Elizabeth and Sonora have been gone for five days. They are visiting Elizabeth's family in Utah; Elizabeth's grandfather passed away and they are going to go to his funeral. Grandpa Porter was a very good person. I didn't meet him until he was well into his eighties and stooped with age, but his smile still was young and his kindness full and genuine. I'll miss him, though for several years he has been more than ready to go and be with his wife, whom he loved fully. They were one of those couples who made it, who provide young couples with hope; after more than five decades of being together, they still took obvious delight in each other's presence. After she died, he sort of deflated and seemed to gain some hope from each passing sicknesses, as if he was thinking: this one might be the one that takes me away to see her again.

And so Elizabeth has gone away to be with her family and to remember her grandfather. I would have gone also, except that I can't miss more than a day or two of teaching class. She didn't want to make the trip as short as it would have to be to get me back to class, so she drove the 650 miles without me, keeping Sonora occupied with a steady stream of toys and snacks (along the way, Sonora had one of those milestone moments: she peed on the side of the road; Elizabeth told me over the phone and we were both proud of our daughter).

The trip to see her family came at a good time for Elizabeth; she has been missing a connection with other women (she even read The Red Tent for a second time recently, though she usually doesn't read books twice). She wanted to be surrounded by femininity and her seven sisters and mother could provide for this need and they have been. Though she loves our house and our yard and Sonora and me, she gets lonely out here in our village. There are very few women she can connect with and those few are usually quite busy. So when she decided to leave for a week, I was glad for her; she could lower her bucket into a river of femaleness and refill herself.

The problem is that she will come home. I miss her and she is beginning to miss me, but she will soon feel the absence of her sisters when she gets back here, especially as she approaches child birth. Elizabeth will be doing a home delivery and would like nothing more than to have women around to support her who loved her. One will be there for sure and maybe two, but I sense in her a desire to be completely enshrouded and buoyed up by women who were once girls with her. They won't be able to come because the distance is too wide and lives are rooted where they are, but the desire is there.

Soon after Elizabeth and I got married eight years ago, Grandpa Porter visited me to tell me to always treat Elizabeth with respect, love, and patience, no matter what. I've tried hard in my own way to do these things, and, along the way, I've also somehow added this expectation: her complete happiness is my responsibility. She has told me this is a ridiculous expectation and I mostly agree with her, but it is deep-rooted. The thing is, and she is usually mostly glad for this, I'm not a woman. No matter the health of our relationship, I'm a man who does not provide a feminine connection. I will of course be at the birth to support her, to assist her, but I can't be a sister.

Elizabeth is gone right now, and I miss her; I feel a little bit deflated. The wonderful thing is that she will be coming home, and she will keep coming home for a long time. We are slowly becoming no longer a young couple; in less than two years, we will have been married ten years. In forty years, I hope she and I will will have a relationship comparable what her grandparents had at that age. I guess I just need to remember that her sisters and the occasional close friend will be a necessary part of her happiness, and therefore part of mine.

This morning, Sonora and I went for a long walk. It was still foggy and cold when we started out, but I knew the day would soon warm beyond freezing. We came to a spot in the road where the ice was thin and milky white above nothing. I don't really know why ice freezes in flat sheets above a nearly-dry depression in the ground, but I remembered searching out this easy prey when I was a child. "Step on it." I told Sonora and she walked tentatively forward onto the icy patch. It cracked and fell in with a deep, thin, hollow crunch. She laughed and began stomping all around until the whole thing had fallen to pieces; it looked much like a window pane would have after receiving the same treatment. I laughed with my daughter.

One of the unexpected joys of fatherhood has been rediscovering some of the things I liked as a kid. I had forgotten, until the walk this morning, about hollow ice on dirt roads in the late winter. It made me recall other things like sledding down icy roads on steel-runner sleds, or gently eating the very thin ice that forms in protruding ledges from the snow as it melts, coalesces, and then freezes in a day's time. When I was a child and heard the stories of the Children of Israel, I imagined that manna must somehow be like those thin films of ice that stuck out toward me from the ground, offering themselves up for me to collect and enjoy.

I am glad for the reminders Sonora's discoveries give me that I am still with myself, that every day of me is still in me like a hundred thousand Russian dolls packed into one; it is comforting and somehow wonderful. I wonder which of Sonora's memories, in twenty or thirty years from now, will remind her of this idea, will draw her back to her youth, to walking on a dirt road on a winter day that whispers of spring, breaking up irrational ice.

