I’m nine days “overdue.” When I first started reading up on natural childbirth, I never thought I’d be seriously considering getting induced at some point because I just assumed that, with this kid being my fourth, and having had one baby (Callie) come early, that things would just happen on their own, in an acceptable time-frame. Now I’m past the part where I can chit-chat cheerfully with the neighbors about “any day now” and I find myself wondering if I really am doing the right thing. What if something happens to the baby and I never forgive myself for not inducing when everyone said it would be a fine time to do it (last Friday, at 41 weeks)?

I’ve had more monitoring (a couple non-stress tests and an ultrasound to measure amniotic fluid) than hardcore natural birthers would request; my midwives are supportive in waiting till 42 weeks, if things stay as good as they are now. The baby moves, a lot; more than they’d expect of a baby that we estimate to weigh over nine pounds. So there’s no reason, no medical or scientific or objective reason to induce. (Not even to mention whether 42 weeks is really overdue or not).

Why am I doing this, again? Is it because I trust God, my body, the baby? This is a lot harder when it’s me making the decisions. When I’m responsible, when everyone from my husband to my medical providers is happy to do what I want to do. (How do I know what I want to do?)

Also, it felt pretty good when I suggested or agreed or whatever, to be induced with Lucy at 39 weeks last time. It was what I wanted, it was fine. She was out in five hours and two pushes. That epidural worked better than the previous ones because we knew how to get it working on both sides.

Reading all those books and practicing pain management and relaxation — that all felt so empowering a month ago. Now, overdue and second-guessing, waiting, waiting, waiting, this surrender to a timetable I can’t begin to guess at — this doesn’t seem empowering at all.

It makes me wonder what other areas of my life I allow, encourage, accept others to make decisions for me, and do I do that out of fear, or ignorance, or laziness, or apathy?

If she’s born on Wednesday she’ll go to school a year later than if she’s born tomorrow or Tuesday. Does God care what day we’re born? Does He care (do I care?) if my daughters are old or young for school? If she’s born tomorrow, I can decide in five years whether to send her early or late. But wait until Wednesday and it’s not a choice. Do I trade this choice for that choice?

One thing I do believe — it’ll be easier to labor and birth if I’m not induced — even if it means her gaining another pound, so that’s not an issue. Another — even a “mild” induction (breaking my water but not hooking up pitocin unless things weren’t moving along after two hours, which is their limit and seems a really short time) would most likely set off a cascade of interventions that I would have no control over, and perhaps rightly so, having taken that first step of relinquishing autonomy.

Perhaps this is only cosmic justice, meant to be, the only way it could ever have turned out once I decided I wanted to do things a certain way. Oh really? You really want to do it your way? Good luck with that. Are you sure? How sure?

The longer it goes (and I know nine days isn’t the record or anything, but holy crap it seems a long time), the more surreal it seems that we will ever have a baby, a new person in the family. It felt this way before each of the other births, like we couldn’t really believe there was a whole separate person floating around in there, but this time it seems even more so. It’s easier to just accept that I’ll be pregnant forever, because all evidence points that way.

I’ve always been fascinated by why we do what we do. It was part of the motivation for the electricity fast, part of the delight in living in Japan and Cairo and New York City. Part of the simple pleasure in moving furniture, painting walls, changing things. If we change this or that, will we change? Does anything ever change? Will it make a difference in ten years, to me or to the baby, if I choose this or that? Will I feel empowered if I surrender? To what? To who? To myself?

Can you live deliberately if you stop making choices? (Why does everything have to be a choice?)

—

Does it matter how you give birth?

Birth Plans

Yesterday after a long wait and quick visit at the midwife, I was in a sketchy-ish part of town I’d never been in, tracking down a cheap box spring mattress for Avery’s bed (her old one splintered when she “fell” on it; she denies “jumping”). Callie and Lucy had been pretty patient all afternoon, eating lunch in the car and keeping relatively quiet about how gross it is that the baby is going to come out of there.

