Four-day-old baby. Born 7 lbs. 3 oz. Dropped to 6 lbs. 4 oz. Back up to 6 lbs. 7. oz.

How does this happen?

Mom and Dad feed the little River every two hours (timed from the start of each feed). Each feed takes roughly an hour, with diaper change, wake up, calm down, etc. Which means that only an hour remains between each feed. Which brings the proverbial lack of sleep.

I’m already a pro at changing diapers and swaddling. And so far, Elle and I make a great team at this. We’re ready to work hard and harder as long as we know were putting our energy into good things. And River is the best thing.

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Doing the math is important with a newborn.  We already had a ridiculous afternoon with an expensive pediatrician visit (basically a pricey weighing), then an awful lab visit with the worst/rudest receptionist ever….she made Elie cry in the waiting room, and then we got a parking ticket on top of that.  

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Today is day five and River’s weight is back up a bit.  He’s feeding strong and has figured out a great trick: as soon as I change his diaper he instantly poops in the new one.  And he’s already teaching me lessons, like don’t change him where I sleep unless I want him to pee all over me and my side of the bed.  Oh well.  A little piss never hurt anyone.

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We’re so fortunate to have Elie’s mom out here and my family close by, and extra special thanks to Pete and Jane who have been bringing us good eats.  

Annie & Aaron sent us a beautiful quilt and all of our friends and family have been sending love.  

We have another several days of long nights with zombie-like despair.  But it will pass—and probably too quickly.  

I’m trying to remember this tiny idea that turned and turned in my wife’s belly. This idea that swam like a fish and became a little boy reeling in our arms.  

We’re blessed, and just awake enough to say so.

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Here’s a poem by William Stafford that a friend pointed us to, from Even in Quiet Places, his Methow River Poems series.

You can’t see it but,
Under the earth a great river has found
its own life. A torrent of stone
surfaces and congeals. We share that aftermath
in its stony garden. Stilled, Earth’s history
poses for study, levels of shale. Roots
delve for messages to turn into flowers,
messages the dirt hides all winter.
Past those earth signals we are led blundering,
beyond fainter signals too fine for our
sight. Our hearts race only for oxygen;
meanwhile the story of Heaven plays itself
inside rooms we cannot see.

On Friday June 12th, 2009, I became a father and we became three.  Our beautiful little boy,
River Avery came into the world.

And I consider this both a good omen and true to the day: this poem (below) was featured on Poetry Daily on his birthday…

Cut a forked branch. 
Strip it clean of bark,

reeling in 
the hidden spring.

—Laura Treacy Bentley

From “Horses at Midnight Without a Moon”

Our heart wanders lost in the dark woods.
Our dream wrestles in the castle of doubt.
But there’s music in us. 

—Jack Gilbert up at The Writer’s Almanac

I was standing just outside a friend’s gate, sixpack in hand, ready to indulge in some good backyard barbecue, when Elie called.  Our midwife was on her way shortly to insert a catheter into Elie’s uterus to induce labor.  ”Okay,” I said…thinking I had to turn back just that second.  But I was fortunate enough to enjoy a good quick hour of catch-up with some friends.  

The talk quickly turned to all things baby, as in: “I’d have another beer, but I have to go have a baby instead.”  It was a good way to celebrate my waning single-hood. 

At home, Elie was relaxing, rolling back and forth on her yoga ball, talking with our good friend Jane. I was greeted with “congratulations!”  ”For what,” I said.  ”My bewilderment?”  

An hour later our midwife was over to insert the catheter.  At the end of the tube was a small bladder she filled with a saline solution…kind of like a water ballon.  It mimics the baby’s head and through the additional pressure helps to dilate the cervix to five centimeters.  After that the body is supposed to take over.

“So how sure is this?” we asked.  ”I’ve never had it not work,” Erin responded.  

So here we are.  Elie in bed.  Me doddling.  Waiting for the inevitable unknown.  

From “Silences”

…I have only these words that seem as if
they climbed up from the bottom of a dry well…

—Richard Jackson

From “The Second Voyage”

I know what I’ll do he said; 
I’ll park my ship in the crook of a long pier 
(And I’ll take you with me he said to the oar) 
I’ll face the rising ground and walk away 
From tidal waters, up riverbeds 
Where herons parcel out the miles of stream, 
Over gaps in the hills, through warm 
Silent valleys, and when I meet a farmer 
Bold enough to look me in the eye 
With ‘where are you off to with that long 
Winnowing fan over your shoulder?’ 
There I will stand still 
And I’ll plant you for a gatepost or a hitching-post 
And leave you as a tidemark. I can go back 
And organise my house then. 

—Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin at Poetry Daily

Check out my audio recording of Jen Curin’s lovely poem, “I Slept Last Night” featured last week on Linebreak.

One of my hopes for this fledging blog is to share one of my great loves: reading poetry out loud. Whenever I come across a great new poem, I’ll plan to record an audio version of the piece and post it here. This won’t be any publishing endeavor, but just a way to share a little bit of what I love with whoever happens to swing by.  I still have to figure out if there are any copyright complications with that scenario, but I don’t think I should run into too many problems as long as I cite the author and original publication.  

I even have a new microphone on the way.

From “Chinese Writing”

In my first week of studying Chinese writing, 
I placed two horses beside two tigers 
and the word careless formed. 
With just five brushstrokes, I made an eye, 
yet it took twelve for happiness, 
eleven for success and fourteen for long life, 

—Dick Allen at Poetry Daily.

Well. I do. And I recently got some.  

Thanks to the kind folks at 4Culture, a King County (Seattle, WA) arts organization, I have been awarded $4,000 to complete my first full-length poetry manuscript (currently titled Native Song).  The Individual Artist Award will allow me focused creative time, funds for the ever-expensive contest and submission fees, and money to produce a public reading for the residents of King County.  I am truly honored to be recognized by this fine organization.  See the full list of this year’s fellows here.

Less than a week after receiving that great news, I was award the Loren D. Milliman Fellowship from the University of Washington.  The fellowship pays $12,000 and is awarded to one MFA student entering their second year at UW.  I am deeply humbled by this award, especially as all of my peers are as deserving of such generosity.  And with our baby on the way, the timing couldn’t be better.

I spend a lot of time submitting poems to literary magazines, researching grants, applying for jobs and funding and anything else that comes my way.  The work is hard and slow.  But to receive this kind of generosity truly restores my faith in the value of the busy work that swims alongside the dreamy world of being a writer.  For their kindness I’ll be putting my shoulder to the wheel.  

I rose out of poverty and incredible social dysfunction because of books. And all of my senses-sight, hearing, touch, smell, and taste-come into play when I think and read about books. Books are tactile and eccentric. An eBook will always be a gorgeous but anonymous box. It will also be just a tool–perhaps an amazing and useful tool-but I don’t want it to replace the book. 

—Sherman Alexie talks with Edward Champion about the dilemma of ebooks