family

When Eric and I discussed names for our Peeper, Edith came up: A charming classic that would honor my great-grandmother. Edith Phelps was my maternal great-grandmother but we all called her Pretty Grandma. No one remembers why, but I imagine the name suited her just fine.

In the sixth grade, we all had to create a project on a poster board triptych for a fair. I chose to profile Pretty Grandma. I painstakingly pasted photocopied pictures of her onto the red butcher paper that covered the cardboard. I taped up letters that she had sent me. I displayed an antique stereoscope that belonged to her. On the big day of the fair, I stood by my display and watched as other kids and their families politely smiled as they passed by my project. My hand-lettered title and humble subject weren’t as flashy as the other kids’ work, but I was proud. Even then I knew that she was more important than popularity in a middle school gym. She was an amazing woman.

Pretty Grandma was gentle. I remember lying in her bed in my grandma’s basement surrounded by hand-stitched quilts. She read me Chicken Little—“The sky is falling! The sky is falling!”—before I drifted off to sleep. I felt safe and cozy with her.

Pretty Grandma was tough. She grew up on a farm in Illinois and raised her brothers and sisters. Her stepmother doted on her biological children but treated my great-grandma and her full siblings more like servants. I remember lightly stroking the nub of one shortened finger, evidence of how strong she was: She pricked it while sewing and her stepmother refused to call the doctor when it got infected. It had to be amputated later. She never complained about the stump or the mistreatment she suffered; hardship was a part of life for her, something to be overcome.

Pretty Grandma was patient. She taught me checkers and never refused a challenge from me. She let me watch Hollywood Squares, her favorite show, with her, even though I was much too little to understand any of the trivia.

Pretty Grandma was resilient. She lived to 106 years and was herself every day. She might not have had her original hair (I walked in on her taking off her wig one day; I was embarrassed, but I don’t think she knew—she had her hearing aid turned off) but she was nothing if not authentic.

Pretty Grandma was loving. She and I wrote letters—and later, when she got older, post cards (they were shorter)—back and forth as soon as I learned the alphabet. I told her about what was happening in my classes, scribbled notes when I was on vacation and asked about her days at home then, later, at the nursing home. She often quoted passages from the Bible; “This is the day the Lord has made; let us be glad and rejoice in it” was a favorite. It reflected her verve and gratitude.

Her letters were full of her passion for nature: She wrote about the changing seasons and the flowers she was growing and what she saw out her window. I couldn’t wait to read her latest message and my eyes pored over her looping and slightly shaky cursive, even though her letters seldom held much news. Her observations of what was blooming, the falling leaves and a snowy landscape were enough.

I hope that someday our Edie Mae will be as gentle, tough, patient, resilient and most of all loving as Pretty Grandma was. The world could use another 106 years of an Edith like her.

On a freezing day in 1983, my dad worried about starting the car. My mom was due to drive to the hospital in Sioux City for a scheduled cesarean section to give birth to me, their third peanut. But with icy winds and blizzard conditions, my dad wondered if they’d make the appointment on time.

Luckily, the ’78 Accord did sputter to life, and my parents—bundled against the cold—drove the 10 or so miles to St. Luke’s.

Later that day, I arrived, and my dad officially became my dad.

Now, almost 30 years later, he’s about to become a grandpa.

I’m excited for Peeper to get to know Grandpa Ryan. My paternal grandparents died before I was born, and I never had a close relationship with my maternal grandfather. My own dad, though, already has kayaking lessons scheduled out for Peeper. And if I know him at all, he’s also scheming to rope our little one into pillaging and replanting ferns in his yard, teasing drive-through employees, sneaking snacks into movie theaters and skipping school for spontaneous exploits.

My dad was a source of constant mischief when I was growing up. He seemed to transform any task into an adventure. We road tripped cross-country—and even waking up to discover the shoes that we’d left outside the tent had disappeared made it into family lore. Collecting cans (worth 5 cents apiece, a fortune for a 10-year-old!) at Oregon Ducks games filled my savings account and became a source of ridiculous stories. Even driving to Portland to visit my mom when she was undergoing cancer treatment included a fun distraction: We would count hawks perched alongside I-5 and see who could spot more.

So happy Father’s Day, Dad. I can’t wait for you and Peeper to invent new ways to get into trouble together.

Last weekend the Ryan ladies descended on Berkeley for my latest (and final) baby shower. It had been months since I last saw either of my sisters, and plenty had changed. I know you can’t be “a little” or “sort of” pregnant, but that’s what I’d felt like the last time we’d been together. Now the only appropriate modifiers of my pregnancy are along the lines of “hugely,” “very” and “extremely.”

My older sister, Beth, knew we were pregnant as soon as we did. Beth was visiting us in Portland from Brooklyn around Halloween last year.

My period was a few days late. Eric and I had started trying for a family, and my friend Erin had supplied me with a few pregnancy tests. The first strip I peed on came back with a faint “positive” line.

Was it positive? I couldn’t tell.

I was shaking and felt somewhat ill. I showed Eric, who was washing dishes in the kitchen. It felt obscene to carry around a peed-on piece of plastic, but there I was with the test in my hand. He agreed that it looked more “yes” than “no.”

Eric and I approached Beth in the living room, where she was sitting on the couch. I probably said something like, “Um, so…” and showed her the empty pregnancy test box. I’m guessing the news was not what Beth was expecting.

I took another test, which showed somewhat more definitive results. A flurry of nervous energy set me to folding laundry. I didn’t know what to do with myself. Beth launched into practical mode. She suggested we run to the store to get another, more reliable test.

“You shouldn’t leave something this important to a pee test from the Dollar Store,” she said. Wise words.

The rest, of course, is history.

Amy, my younger sister, “met” the Peeper a bit later, in January. She got to see me in full-fledged first trimester craziness. I sported anti-nausea wrist bands (so hawt right now) and had to take lots of rests.

She and my mom suggested we stop in a Motherhood outlet store. I was running out of outfits that fit and, with a new job starting soon, I wanted to look presentable.

Amy and my mom pounced on the store’s offerings. They handed me sweaters, skirts and even a swimming suit to try on. In the dressing room, I found a round pillow with a Velcro strap you could wear under your clothes to simulate a growing bump. I tried it on and modeled it for them. We were doubled over laughing when Amy tried it on and struck a pose.

That’s when I started sobbing uncontrollably.

At first Amy and my mom thought I was laughing. But as I stood immobile except for my heaving shoulders, crying inconsolably like a two-year-old, they suddenly understood.

Well, sort of. Because I didn’t really understand. I wasn’t sad. It was just a visceral and immediate reaction to the idea of Amy becoming pregnant. That intensity of emotion short-circuited my brain, and the only release was through tears. Many of them.

All this is to say that it had been a long time since the Peeper and I saw my sisters, and we were both much bigger. They got to feel Peeper’s twisting, turning and judo chopping. It was incredible to share something so intimate and important with them.

In what felt like coming full circle, Amy and Beth made me cry multiple times throughout my visit. The waterworks started again when it was time to leave.

As I hugged Amy, Peeper gave a big kick, one that she could feel on her own (very flat) belly. “Oh!” she exclaimed. It seemed like Peeper was saying goodbye, too.

I was sad to leave my sisters, whom I likely wouldn’t see until after Peeper comes. My feelings were more complex than just sorrow, though. I was grateful to spend the time with them, happy to share Peeper’s growth, frustrated at long-distance sisterhood and who knows what else in that tangle of the heart. Most of all, I was glad Peeper will have such amazing aunties.

Is it any wonder they bring me to tears?