Suddenly they had to pee. Both of them. Emergency-like. Because they each have bladders the size of 5-gallon buckets, which is nice most of them time, but means that when they have to go, they have to go. The thrift store I was at didn’t have a bathroom, and I hadn’t completed my purchase so I didn’t want to leave the area. Next door was a Spazazz place. I reached for the door, planning to throw myself on the mercy of the two nicely-dressed women sitting at the reception table. One shook her head and mouthed that they were closed, quickly looking back at her important business.

I stood there for a second, outside the locked door, considering. I knocked again, hoping I could convey that I just really, really needed a bathroom. This time both of them shook their heads frantically, avoided eye contact, and made throat-slashing motions with their hands, not interested at all in the terminally-pregnant woman and her two small daughters.

Today I ran more errands, going to Callie’s kindergarten assessment, picking up my reserved copy of Mockingjay, and getting last-minute food and supplies for school. By the last stop, my feet were swollen past all recognition as feet, my toes like exploding Vienna sausages. A guy in his late twenties hesitantly approached me as I loaded stuff in the car. I turned so sourly to him. He said, “You were ahead of me in line, right?”

“I don’t know.” (and don’t care.)

“I think you left a bag, of binders and notebooks or something?”

I sighed, hugely. All I wanted was a nap. Not to have to thank some stranger for going out of his way, not to have to walk ALL THE WAY BACK INSIDE. But I did, and claimed my stuff. Then I noticed that the guy had also walked back inside to get a Redbox movie. By then I realized what a (self-absorbed, entitled, put-upon) complainer I am, and thanked him nicely on my way out.

Of course the ladies yesterday had no obligation to help me out or even commiserate or anything. But neither did the guy today.

He can have no idea what a difference it made in my thinking. At least for today.

Not the first time I worried about it, not the first time I knew something was wrong, not the first time I knew she was different. Not the first time I knew it couldn’t be fixed. Not the first time an adult asked me, in hushed tones, careful that she wouldn’t hear. Not the first time I realized there are some things she’ll never be, she’ll never do.

Not the first time that she asked me what it is (she doesn’t know about it yet). Not the first time I caught her in front of the mirror, trying to capture just at what angle her eye stops tracking (she hasn’t done that yet). Not the first time she wants to know why she’s different, why a doctor can’t fix it, why Heavenly Father would make her body not perfect (she thinks it is, so far).

Just the first time someone her age – that age when little kids guilelessly, relentlessly point out the fat lady withthe big bum, the girl who jumps and shouts at church, the old man whose legs don’t work — the first time someone her size asks her mom why Lucy’s eyes look funny like that, and the first time I hear a mother shush and whisper that it’s a lazy eye, and some people have eyes like that, not unkindly, both of us hoping Lucy hasn’t heard, or hasn’t understood.   

I say, it’s actually the opposite of a lazy eye (though really I don’t know what the opposite is). It’s that one of her eyes can look to the left, and look straight ahead, but it can’t look to the right.

But I don’t tell Lucy that. She doesn’t know she’s being discussed. She’s not even four yet.

It could be worse, of course it could be much, much worse. But the first time she realizes what it is, what her eye can’t do that most people’s eyes can do, won’t be the time to tell her that. I hope by that first time I’ll know the perfect thing to say, a thing that doesn’t sting her heart like this first time stung mine. 

—-

Lucy has Duane Syndrome.

This morning I sent Avery off to church day camp on her bike, and then worried whether she had made it. Our church is a block away, I can see the steeple from my kitchen window. Avery is nine, she as been to the church back and forth by herself before, and still I worried. Maybe it is just paranoid pregnancy hormones? 39-weeks-and-dying-of-impatience nesting instincts?

Yesterday I sent them all off with their father to the county fair, and then I worried. He doesn’t always watch them as closely as I do. I don’t always watch them that closely. I was glad to see them go — told Tom that a few hours to myself was a very good use of one of his precious vacation days. Still, I worried. All those strangers, all those blinking, flashing, catchy carnival noises to distract them.

I walked to the church to make sure Avery had gotten there okay. You know, just in case. She was there, laughing and hopping around and not noticing me.

Sometimes I want to strangle them myself (metaphorically: like, I wish they came with an off button, or a least a volume control). But whenever I think of something bad happening, someone bad happening, I don’t know how we bear it. How do we let the out there? They’re so precious, so innocent, so fragile.

