Of late (and still not quite wordless)






first robin


holly thief

back inside

Last night I was looking through photos from the last week or so. There weren’t a whole lot. Most of them were of my son: digging in the dirt floor of the shed at the farm, or shucking oysters with his dad, or building excavator factories with blocks that are three generations old, or licking an ice cream cone here in the bleak midwinter minutes before his first game of pinball. All were exactly the sort of tiny exquisite moments I hope I’ll remember even a tenth of, but this blog isn’t the place for those images.

It’s okay, I thought. IPhone pictures of my coffee and our food it is then! And truly that would have been fine. We all have to eat, after all. And while there’s not an enormous amount of farm fresh food in our kitchen right now, growing good clean food is how we pay the rent. And these days – the bay winds so cold, and the roads so slick, and me so pregnant – see us in the kitchen quite a lot. Sometimes the boys are making gumbo. Sometimes I’m making something with a bit less chopping but equal amounts of belly warming winter joy (over toasted day-old soda bread, with grated Dubliner and an egg over easy and coarse sea salt). Sometimes I am just peeling a banana and wrestling the lid off a jar of peanut butter. The kitchen is where it’s at, you know? And the dearth of outdoor photos this week is as accurate a marker as any of the season we’re in: it has not been a mild winter, and these late pregnancy hormones make me crave a deep hibernation.

But then! More snow! I confess sighing and grumbling when I looked out the bay window last night and saw the frosted street. But this morning I slept – a little late, while the boys ate breakfast – and then I hoisted myself and this babe we’re so close to meeting from the bed, and the day felt fresh. A little later the boy and I headed out with the dog, and we laughed, a lot, and we ate some snow, and I didn’t slip, and when we got home we saw scores of robins in the holly trees.

Will we meet the baby next week? Next month? Will I ever get to wear sandals again? Will I stop feeling guilty about using Netflix as a babysitter while I ignore the dishes and the laundry and just sit? What will we do for school? How hard will it be for my son to make room in his world for a sibling? How hard will it be for me?

This morning, for a while, I let it all go.

15 thoughts on “Of late (and still not quite wordless)

  1. beth lehman

    letting go…. that’s wisdom. you know things will change, but new rhythms will be found as you go. i think the hardest part of waiting are all the unknowns there are and the desire to be present despite your wandering mind. xo

    1. Lisa Post author

      So right, Beth. I’m full of wonder and joy at this new person I’m baking up, this new necessary part of our family. But I want to not think too too much about him or her, not just yet, since these are my last days with just our first. They feel very precious.

  2. molly


    You’re in my thoughts, daily, as you travel these last days (weeks?) of before. It is the before that’s the hardest, isn’t it? The after always works itself out. Herkily, awkwardly, sleeplessly, perhaps, but you’re There, and that’s such a different place.

    The robins are a joy to behold. Thanks for sharing. Oh, and cabbage + toasted soda bread + dubliner + egg = brilliant. Thank you kindly for that!


    1. Lisa Post author

      Molly, I am so deeply sorry I haven’t said until now how very deeply your earlier comments touched me. They truly made my day.

      It is the before that’s hardest. I hope, in the small ways I’ve tiptoed around my pregnancy thoughts here, that I haven’t given the impression that this is a sad time. It’s not – both my pregnancies have been joyful (and blessedly easy). But it’s true that this time around, it all feels much more nuanced, knowing we are bringing someone who will be just as rich and complex and wonderful as our son into a family with a strong and sweet identity. First time around was different – of course we were strong as a couple, but we weren’t parents yet. And the only lives we were changing (on an intimate, daily level) were our own.

      I don’t feel so much worried this time as I do, hmm – aware? And open. Hoping to honor whatever the experience is like for our son, the joy and the grit.

      1. molly

        Ah, no, I read no sadness at all. Just … alertness? And maybe, a touch of (well-deserved!) weary 🙂 But yes, you are right, it is different the second time around (and the third, and, I imagine, ever and always). There are hard bits, harder than the first, but they are dwarfed by all the remarkable, wonderful ways in which it is richer. It’s an exponential equation, really: 3 variables make for many combinations; 4, that many excellent more.

        Your son will blow you away. I guarantee it. And will be the sun, moon and stars to your new little person, with you coming in a distant second. (Sorry!)


  3. andrea

    love molly’s comment: may you be There soon.

    i made your squash soup in the slow cooker last night and I added tiny lentils. wonderful. going in my “to repeat” folder.

    thank you.

  4. Noor

    Dear Lisa and family…oh let it all go…not just now but always…all is taken care of without our angst interfering 🙂
    Many blessings during all precious moments to follow.

  5. Krista

    I’m so glad you were able to find a place to let go. Although I live in Australia now, I well remember how long and dark winter seemed in the months before Spring. Wishing you warmer weather very soon.

  6. amanda

    no guilt. you are utilizing a tool to allow you to sit and be, which sounds exactly like what you need right now. and I bet you’re son is enjoying it very much and will suffer no permanent damage from the (likely carefully chosen) viewing 😉

    I expect you’ll be pleasantly surprised by how much room your heart will find to expand even further.

    wishing you a smooth transition into a new world as part of a foursome.


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