watch and listen

Pregnancy has changed me more than I thought possible.  I had been warned about morning sickness, stretch marks, and swelling ankles.  Luckily, these experiences have not been part of my journey.  There has been fatigue, nose bleeds, and the need to slow down.  Our weekend walks look like Mr. F is escorting his geriatric counterpart from the nursing home I move so slow.  But I can still move. 

My nesting urges have been insatiable at times.  I will feel an insane amount of guilt and anxiety if I am not painting wallpaper in the nursery, hanging artwork, or foraging for furniture.  I am learning to ignore these urges to some extent as my body requires more rest and bedtime.  The baby's wellbeing is not contingent on floating shelves, I have to tell myself.  Some days I listen better than others.

The most fascinating change in me, aside from my daily recognition that somehow my body is capable of growing another human, is spiritual.  Almost as strong as my need to nest is my need to know where I come from.  This began with a hunt for names for our child.  Very quickly it became clear to me that I didn't just want to use names from family history, I needed to, even though I could not explain the need. 

So I began searching.  I started with Mr. F's family, as his relatives have done an incredibly thorough job tracking their legacy.  I followed them through North Carolina, Ontario, England, and Scotland, eventually landing somewhere in the 12th or 13th centuries in France.  Nearly 1,000 years of my husband's forbearers stretched out before me.  Their names and locations gave hints at their stories and I could see the traits come to life in my husband.

Then we looked at my family, which was much harder, and is still in process.  I called my dad and he gave me access to his online files.  For the first time in my life, I saw his family tree beyond my great grandparents.  The history I thought I knew was so different.  There were photos and some stories.  Names, dates, locations.  Family.  For the first time, I had a clearer sense of where I came from.  My Anglophilia was justified, as well as my mild addiction to Brigadoon and the Outlander series.  I stared at the computer screen, soaking in the spider web of a pedigree chart and all I could think was, Are they proud of me?  Do they know that their hard work is ushering in another generation?  

My maternal ancestry has been harder to track, due in large part to me losing a printed file full of work my mom had put together.  As Anglo based as my father's side is, my mother's is even more Swedish.  Both of her parents are first generation Americans with records for her grandparents and beyond being either still in Sweden or in Swedish. I am the first descendant since the immigration to pick up Swedish again, and my skills with it are rudimentary at best.  (I can wish you a happy birthday and probably order a hot dog.)

In the midst of my search for my Swedish kin, the most remarkable gifts for baby girl have been pouring in.  My grandfather's infant sleeping gown, sweaters made by my great grandparents, handmade blankets from relatives living and gone.  We have inherited a sweet little rocker that Mr. F was rocked in by his grandfather, not to mention toys Mr. F played with as a babe.  Each time one of these packages arrives, I am filled with the same sense of connection to who I am, who we are.  This little baby we are so excited about is the joy of many, even those came long before her.  

Not long ago, my great aunt and uncle were in town visiting their children and grandchildren. It is a great joy to me that living in Atlanta has afforded more frequent interaction with these sweet souls.  After a delicious dinner, I ended up in the kitchen with my cousin and my great aunt, the three of us catching up and dreaming together.  All at once my aunt disappeared to her room, returning just as quickly with an armful of sweetly wrapped packages.  The largest was beautifully festooned by her other daughters, with calligraphy inscriptions and baby-inspired stickers.  Inside was a tiny little stuffed animal for the baby from one daughter and a handmade blanket from the other.  "As soon as she heard about the baby, she started knitting!"  I was so overwhelmed by the love of these cousins that I know so little of.  We are family and that was enough for them to share in our joy.

The remaining two packages were wrapped in pink tissue by my aunt.  In one was a circular tin photo of my great-great grandmother, whose wedding invitation hangs on my bedroom wall.  The photo is of her as a little girl and I could briefly glimpse what my own daughter would look like.  The last package was my great grandmother's baby book.  In it is delicately inscribed the precious memories of her first year.  There are newspaper clippings in Swedish and English announcing her birth.  Some of the pages are in English, others in Swedish.  Simple phrases marking her growth.

All at once, my Swedish family who I have been trying to find was there with me, celebrating with me, teaching me.

The author Linda Hogan wrote, "Suddenly all my ancestors are behind me. Be still, they say. Watch and listen. You are the result of the love of thousands.”  This is what pregnancy and the promise of motherhood has given me.  It is not just expanding my family with Mr. F, it has given me all of my family.  I can feel them with me, carrying me, supporting me, praying and cheering for me.  I hear them calling to my daughter, You are the result of the love of thousands.