They’re also so, so loud. Maybe that’s how we bear it.

—

BlogHer syndicated my Nine Lessons From an Electricity Fast post. I thought of a tenth lesson, and not just for symmetry’s sake. One thing I expected was that I would talk on the phone a lot, see people in person, be more social in real life, when my virtual world was cut off, but I didn’t. I indulged my hermit-lik tendencies even more. Maybe it was the heat, or the pregnancy, or having the kids around all the time, but I didn’t do any of the relationship building/real-life connectivityness that some say the internet has cost us — except with my immediate family, and since they’re the most important, maybe it did serve its purpose, but as far as women needing friends and all that stuff, I’m glad to be back online (though I haven’t been every active in recent weeks, and that is definitely an are-we-ever-going-to-have-this-baby?-I’m-going-to-be-the-first-women-in-the-history-of-the-world-to-be-dilated-to-3cm-for-a-year thing).

At my 36/37 week appointment yesterday, I was 1-2 cm dilated and 70% effaced. This was only my second vaginal exam this pregnancy, and since I was getting the Group B strep test anyway, I said sure when the midwife asked if I’d like her to check how things were looking down there. I’ve been so happy with my care and preparation this time around, and having my provider ask if I want a check done is representative of the autonomy and confidence I feel in approaching the actual birth.

In some ways I’m still doing things conventionally — like having the Group B test at all, but a) I’d like to know if I am positive, and b) at least this time I did a couple homeopathic things to reduce my chance of getting a positive (I took Vitamin C and acidophilus supplements every four waking hours in the two weeks leading up to the test; you can be a lot more aggressive in preventing/treating Group B, but I had both of those on hand, and they’re good to take anyway, especially for, uh, digestive tract health, if you know what I mean). I don’t think I was ever positive before my three other births, but as an example of how much I relinquished responsibility, it’s possible that I was positive but wasn’t told or didn’t give it any thought because I had epidurals with each, and so always had IVs through which the antibiotics could be given without any disruption to my plans.

My appointment was with one of the midwives I hadn’t met yet, which isn’t ideal of course; ideally I’d fly to The Farm this week and give birth in Ina May’s shadow next week, but all things considered I’m happy with this group of midwives and I don’t begrudge them the life-convenience of sharing call, especially since it is their habit to stay with the mother for the entire labor. I reviewed my plans and hopes and fears with this new midwife, and after telling her how quick Lucy’s birth was (6 hours) even with an induction and epidural at 39 weeks, she supported me in staying home as long as possible but encouraged me to be prepared for things to go quickly and to maybe go from hanging out one minute to being ready to hop in the car the next (it’s a 30-minute-plus ride). Of course, anything could happen; I could be in labor for three days two weeks after my due date, but hopefully not.

Either way, it’s probably time to start getting ready. I have a lot on my To-Do List:

1. Write my birth plan (mostly a list of stuff I don’t want done, like an IV (I’ll sign a waiver to forgo the hep-lock the hospital requires in case of emergency; given my low-risk history my midwives are comfortable with this), taking the baby out of my arms (much less to the nursery) before I’ve had an hour to bond and breastfeed, cord clamping before it’s stopped pulsing, continuous electronic fetal monitoring (I’ve agreed to the initial twenty-minute baseline by telemetry which allows movement, then 90-second checks at 30-minute intervals).

I’m still researching the eye ointment and Vitamin K shot business; since Tom and I are life-long monogamists there should be no need for the eye ointment and since I’ll be producing tons of colostrum for a full-term baby the Vitamin K should be unnecessary too. On the other hand, these are relatively minor things (I think) and I don’t know how strongly I feel about them. Things like enemas, shaves, and episiotomies aren’t routine, but maybe I’ll include them just in case. 50% of the women who see my midwives have an epidural, and I plan not to — what I need instead is praise and encouragement, offerings of physical and emotional support, NOT of drugs (I know what’s available and can ask for it if I need to; Tom knows it’s his job, if that happens, to remind me that I want to wait 15 more minutes and see how I feel then, repeatedly, if necessary). Things I do want to have happen are harder to write down. I want things to go how they go; I want to feel comfortable in vocalizing (loudly if I feel like it), moving, bathing, drinking (I probably won’t want to eat if I arrive in active labor/close to transition), squatting, etc).

