Home

Home: an adobe house nestled amid the piñon trees. My writing room juts out from the body of the house. It is ringed by birdfeeders, and the traffic flow keeps me entertained. I have three weeks before I am due to fly again, and so I settle into my daily routine of morning writing, break for lunch, afternoon writing, break for dinner, evening writing if I desire. My friends tell me I look nervous. I am nervous. I am waiting for the phone call that tells me Domenica has gone into labor. Then I am to race to the airport and catch the first available flight into Chicago.

As the days tick past and the phone call doesn’t come, I find myself reluctant to leave the house for fear of missing the call. My daughter’s husband, Tony, has promised me that he will call both my landline and my cell phone until he reaches me. His assurances help, but do not entirely quell, my anxieties. It is my daughter’s first pregnancy, and it hasn’t been an easy one. My prayer now is that her delivery goes smoothly. The baby’s due date is July 4. How wonderful to have fireworks on your birthday!

“First babies traditionally come late,” I am counseled. One woman tells me that she went to her daughter’s on the due date only to have the baby take ten more days to arrive. “It was the worst ten days of my life,” she tells me. And so, difficult as it is, I stay put in my own house, although my consciousness is brooding over my daughter’s nest in the Windy City.

“How are you doing?” I call daily to ask. My daughter is not a whiner, but she does tell me, “I have difficulty sleeping. The baby takes my lying down as a cue to swim around.” I remember my own pregnancy and the great discomfort I had at the end—and my daughter is much smaller than I am. How much more uncomfortable she must be.

“Just keep trying to sleep,” I urge her, knowing that fatigue makes everything worse. “She’s just so little,” I tell my friends.

“Lots of five-foot-tall women have had lots of babies,” they strive to reassure me. In my morning prayers, I now include a request for Domenica to have a safe and smooth delivery. What with the baby’s swimming motions, I wonder if the birth will come early. I stick close to the phone, calling my daughter once a day, then twice a day—not wanting to nag, yet wanting to be supportive.

“I look like I’m about to pop,” my daughter remarks. She and her husband take birthing classes, but she still wonders what to expect.

“Labor pains are misnamed,” I tell her. “What you will feel is a band of muscles tightening, like a giant rubber band.”

“Thank you, Mommy,” Domenica says. I ask her if she wants me to come to town early, but she says no. She wants only her husband present in the delivery room. And so I resign myself to more waiting, leaping to the phone every time it rings.

WINNING WINGS

“Home is where the heart is,” they say, and it welcomes us with its familiar arms after our trip. As you enter your home, look around. Notice what you appreciate about it and notice one thing you might be willing and able to do to improve it. Taking care of our homes, we take care of ourselves. Once you have allowed yourself a gentle rest, light a candle or a stick of incense—something that indicates your home is a sacred space.

All agreed that the sensation of coasting on the air was delightful.

—OCTAVE CHANUTE