along, I wondered what you’d take away from my comfortable life, if the trade off could possibly be worth it.  But I took the plunge, the ultimate leap of faith, reasoning that I had accomplished the big things I wanted to in my life.  I earned my graduate degree, and traveled around the world, and have had plenty of fun and adventure along the way.  It dawned on me one day last fall that you wouldn’t be keeping me from doing anything I couldn’t do with you in tow.  Although having you was never a foregone conclusion — many will undoubtedly be shocked by the news of your arrival — now that it’s happening I can’t imagine it being any other way.  I’ve surprised myself by how quickly I’ve embraced this change, how excited I am for your arrival.  Even though I wasn’t completely sure when I made that great dive down the rabbit hole, I guess I really was ready for you.

Sometimes I lie in bed and wonder what you look like, what you are like.  Are you a boy or a girl (we already have a name picked for you if you’re a girl, but if you’re a boy we’ve got some work to do)?  Do you have your dad’s brown eyes or my blue eyes?  Do you have my thin lips or your dad’s full ones?  My little nose or your dad’s proud one?  Do you lean towards math and science, like him, or English and the arts, like me?  Do you hate olives and seafood and pickles as much as I do?  Do you share your dad’s penchant for spicy foods (after eating that roasted pepper pasta dish a few weeks ago, I don’t think so)?  Are you even-keeled and quiet like your dad, or fiery and impatient like me?  Most likely, you are some of these things…and none of these things.  You are your own person.

We have a lot to learn about one another, and before we get too far, here’s what you should know about me and the life you’re about to be born into.  I love change, a good life project, being goofy, and telling stories, so I think you’ll like me when you’re little.  As you climb into your teen years, though, I suspect your dad might be better at this parenting thing.  I’m more of a morning person than your dad, so go easy on him in that department:  I’ll be up at the crack of dawn with you, but if you’re looking for a night owl, he’s your man.  I tend to worry a lot; in fact, I’ve already done my fair share of worrying about you.  I even worry about worrying about you too much.  It’s just that I don’t want you to grow up to be anxious and neurotic like I am.  When you get older, I know you will roll your eyes and tell me to stop worrying so much.  And I’ll try; I really will.  But just know I worry because I love you.

I love to spend time in the kitchen, and already have dreams of us cooking alongside one another, so I hope you like that, too.  Your dad and I both love to read The New York Times on Sunday mornings, but I have a sneaking suspicion that those days are about to come to a close for awhile (although, if you, too, are a fan, let me know and I won’t cancel the subscription).  We enjoy eating out, and if you’re good, I promise we’ll take you out a lot.  Oh, and we love to travel, and plan to take you everywhere with us.  In fact, you’ve already been to Mexico (weren’t those carnitas from the market fabulous?), and before you’re born you’ll add three more stamps to your passport.

I know it won’t always be easy.  I know our life is in for a monumental change, and that you’ll be at the center of the whirlwind.  I know there will be times when you’ll drive me crazy, when I’ll plead with you to stop crying, when I’ll wonder why you did this or didn’t do that.  I know you’ll probably feel equally frustrated with me, too, wondering why I simply can’t understand.  But through it all, I know that we’ll love each other.

When it’s finally time for you to be born, will you make me a promise?  Will you try to work with me?  Know that I’ll be doing my best, but I’ll need your help, too.  In return, I promise that I’ll do my best to help you to grow into the person you were born to be, not the person I’d like you to be.  Because maybe you’ll prefer playing soccer to being my sous chef.  I’d like to believe that I’ll be always be an open and accepting mother, no matter the circumstance, but the reality is that at times this will hard for me.  In fact, it might be the hardest lesson I have yet to learn in life.

Baby, your dad and I can’t wait to meet you on August 31^st (give or take a few days).  We’ve got a lot to do to get ready for you – turns out, you need a lot of stuff – but we’ll be prepared.  Or, at least as prepared as we can be.    Until then, keep growing healthy and strong, and I’ll do my part to make sure you have everything you need to do just that.  Even though we’ve never met, I already love you.

Love,

Your Mom

PS: Thanks for not making me sick.  I really appreciate it.  I’m sure you’ll think of some way that I can repay you in the near future.

Although I hate to insult the intelligence of our bright readership, in the off chance that you didn’t catch on, The Waiting Game is over!  For those of you who suspected this (and I know there are many of you in this category), I am happy to confirm that I am indeed pregnant, due August 31.  Do you know what a hard secret this has been to keep from you all?  I have been busting at the seams to share the good news with you!  While I’ll strive not to bore you with the details, I hope this new life adventure can provide excellent fodder and many life lessons for all of us who are better trying to live our lives “in pencil.”

Oh, and for those of you who are curious, pictured above is my first ultrasound, taken at about 8 weeks.  Apparently, I am giving birth to The Blob.

This post was written as part of Momalom’s Love It Up Challenge, where bloggers are encouraged to write a “love letter” to someone or something.  I thought this was the perfect way to share the news with you all (and, I hope, will be a happy memento for the baby book).