2. Pack a bag (with my own nightgowns, music on the iPod, a birth ball, juices and light snacks, a note for the door and maybe some cue cards for Tom and Chrysanthemum from Birthing From Within, stuff for the kid, 3 or 4 versions of Pride and Prejudice to watch (you know, the usual); Mockingjay if it’s after August 24th).

3. Wash some onesies and blankets, buy some diapers and a nursing bra or three (any recommendations? I was never very happy with my previous ones, and I’m bigger this time around — 38DD and not looking forward to engorgement).

4. Arrange babysitting, though Avery (9 /12) has expressed a lot of interest in being present. I’d like to have her there, but a lot will depend on the timing (and how I’m coping; I’d love her to see a natural birth, but not if I would scare her).

5. Finish reading the books and watching the dvds Rixa sent me (The Business of Being Born is available for instant play on Netflix,and I think Tom was surprised how interesting it was). Right now I’m practicing the stuff in Birthing From Within; it seems more helpful and realistic than Hypnobirthing, though I’m sure they could be complementary.

6. Finish cleaning and organizing the house. I’m not overdoing things; I nap most days and my blood pressure was a nice 107/67 yesterday. I mostly want things clean and organized because I feel so much calmer when they are. If I’m lost in reading or writing, I can ignore clutter or dirt for weeks. But if I want a soothing, comfortable environment for early labor, I know I’ll want things pretty clean and minimally distracting. This will be just as important in the sleep-deprived newborn months, especially with school starting for Avery and Callie just five days after my due date. Part of my organizing is a chore-training campaign with the girls. They’ve always helped in the kitchen and in caring for their personal space and belongings (though not terribly consistently), but now they’re old enough to do more, and more independently. Mom, if I whined as much as these hooligans do sometimes, all I can say is, I’m being sufficiently punished for that.

7. Get a priesthood blessing from my husband and maybe my father too. I read this call for stories about spirituality in birth, and realized, again and anew, how inadequately I prepared for birth previously. One of the tenderest moments of my life was when I asked for a blessing from Tom in Cairo before my first miscarriage, but I did not even think about asking for a blessing before my three deliveries. I hope this doesn’t mean that I’m not a very spiritual or faithful person, but the alternative, that I viewed childbirth as something that would just happen to me, something that would be “done” by my doctor and therefore not anything I needed help in “doing” is just as incompatible with my vision of who I am.

There are two things I’m worried about as the birth gets closer. I’m worried about the pain, and I’m worried about feeling inhibited in acting instinctively/naturally and asking for/receiving comfort measures for the pain other than a socially-acceptable epidural. Despite the numerous reassurances I’ve received from almost every single woman I’ve spoken to who has some experience (as a laboring women, nurse, or midwife) with the hospital I’ll be at — that it is a natural-birth-friendly institution, I can’t forget the things I’ve heard and read about the  significance of the fundamental decision I’ve made to give birth in a hospital, despite being pretty convinced after extensive reading and research that both the baby and I would be more comfortable and just as safe at home.

Still, that’s the decision I’ve made based on Tom’s and my feelings/perspective/experience, and other circumstances such as what our health insurance covers and our distance from a hospital in case of true emergency, etc. It’s a bit disconcerting (in a cognitive dissonance sort of way) to read (and believe) a book like Birth as An American Rite of Passage and still plan to give birth in a hospital, but no other compromise presents itself to me as more reasonable given all the specific factors of my present life and understanding.

I feel lucky to not be worried about my body’s ability to give birth vaginally. Especially after reading Birthing the Easy Way and talking to my cousin who’s had two c-sections and three homebirths, it’s clear that many natural-childbirthers have more logical reason for concern; I admire their courage. I got lucky three times: despite welcoming any and all interventions, things went as well as possible. So it’s not my body I’m worried about, but my brain’s ability to turn off, surrender, relinquish control not to an institution or authority figure but to my own body’s natural wisdom and design.

