Plush lawns: here comes the baby.

In the first six months after our son Brian was born people would ask how he had changed our lives. And he had--emotionally, he really was a concrete expression of the love Peter, my husband, and I have for one another; practically, no other topic was as remotely interesting as our little bald and smiling man. Still I was intent on telling all who asked that our life had not changed all that much. We could still go out to dinner and just tote the little guy along; we still went skiing; we still invited friends over for barbecues; we still talked about health policy and worked hard on Capitol Hill. But even as I went on enumerating all the ways in which we had not changed, I sensed we had been lulled into a false sense of stability. Now, eighteen months later and another little one on the way, I know what people were getting at. Kids not only change your life, they change your understanding of life.

First of all, lawns. You want them green. You want them plush. You probably want them self-contained. In short, you want them.

Second, time off. You want it, but you don't really get it. One weekend evening with most of our extended family gathered at my parents' ski house, including six children under the age of four, my brother-in-law plopped in a chair exhausted. "Working every night until eight is more relaxing than this," he announced to an appreciative audience.

Third, mundane events: they are packed with meaning and excitement. Going to the Division of Motor Vehicles for a driver's license is an incredibly exciting adventure viewed through the eyes of a toddler. That annoying cat on our front porch turns out to be a gift from heaven occupying Brian for extended periods of time. Running down to my sister's house (three doors away) to borrow a cup of milk elicits squeals of delight from Brian, who gets to see his cousins for the third time that day and who isn't afraid to appreciate them.

And then there's Sunday Mass. It has become a truly community celebration. No longer can Peter and I sit anonymously in our pew if Brian is going to repeat the tune to "This Old Man," and run up and down the aisle. At last we understand that being a worshiping body means being engaged with one another and being happy, even jubilant about that.

Brian has even stirred my interest in our local community. Yes! to the public school bond issue. Yes! to full funding for WETA, our local public TV station. Yes! to slow and cautious drivers on our dead-end street. I even joined the neighborhood community association as the recording secretary (which has proven a seriously misguided way to channel this community spirit).

On to national issues. I feel even more strongly than before that prenatal care and preventive pediatric care should be included in any national minimum health benefit package. Hillary please note! I am sure that my second-thoughts on fetal tissue transplantation research (Commonweal, March 26) grew out of my awe at seeing Brian developing into a real person. My perspective on emerging reproductive technologies, and the not-too-distant gene therapy and manipulation techniques, cannot be divorced from my experiences of pregnancy and parenthood.

Now that I am with child again, I have been thinking more and more about what it means to be a cocreator of human life with God. What I am learning is that there is a peace in accepting those things we cannot control. It would be an understatement to say that the first six month of this pregnancy have been stressful. In addition to the usual strains of pregnancy, Brian, at twelve months of age, had to undergo fairly major corrective surgery on his foot. He wore a cast for two months and now must wear a "special shoe" twenty-four hours a day. A week after surgery, he came down with a bright red rash that covered him from head to toe. It was diagnosed as Fifth Disease, which can cause a miscarriage if a pregnant woman is exposed. While one blood test showed that I had not been infected, the nurse told me that another showed I was at risk for having a baby with Down's syndrome. I was urged to have an amniocentesis. I was also told that amniocentesis carries a slight risk of causing a miscarriage. So I could choose to wonder whether or not the baby had Down's or possibly cause a miscarriage through my curiosity. I decided to continue to wonder.

So, as much as I am an integral player in nurturing this life within me, I share the role not only with Peter, but ultimately with God. What I have learned about being a cocreator is that I must do whatever I can in my power to ensure that this baby gets proper nutrition, that I get plenty of rest, that my belly gets rubbed and kissed by little Brian, but that after a certain point, the outcome of this pregnancy is out of my hands. It also means that we must do whatever we can to ensure a just and good world, but that we are limited by our very physical rootedness in these bodies, and on this earth.

As Lent came to a close and we prepared to celebrate Easter, I thought about God's choice to become human. By doing so, God dignified our role as cocreators and taught us, among other things, that "greater love has no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends" (John 15:13; see Patricia Houch Sprinkle, In God's Image: Reflections for the New Mother, C.R. Gibson, Co.). I already know that loving Brian at times means laying down the New York Times, laying down the phone, and lying down on the floor to play and be tackled. Now this new child has deepened my appreciation for that Easter.message: I must lay down my fears, my desire to control, my questions, and my uncertainty for the love of my child.