I don't mean to dwell too much on pregnancy and birth, but ideas and topics of discussion concerning birth and pregnancy seem to be enwombing our little family. One thing that has struck me of late is how different the experience in the uterus is from how I had previously imagined it. I've heard the womb being compared to The Garden of Eden: it is warm, comfortable, safe. Getting born is kind of like being thrust out of The Garden: it is cold, scary, dangerous, and annoying. In fact, I even read a book once that suggested that one of the strongest unconscious desires humans posses is the drive to return to the womb. At the time that sounded like an interesting idea. Now I think it is dumb.

Granted, during the first six months following conception, life in the womb might actually be kind of interesting. The fetus has room to flip around, sort of stretch out a little bit. When Mom's belly brushes against a sharp corner, Baby barely feels it for all the amniotic fluid protecting it. But in the third trimester, when the baby is approaching some form of cogitation, when the baby might actually be able to think: "You know, I don't have it so bad, especially compared to all those kids who have to breathe air and wear coats in the cold and be shushed quiet in church," then the baby flips upside-down, and that, I imagine, is when things become less idyllic.

Our baby has apparently turned; she is head-down. Her head is shoved into the top of my wife's pelvis and it is going to stay that way (hopefully, at least for Elizabeth) until Elizabeth delivers the baby in mid-April. What kind of Garden of Eden is that? It would be like wearing a motorcycle helmet that didn't ever move when you tried to turn your head. And you are upside down for months at a time. And you are growing larger and larger, filling up the already cramped space with your legs and arms, which now have to stay folded up all the time. I imagine the experience being similar to going cave exploring and falling into a long hole head-first, a hole that has a recessed area at the bottom into which your head so nicely fits that you can't even turn your head from side to side. This walls of this hole encompass you so thoroughly that your arms are pinned against your sides. Your legs are pressed down against your butt by a pile of rubble that collapsed on top of them. Sure it might be warm and maybe even sort of comfortable in a weird way, but this would also be disconcerting, maybe even alarming.

As for metaphorically returning to the womb, I don't think my unconscious mind longs for it. Give me cold, uncomfortable, bright-lighted confusion. At least I can stretch my legs when I need to.

I know you might be thinking: "Yes, but a fetus has never called anything home but the uterus; she doesn't know any better and maybe she even appreciates her mother's hospitality. The fetus is probably relishing the knowledge that until she squeezes out under that bony arch, she is worry-free: no debt; no obligations; no skinned knees; no one to offend or be offended by." But really, think about it, really think about the physical dimensions of the third trimester for the baby. I think no one (even someone who doesn't really think yet) would like that. Maybe the trauma of birth is a welcome relief.

Snow has been on my mind lately, probably because a lot of it has been on the ground here. School was canceled three times last week. I got to spend a lot of time with Sonora and Elizabeth, which was great. On Thursday, Sonora and I went sledding for an hour, then we built a large snowman (which later fell over because we built it on a hill), and then I piled up snow and dug out a snow cave, or "the little snow house" as Sonora calls it.

We got another six inches last night, but the temperature warmed up to the mid thirties by the time I left for work, so the snow had compacted down to three inches by that time. It is supposed to get into the forties each day for the foreseeable future, so the snow is going to turn to slush and mud and then go away altogether. It will be nice to have dry roads to walk/ride/drive on again, but I'll miss the snow a little bit. There is something romantic, innocent, secretive about the snow. Of course, apple blossoms, warm earth, and late sunsets also have their charm and I'm mostly ready for their approach.

Speaking of renewal and life and stuff like that, it looks as if Elizabeth might get her home delivery after all. The midwife she found a few months ago moved and was no longer available, but my resourceful wife found a highly-regarded midwife in Spokane who is willing to travel down to us (1.5 hours) to do the delivery. Elizabeth was almost giddy when she found this woman. I really hope it works out well with her. Elizabeth is looking forward to the delivery; she wants everything to go the way she has it planned. When discussing the apparent distaste many American women express toward birth, she said she didn't really understand it. She is pumped; she compared birth to preparing for and then running a marathon: it is long and painful and hard, but rewarding and kind of exhilarating. I'm glad I'm not doing it. I don't think I'd be so chipper about it. I think I'd probably describe it as sweating and straining to build a big house (the belly, the back pains, the indigestion), then having the house collapse on top of me (the birth), finding relief only when someone had dragged me out from under the wreckage (a few weeks later when the body is sort of recovered). Of course, the actual baby is pretty cool.