baby's first steps . . . up canyon walls

Dear Murphy,

You just got back from your first climbing trip. I'm glad you only weigh ounces, because the few times I had to climb with a backpack made me realize that extra weight can really throw off your balance. I was worried I was putting you at grave risk going through with the rock climbing vacation, that a bad rock fall could dislodge you. But I chose easier routes and probably got more exercise from the hikes to and from the ledges than climbing itself. However, the camping was probably a true risk. You and I survived six nights of near and below freezing temperatures, one night of 60 m.p.h. winds, and several days where the rock was so cold my fingers would numb up mid-climb. I got fearful for you when I shivered for hours at a time.

In general, I'm adjusting to you physically with the greatest of ease. I haven't had morning sickness, just a general lessening of appetite, and I'm still feeling pretty energetic. Emotionally is another story. Your poor father has endured two major crying fits. The first was over my worry that our relationship wouldn't be as good once we became parents. (Sorry, if that makes you feel like a third wheel.) The second over trying to get of New York City soon because the stress of child-rearing here will probably have me meltdown.

Your father and I have a relationship that everyone admires. So many times, my friends have commented how well he and I sync up, especially in our love of movies, music, and books. Even when there's a table of friends around, he and I will address comments to the table looking frequently at each other. We don't lock others out, it's just clear that we're very engaged with each other's thoughts. We like Saturday morning bike rides and breakfast over newspapers. We have recently taken to singing "You Are My Sunshine" everynight as we cuddle our way into sleep. We call each other "sweet pea" and "baby, baby." I know the latter title will go the second you arrive. I hope we can still maintain this affection through the rigors of child-raising. I know we'll be better parents if we don't fall into the trap of just communicating over where you are, what you need, what toy you want, what you need for lunch, etc. A lot of parents go there, and then when the kid goes to college the conversation just stops. Who are you again? What do we have in common other than our progeny?

Life is a juggling act, and you'll be the new ball. I know I'll have to cut back on other passions to give you the attention you need and build a relationship with you that's as strong as the one I have with your father. But I'm not going to give up any of the other balls completely. You might resent it if I choose to climb on a sunny Saturday and leave you with your Dad. But when you're older, you'll realize that time I had to myself makes me a happier, better person for you. Time away will never be about avoiding you, so much as fueling up on experiences that will make me a more enriching presence for you.

Unlike a lot of couples, your father and I still do some vacations apart. We miss each other, but when each one of us comes back re-charged, our relationship seems even more alive. He missed me while I was climbing. I miss him now as he drives up to Vermont for his annual boys ski trip. Being apart isn't about getting away from each other, but returning to each other in finer form. You'll understand this, I hope.

One week to get real

Dear Baby X,

(Yes, that's your name for now, and you can thank your future father for it.)

It's been a week since I learned you took up residence. In that time, I've hated certain food, gotten sore breasts, cried about 45 times, and have slept about 4 hours a night. I'm excited, scared, and a dozen other hybrid emotions I can't name. Incredulous too. I doubted the doctor for a few days, trying some home pregnancy tests. The results on the two I too were both negative, but the blood tests I've been having every other day confirm you are there.

Baby, you have to know, I want you. But the minute you showed up, all I could think was "I'm not ready." I'm 39. I'm lucky to be pregnant without any medical help. But all I could focus on is that I'm not happily employed, your father and I are renters, and, most importantly, we're rather childlike ourselves. Our wardrobe favorite items are: sneakers and t-shirts. Our weekends are full of playing: biking, tennis, running, climbing. We use our adult minds at work, but we're not used to really using then at home. I think we'll be fun parents if not always the wisest ones.

I am taking you on your first trip next week: Climbing in Red Rock Canyon. After much reading and evaluation, I think it's safe for you to get one big climbing trip in while you're still the size of a pinhead. I'll stay attached to a top rope at all times, I'll rest when I need to, and I'll only do routes I know I won't be falling all over. I think we'll both benefit from the trip. My job has me very stressed, and nature always helps to calm me. Calm nerves will be good for you.

I'm hoping you'll like climbing as much as I do, or if you don't, you won't mind me being a climbing mother. I took up the sport late in life--36--and just fell in love. It's a challenge to mind and body, and it's also been a chance to get back in touch with who I was as I little girl. I climbed trees all the time, mostly to get away from my parents' divorce antics. Being high up took me away from the painful world below. Today, work disappears as I scale up the grips on the rockwall at the gym. For the time I'm climbing, I'm free in how I really always wanted the word to feel when I read about it as a student--free of judgement, expectation, deadlines, demands, and the other things I've never shouldered well.

Yup, your mother's got baggage, but hopefully I can check it before your ETA. I worked hard to shake a fair amount off during my 20s and 30s. That got me strong enough and at home within myself enough to meet your father. Now I want to be strong enough to raise you to be whatever it is you want to be. To see opportunity where I saw fear of failure or fear of people.

I've rattled on for a bit now. I'll have much more ground to cover in the days and months ahead. I have to work hard on explaining to you how the planet works right now, and how I hope it's very different by the time you're old enough to read this, your pre-memoir of sorts.

Day One

Dear Baby,

Your name should be Murphy, as in Murphy's Law.

You decided to announce yourself in my urine on my first, exploratory visit to a fertility clinic. I was there to find out how to have you, not that I did have you.

I welcomed you oddly. The doctor said, "You've made my job easy."

I replied, "Are you kidding? . . . Oh, no, you're a doctor, you wouldn't kid. Sorry."

Kidding. Kid. Funny doubt words when it comes to a noun kid.

You're also earning the Murphy nickname because you've taken up residence in my uterus just two weeks before a scheduled climbing trip. The fertility doctor answered my query about still going on this trip with a sarcastic "Come now . . . no." I'll have to check with other doctors, as it seems from trawling the web that plenty of women climb during pregnancy. The doctor didn't look like an athlete, anyway.

It's not that I want to risk you already, it's just that climbing and activity are major components of what keeps me happy. You'll be one too. I'll make sure you know that. I'll have to work at it. I'm 39. I've been doing my own thing for a long time. I'm self-centered by rote of having been by myself for so long before meeting your father, Mike. And Mike, good soul that he is, gives me free rein to pursue my passions when I can. But I've managed to balance our life together with my solo pursuits, so I know I can work you into the mix. I want to work you in to all that both Mike and I do, so you can see what's available to you, maybe find a passion you can turn into a career, instead of having a career around which maybe you'll find time to do things you love. More on that later.

Anyway, Murphy, welcome to my body. Settle in, and lets try to have a nice ride together.