I just finished Three Cups of Tea. One of the best things about our electricity fast was the books I read, especially since, for a former English major, I don’t always read well. I devoured Hunger Games and Catching Fire; I cried through The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, I loved/hated Eat Pray Love; I thought Darcy’s Story was the worst waste of paper ever (but I had to finish because I couldn’t just turn on Lost in Austen instead); I wondered why I’d never read I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings before. When I finally picked up Ina May’s Guide to Childbirth again, I was flabbergasted that just a year ago it seemed too hippie. I vowed to change my life according to Soft-Spoken Parenting: 50 Ways Not to Lose Your Temper with Your Kids (harder than it seems).

Then there was Three Cups of Tea. And, I was in Manhattan the day the Twin Towers fell. I know I said more than once that we should just bomb the whole place “over there” and be done. Luckily I don’t have any sort of influence but unluckily I’m not the only one who thought that reflexively. But reading Three Cups of Tea made me think of the influence I do have over my three (and soon four) daughters, because it’s all about educating girls, and how that is the way to change the world.

Basically, I’m convinced. The book is a fascinating adventure story and history/geography/politics/culture lesson. It also confirms something I’ve long thought: that real heroes, people like Greg Mortenson who are crazy and visionary enough to effect real change in our world are worth studying and following even though they’d be hell to live with (or to be).

I had a professor who said one of the saddest things I’d ever heard, that it was rare for a book to come along that changed how he thought about the world. At the time, almost every book I read did that, and I couldn’t imagine being so jaded. Now I can, which makes Three Cups of Tea so remarkable. It’s obvious, now, that education (especially of future mothers) is the answer, but how obvious is it that one person could actually do so much about education with so little support/money/conventional development savvy?

Usually I shrug off  charitable concerns. When you tithe (10%) of your income, it’s easy (for me) to think I’ve done my part, but this book actually makes me want to do more. Then I thought: too bad I’m about to give birth soon, I know I’ll be preoccupied with a new baby for the forseeable future. Except, I’m a girl, a mother of girls. I can work every day to be a better mother and educator of these people in my own house, raise them so they’re aware of the wider world, grateful for their own opportunities, and eager to help others. We can save money as a family to donate. I can follow Greg Mortenson on Twitter, of all things. And there on the list of suggestions for how to help at the back of the book is number 5: Write a book review for a blog.

So, easy enough: everyone should read Three Cups of Tea.

For 40 days we limited our use of electricity. We made exceptions for food preparation and clothes washing. We (the kids and I) were 100% successful only on no dishwasher, TV, and computer. I hung my laundry to dry every day but one, when I ran four batches through the dryer after recovering from bronchitis. The thing about drying laundry is you can’t fall behind because it takes 12+ hours for each batch to dry, even in arid Utah. The other thing is that it’s a little romantic (rhythmic, soothing, productive) to hang damp, clean clothing; I wouldn’t mind continuing, except the stiffness of the towels and the lint and wrinkles on the clothes are a little irritating.

For half of the fast we used no air-conditioning; it was cool most of June, so this wasn’t a hardship, except the day it was 92 degrees. A week later, Tom’s allergies (probably the cottonwood trees) were so bad he took a sick day and ponied up for prescription Allegra. We shut our windows and installed a high-tech air filter. I’m ashamed to admit just how happy I was to have that excuse for using the a/c. I said at first that we’d set the thermostat at 80, so we’d still be doing something, but that cool air is seductive (especially in the third trimester of pregnancy). Soon I had it set on 78, then 76, and finally 74. I can now say that I would rather do without internet than air-conditioning. (Obviously) I am weak, but physical discomfort is utterly disruptive to any sort of thought process.

Our fast was initially prompted by a high electricity bill that led us to lower our thermostat in winter to 60 degrees and cancel our TV. It was astonishing how easily and quickly we adapted to those two changes — and how much I liked it (especially how the kids act when there’s no TV; though Tom and I continued to spend too much time online and watching hulu). We wanted more of that. I also especially wanted to re-set our expectations and habits to a more “natural” standard, waking with the sun, sleeping with the sun, paying attention to each other and the world around us, instead of all the wonderful things available electronically. Summer time was perfect for this, with school out and everyone eager to be outside anyway, and with the solstice (longest day of the year) falling right in the middle.

