EVERYBODY LOVES BABIES

Over the weekend I finally watched the film Babies, directed by Thomas Balmes. My friend Amy M., who knows way more about babies than I do and is actually having one in a few days (at home!), sent me the trailer a year ago with great excitement, and I finally found the time to watch the documentary — instantly no less — on Netflix. (I also watched Hot Tub Time Machine, but that is neither here nor there.)

Babies follows the birth and roughly first-year development of four little ones in vastly differing cultures: San Francisco, Mongolia, Tokyo and Namibia. There’s no dialogue, but the way the footage is edited together is artful and compelling.

Some of my favorite scenes included:

- The scene in which the Mongolian baby is sitting on the bed petting the cat (and by “petting” I mean grabbing and violently stroking), and the cat doesn’t flee; it just takes it. The cat might even be enjoying it. I can only hope our two kitties are as accepting of a grab-happy baby one day.

- The scene in which the San Francisco baby is with her parents at some kind of hippie baby class. The adults are chanting, “The earth is our mother,” and the baby stands up and makes a waddling beeline for the door, like, “Get me out of here!”

- The suggestive scene in which the Japanese baby is trying to fit a wooden toy stick into a hole in a round disc. She grows so frustrated at her inability to line up the stick and the hole that she flings her body onto the floor and cries.

Overall, the scenes of the Western family, with their mountain of gear, passive parenting style and baby-yoga classes, left me cold. And I was extremely encouraged by the scenes of the Mongolian and African babies — crawling in the dirt amid the livestock, being washed by spit and breast milk, and being entertained by millstones and tin cans. Not that I intend to do any of that stuff with our future children, but I found it reassuring that people raise kids just fine in humble circumstances; they can figure out how to care for an infant even without running water, diapers and high chairs. It made me feel like, if these women can successfully wrangle their newborns in these rustic environments, I’ll do just fine with a bit of help from modern invention.

IT MIGHT BE INSTAMATIC FLU

So after our glorious weekend in Colorado, it should come as no surprise that the following week was a mess. I came down with a cold but attempted to go to work anyway; my boss took one look at me and said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look awful. Go home; I don’t want you getting the rest of us sick.”

Despite my restful day at home however, I couldn’t quite kick the bug all week. This experience solidified for both Philip and me that we HATE it when I’m sick. Why? For starters, Philip already tends to do more than his fair share around the house. He is a high-energy, task-driven person with a low tolerance for filth and disorder, who also gives (and receives) love primarily through acts of service. So when I fall ill, the burden of household chores shifts even more unfavorably to him, while he is all the while not feeling loved by me because I’m unable to serve him in even small ways.

Secondly, while Philip is amazing at showing love through acts of service, he isn’t the strongest at showing love how I want to receive it — through cuddling and hair stroking and gentle reassurances like, “It’s okay, honey; you’ll feel better soon.”

Lastly, I am very bad at being sick. I tend to push myself to live as if I weren’t sick, overdo it and only prolong my illness. This is partially due to the fact that I want to serve Philip to show him he is loved and partially due to my impatience and bad judgment. My irresponsibility drives Philip bananas and makes him even less likely to be all touchy-feely … It’s a vicious cycle.

So we bickered all through my illness, and oh by the way, I was pretty sure I was going to ovulate last week, so I was forcing him to have relations with me despite jetlag; despite my stuffed-up nose, weak body and general pitifulness; and despite our grumbly demeanors toward one another.

All my life I feel like the message I’ve been told is that getting pregnant is practically a given when you have unprotected sex, and one must do everything necessary to prevent pregnancy, up to and including things like ingesting dubious artificial hormones every day of your life, wrapping body parts in plastic and abstaining from intercourse altogether. But between life and stress and travel and sickness and fights and pressure and commitments and exhaustion, it’s a wonder the human race continues to propagate. Philip and I find ourselves with dilemmas like, Is it more important for Philip to go lead a small group full of people praying for our fertility, or to ditch study and leave our friends in the lurch in order to have sex with his ailing wife who thinks she may be ovulating?

So moral of the story is, last week was pretty much a disaster, and after two times of forcing my husband to copulate against his will, I let go of my conception hysteria. I’m sick. We’re fighting nonstop. We can’t be further from “in the mood.” I can’t make heads or tails of my fertility signs anyway, so I will lay this down.

Finally, over the weekend, we had what I consider to be a breakthrough conversation about this whole weird, overwhelming, tricky endeavor of trying to conceive. We’re just starting, and already I’m feeling obsessive and anxious and he’s feeling pressured and used. We talked about our fears. We talked about our childhoods. We talked about why people choose to have kids, good motives and bad. We talked about other huge life transitions through which we struggled. We talked about biological clocks. Etc.