Posted by Elizabeth

In case you forgot, today is Groundhog Day, the day when we discover if we’re in for an early spring or doomed to suffer the slings and arrows of a late winter.  I can’t say I’m a huge fan of Groundhog Day, maybe because it reminds me of that insufferable movie circa 1993 starring Andie McDowell and Bill Murray, where a weatherman is doomed to repeat the same day over and over (and over) again, which, as a change-a-holic, is pretty much my worst nightmare.  Truth be told, I never understood what those two things – repeating a day and a traditional rodent – had much to do with one another, but, now that I think of it, Groundhog Day does seem particularly suited to people who appreciate comfortable routine.  I mean, is it me or does Puxatony Phil seem to see his shadow, sending him racing back into his hidey hole, more often than not?

Phil has always struck me as somewhat of a scaredy cat – maybe someone who’s a little afraid of change?  Rather than bravely facing the daylight and the possibility of a new season, he often retreats to the comfort of his warm, safe burrow, prolonging the inevitable.  How many of us are like Phil, clinging to the changing seasons of our life with a death grip, trying our hardest to hang onto the shut-in nature of winter when spring, with its new life and beginnings, is at our doorstep?  How many of us hold onto a season past its prime, rather than face the turn of the calendar with grace?  Given Phil’s propensity for dodging the new season, Groundhog Day seems perfectly crafted for the world’s change-phobes, wanting to hang on to the comfortable, old way just a little bit longer.

This winter has felt especially interminable; I don’t think I’ve ever been more ready for a spring in my entire life.  I was delighted to receive a seed catalog in the mail last week whose pages were splashed with colorful photos of heirloom vegetables, the first tender sign of spring.  As someone who is always chomping at the bit for the next new thing, I sincerely hope Phil doesn’t see his shadow.  Although I can’t help but wonder, in my fervent desire to cut winter short and push through to the next season, if I am any better than Phil, who insists on hanging onto winter?  Maybe, rather than preparing to banish or cling to a season, we need a day to remember what’s good about this time of year — even if it’s sometimes hard to see — to remind us to be in the moment?

Are you a fan of Groundhog Day (the movie or the holiday)?  Do you root for Phil for see his shadow or not?  Am I crazy, or does Groundhog Day seem uniquely suited to the world’s change-phobes?

I have to mention – because when else am I going to mention this? – that I have a friend whose mother loves Groundhog Day so much that she throws a party every year.  I have always wondered if she’s able to find Phil-themed paper products.

UPDATE:  Once again, that scaredy cat Phil saw his shadow; six more weeks of winter in 2010 folks.

Posted by Anne

A Life in Pencil strawberry tart...created the weekend Elizabeth and I planned to start our blog.

If you’ve read this blog for very long, you’ve probably deduced that both Elizabeth and I are avid cooks.  We tinker in the kitchen, swap recipes, and drool over food blogs.  When Elizabeth visited me last summer, we spent a chipper afternoon in my teeny kitchen, creating a strawberry tart from farm-fresh Northwestern berries.  I left the custard up to Liz, knowing she’d manage just fine, while I rolled out a crust and eased it into the tart pan.  We cook.  I’d like to humbly (or not-so-humbly?) submit that we both cook pretty well.  And we cook from scratch.

From Scratch. I wonder about this phrase.  There’s value in this phrase…and pride.  It’s the barometer for “real cooking.”  Go to a party bearing a homemade pie or batch of zucchini bread, and you just might be asked, “Did you make this from scratch?”  99% of the time, my answer is “yes”.  And part of the reason I cook from scratch is because it’s simply what I know…it runs in the family.  One need look no further than my sister or mother.  My mother is notorious for only buying the makings of a tasty meal.  I had a friend in high school—he’d enter our kitchen, open the fridge, and groan.  “Don’t you have any food?” This was always odd to me, since my Mom’s fridge is generally stuffed to the gills with…food. When I’d point this out, my friend would reply, “No, I mean SNACKS.  You always have very fine looking ingredients with which someone might make something.  But that’s not the same.” And my Mom has passed this on.  I can confidently say Elizabeth is the same—her culinary gifts were handed down by her equally gifted mother, and then honed to a talent by her own curiosity.

But there’s another reason I cook from scratch—beyond the influence of my mother. I love the process.  I love starting with a few raw ingredients, and crafting them into a whole.  I love beginning—pulling bottles of spices from my cabinet, and veggies from the drawers of my fridge.  I love stirring, whisking, and wondering how the finished product will look and taste.  And despite my love of lists, I often find myself tampering with recipes, or ditching them altogether.  Cooking—from scratch—is part of my routine, and my life.

My cookbook shelf. (Or at least one of them...)

From scratch. It’s an integral part of my culinary self, but I’m afraid it ends there.  If there’s one thing I avoid in my life, it’s starting over again…from scratch.  It’s puzzling to me, because I have the ingredients to start from scratch.  I am resilient.  I can even be tough.  I’m an extrovert who loves meeting new people.  And at times, I’m even creative.  The raw material is there.  But new beginnings still exhaust me—making me wish for the brownie-mix version of a head start when it comes to planting myself in a new situation, new job, new community, or new life.

We often need to start from scratch.  For good reasons and difficult reasons.  Marriage.  Divorce.  Loss.  Birth.  We need to know how to start over, and use the gifts (ingredients) we’ve inherited and developed.  We need to know how to blend them together, into a new and satisfying version of ourselves.  We need to adapt to change.

If only it was easier.  Like baking a cake…from scratch.

How about you?  Are you better at working from scratch when it comes to your life, or your kitchen?