Here are some of the things I learned (see 1. Old-fashioned sorrows are (maybe) easier to bear in old-fashioned settings.):

2. Kids (and husbands) are impressionable; make rules wisely (and sparingly). A few days into the fast, Callie (5 1/2) walked up the bare basement stairs towards the kitchen for a glass of water. Near the top she stumbled and hurt herself. Her cries pierced the darkness and Tom told her to turn on the light. She wailed that she couldn’t because we were doing our electricity fast. I said she could make an exception because  she was hurt (and I was too lazy to get out of bed). She insisted that no, she could not.

A few weeks later Tom was home alone for one night while I slept over at my moms with the girls (Grandma has a swimming pool, and a dog). He told me later that, in addition to missing us, he had the strongest feeling of guilt over even thinking of turning the lights on. Even though it was my fast, and it was a completely subjective thing, not a sin or an objectively “wrong” thing to do, the imposition of guilt was a real thing.

3. Exceptions are a slippery slope. A couple Sundays ago as we walked to church, Callie shouted, “Mommy, you’re wearing flip-flops.” I don’t let the girls wear flipflops to church; it’s one of my very few clothing rules. Lucy’s (3 1/2) sparkle jeans under her dress get a pass because she is a little obsessed with layering, even in summer. Callie and Avery (9) are sometimes ball-gown fancy, sometimes playground pinafore casual. But there are no flipflops. Except, I told Callie, when you’re eight months pregnant. When you are eight months pregnant, I told her, you can wear flipflops to church too. Callie thought about that for several moments then proclaimed, “Mommy has a lot of exceptions.”

4. Maybe you’re a night owl, or maybe you’ve just never gotten a good night’s sleep. Tom has never woken up on his own (without an alarm or serious nagging) before 9 am in our twelve years of marriage. He’s always been a stay-up-until-this-one-last-bug-is-worked-out kind of guy. During our electricity fast, he still used his laptop to do freelance projects, but there was no TV on hulu, and I was asleep by 10:30 every night (except the few nights I stayed up to finish a book).  So even though he often was  up later than the rest of us, within a week, he started waking up around 6:30 every morning. The habit (what he thought was his natural rhythm) of his entire adult life was broken in a matter of days. And? Now that we’ve been catching up on Friday Night Lights? It’s 9 am less than a week later, and he’s sound asleep.

5. There’s more light outside even if you think your house has good windows. The sun goes down around 9 pm before and after the summer solstice in Mountain Daylight Time. Twilight lasts another half an hour. Before it got really hot, I resented nightfall. It meant I couldn’t see to read anymore. I was quickly resigned to not being able to finsh the dishes or hang the laundry if I waited too long, though some nights I did both by candlelight if I was in the mood. Other times I could shrug and say, I’ll do it tomorrow. Now it’s time to do something else.

Most nights I go walking with Chrysanthemum at the beginning of twilight. It’s simply gorgeous. The silhouette of the mountains, the perfume of the relieved grasses and trees sighing into the dark, the silvery fountains of the powerful sprinklers on the golf course. If we’re not walking, I usually end up angling my book towards our south-facing windows for the last smudge of light, or join Avery outside on the porch swing, because it is always surprisingly lighter outside.

6. Kids will take all the time you give them. I thought I’d have tons of free time once my computer was off. I knew I wasted time online. I knew it was bizarre (unhealthy, robotic, unnatural) how I’d head straight for the computer upon waking or returning home, during breakfast and lunch, hypnotizing myself out of hearing anything said around me until I’d gotten a hit from the internet. I was a little worried that I’d be bored. I read several books, books I might not have picked up or stuck through if I’d had easier entertainment options available, but I tried not to become lost in them as a substitute for the internet, but to instead really experiment with being more present (if you can forgive the phrase).