The talk was very open and revealing, and when it was over, while I didn’t feel like we had really solved anything or come up with a concrete list of action items, I did feel massively relieved that I understood my husband better and that we could attribute a large chunk of this squabbling about dumb stuff like egg sandwiches to this underlying stress of attempting to conceive.

SUCH GREAT HEIGHTS

Last weekend Philip and I took a break from real life (and from fighting) to go on a press trip to The Westin Riverfront Resort & Spa at Beaver Creek Mountain in Avon, Colorado, near Vail. Unlike pretty much all of my work trips thus far, the itinerary was wide open, giving us freedom to do as we pleased. (I am a big fan of this approach, as it allowed us to experience the resort more like a typical tourist would, and I’m sure it was cheaper for the resort as well.)

On our arrival on Thursday afternoon, we decided to go for a jog on the bike path that runs along the Eagle River from Avon to Edwards and beyond. It was hella tough (Avon sits at 7,430 feet above sea level, while Orlando is at a lowly 106). But on frequent walking breaks, I could really soak in our surroundings—snow-capped mountains, soft green grass, a cloudless sky, a surging brown river and humidity-free air.

That night at one of two planned press activities, we met the wife of a local man who works for the American Craft Brewers Association, and she promised Philip she would raid her husband’s bounteous stash and bring him some bottles. True to her word, Friday morning began with the delivery of seven craft brews to our hotel room, prompting Philip to declare it the perfect “man morning” (waking up in the mountains and being hand-delivered free good beer) and correctly prophesy that it was about to be the greatest day ever.

We breakfasted on organic goodies at Avon Bakery & Deli, whose crew expertly prepared us a packed lunch for our upcoming hike as well. Then we were ready to make our way to the Buck Creek Trail, which gains 2,000 feet in 3.5 miles. (I was of course outfitted in my super-stylish outdoor wear—clunky boots, zip-off pants, sports shades and hiking poles; please contain your jealousy.)

The hike was life-giving, the path never straying far from gurgling Buck Creek. We passed rocky waterfalls and blooming alpine fields and almost imperceptible streams where tiny lavender butterflies quivered on glossy logs. My hips started to ache as we climbed, but each new height brought another rewarding vista—a backward view of the valley far below, a grove of blinding birch trees, and finally, snow concealing our trail. Snow!

We ate our packed lunch overlooking a sprawling green meadow lined with snow banks, and I said, “You know, if we’re serious about raising our [unconceived] kids in an environment like this, we have to move.”

When we made it back to our hotel room some eight-plus miles later, I was happier and sorer than I’ve been in a long time. We ordered a pizza, flipped on our gas fireplace and felt thankful.

Day two wasn’t quite as glorious as day one, but it was never-the-less a super-sweet day—a massage at the spa, followed by a five-mile bike ride to Edwards for a lunch of nachos and buffalo-chicken salad at the Gore Range Brewery. That night we also made sure to take advantage of the hotel’s hot tubs and fire pits.

Now, I had secretly hoped to conceive while we were in Colorado, but alas, I didn’t ovulate while we were there. But my friend Amy A. had challenged me a couple of months ago to not grow discontent if conception didn’t happen on my timetable. She asked me, “Are the blessings you have right now enough?” After a perfect weekend like the one Philip and I just shared in the Rockies, the answer’s obvious.

GOD MAKES A FUNNY

To prove once again that He has a sense of humor, God had it all worked out that less than 24 hours after our explosive argument, Philip and I were on deck to host small group at our house, a task that requires teamwork, preparation and open communication. We managed to pull our mess together, both conceding some wrong and carrying out small acts of penance just before go time.

Everyone showed up promptly at 7 p.m. to find snacks on the table and a pleasant Team Hueneke ready to discuss our upcoming study plan for the summer. We even moved into a time for sharing prayer requests toward the end and politely let everyone else go first. When it finally got to our turn, we couldn't avoid it any longer; we had to come clean. We looked at each other guiltily, reluctantly, and with a half-smirk.

Aaaand of course, everyone took one gander at that look and exclaimed, "OhmyGod you're pregnant!"

Ha. Not quite. I couldn't answer fast enough -- "NO! Pretty much the opposite!"

We all had a good laugh, and it certainly broke the tension. And ultimately, it was a good thing to have to confess our quarrel (despite how awkward everyone around us looked and no doubt felt as we struggled to articulate what had happened without incriminating each other).

So we're one step closer to reconciliation, and I have also learned a valuable lesson -- that I do have the right to remain silent, but doing so can be (unintentionally) used against me when my audience is on hyper pregnancy alert.