I trained my kids early to be self-entertaining (actually, I just selectively-neglected them into it). They play together or alone, they had already adjusted to no TV, and they coped with no movies and no computer games easily. How they ever had time for TV before is a mystery. They are busy from waking to sleeping playing, playing, playing. But I found myself suggesting card games (Uno, Skipbo), and reading more books to Callie and Lucy. Avery has her Saxon math to complain about, and Callie is more confident reading, looking to me for confirmation of a word less and less often. Lucy wants to read her books to us at naptime, and she is adorable. We all agree she is adorable, and when she smothers the baby in my tummy with kisses, I’m even more impatient for August.

But I need, and deserve, time of my own. I love to wake up before everyone else and read or write, or water the garden or even weed when it’s still deliciously cool. My kids won’t be harmed if they know there are times I can’t help them right now or even play with them all afternoon, but it was nice to not hear, not once in six weeks, dimly, outside my bubble, “Mommy’s on her computer.” It’s about balance, of course (all these buzzwords; sorry), and about not doing anything simply because it’s habit (unless you’re sure it’s a great habit), but because it’s something you’ve conciously, recently, decided to do.

7. It’s really frustrating to write longhand. It’s freeing to write where no one will ever see it, to record the day without thought of elegant structure or narrative meaning. But after awhile, it’s a little unrewarding to write only for yourself. Perhaps I have lost all my readers (it appears so from the dearth of comments on my last posts), and I don’t plan to do any of the things you’ll learn to do at blogging conferences to attract readers (besides try to write better), but somehow the act of making something public is enough, in itself, to lend significance. Perhaps if the fast had gone on longer, I would’ve learned the opposite.

8. It’s just as easy to lose your temper with the lights off. I’ve written a lot about my anger problem. For the first little bit of the fast, the novelty was enough to temper my impatience. That, and I read the fabulous book Soft-Spoken Parenting: 50 Ways Not to Lose Your Temper With Your Kids. A few days after finishing it, I realized I need to read it again, and again. The point is — no change of scenery or circumstance lets us escape ourselves, our habits and vices. I noticed when the kids spent an afternoon watching movies this week (I was the first one down with a nasty stomach virus) that they then fought for two hours afterwards. Of course an occasional movie isn’t bad, but something happens in their brains when they’re plugged in like that for long periods of time.

I had hoped that the same sort of purging of aggression would happen with me when I unplugged. But somehow little things still bugged me (though I reacted a lot better to interruption). It helped when I was fully rested (almost impossible at this point in pregnancy, no matter how much I sleep, but something I have to work on as we head into the newborn months), and when I took the time to write in my journal, to record the good things that happen.

9. Sometimes it’s easier to see in the dark. When you know it’s going to get dark soon, or hot soon or cold soon, you think about how you really want to spend your waking hours, your “good” hours, your daylight hours. I read The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by flickering candlelight and had some inkling of what it would mean to be rationed 1 candle per family per week. I know the majority (?) of the world’s population lives daily without electricity (or even worse, plumbing). An electricity fast is a first-world luxury, a probably unthinkably arrogant gimmick if you’ve ever experienced the real lack. I haven’t talked to Tom or the kids about this, but we need to donate our savings from this fast to Heifer International or something, in order to make it good for something real.

Summer is more than half over. Our electricity fast is definitely over, but I plan to do a month-long TV/movie/computer fast at the beginning of every summer. It’s so easy to go back to turning on lights, to putting off important things because you know you can extend the day as long as you like. It makes me wonder what else we could give up (could I give up the kinds of foods I like to eat?), how much we could do without, how our lives would be different if we thought in terms of What don’t I need? instead of How can I get that one thing I want? (I should confess here, maybe, that I love the fancy Belgian waffle maker Tom got me for my birthday in June and that I now want a breadmaker, oh, and a new vacuum.)

This reminded me a little of our first month in Egypt, when Avery was 18 months old. The power went out the first night we were there (and many subsequent nights). Avery and I were cooling off in the tub at an odd jet-lag-induced hour. We were pretty insulated from real life there, in our nice ex-pat neighborhood. But it was still jarring and exotic and reflection-causing. I’m not saying I want to impose bizarre lifestyle restrictions on myself and my family in order to be different or just to switch up our otherwise-mundane lives, but neither do I want to keep doing what we’ve always done if there’s a good reason to experiment deliberately.