The nausea continues, though it has already begun to merge with the heartburn of the second trimester. I spend much of the day interrupting my tasks, or interrupting the children’s interruptions, to lie very still and hope it passes.

I feel a growing sense of despair about the house. It will never be ready to show. We have been working on it during the moments the girls allow, but I do not have my usual energy, and nothing is done. Almost nothing. Az hates moving, and hates disturbances to his nest, so he is a reluctant and grudging worker. I ask him to do very little for the house; it just makes him too miserable. Instead he watches the kids so I can accomplish something (when I have the stomach for it), a necessary but familiar task that doesn’t ruffle his feathers so much.

My mother is a loving woman, but full of energy, and utterly lacking an internal censor. She has shifted into efficient control mode, which does not bode well for our living together. She calls me with lists of things she wants me to do, for the house, for school, for moving. It simply does not occur to her that she should not share with people her helpful ideas for their life. I find this exasperating and feel myself sinking back to the uncharitable sullenness of a teenager.

So I am nauseated, despairing and sullen, but my children are delighted with life. JellyBean has become very snuggly the last few weeks, and happily climbs into bed beside me, pulls the covers up around her and announces, “I am snuggling Mommy.” She has learned to use the words “love” and “beautiful” appropriately. Last night she walked up to Az and said, “You have a mustache. Daddy’s mustache is beautiful.” He melted.

It almost makes up for her frequent and public announcement that “Cookie monster ice cream cones make my poop blue!”

Sweetpea learns new words every day, her favorites currently being “spoon,” “door” and “boom.” She calls windows “bang-bang, ” because she gets to bang on them when Daddy comes home from work. All animals are “bunny” or “cat-cat,” and ketchup is “kabba-kup.” She gives the best nose crinkles when she is happy, and she has learned that if she stays awake during her sister’s nap, she will get mother’s exclusive attention. It’s tiring, but awfully cute.

Now I have to check the laundry. I am in that awful in between size of pregnancy, and have only two pairs of pants that fit, and they are both in the dryer. At least I can change out of my pajamas soon.

In a theology class, my professor once addressed the way people disagree about essential things. He said that when we explain our convictions clearly and carefully, if someone still does not agree with us, there is a tendency to condemn that person as either stupid or evil. He drew a court room diagram on the board, with a seat for the judge and a seat for the witness. He wrote “God” in the judge’s seat. He tapped the witness box and said, “You and I are always here.” He tapped the judge’s seat and said, “You and I are never here.”

I have thought about that class many times over the years. I read a lecture that that professor gave at a church a few years ago, where he said that in preparation for every lecture he asks himself, “For whom am I showing contempt?” Then he tries to rewrite the lecture in a way respectful to those people.

Not every idea or belief is worthy of respect, but the people who hold them should be, if only for the basic humanity wihin them, or to use more profound theological language, for the image of God within them. My father says often that each religion or ideology should be evaluated by it best adherents, the best examples of what it teaches. Judge Christianity by Brother Andrew or Mother Teresa, or Hinduism by Gandhi. Do not judge a religion or worldview by a bigoted thug you met once who made you angry.

I am pregnant, and in every pregnancy I have found it becomes extremely important to me to not only shelter my baby with my healthy body, but to shelter my baby from the madness and evil in the world, even if we don’t rush to call them such. I immerse myself in books and movies and company that share my basic moral convictions. I want my baby to know, even before he or she can really know anything, that there is a way to treat people, and a way not to, and even if everyone else does the wrong thing, here in this family we will do the right thing. I want my children to know an unquestioned, foundational commitment to intellectual honesty (including the insistence that a person’s beliefs can only accurately be described by the person who holds them) and the refusal to treat people with contempt.

I have been thinking about these things as they relate to blogging. I read a blog recently that sneered at a group that I happen to belong to. It was contemptuous and intellectually dishonest. But then I realized that I was only upset because it was the first time the sneering was directed at me. And why should that matter? If I really believe in the standards I say I do, shouldn’t I object just as much to smearing anybody? Does contempt only matter when it is directed at (people like) me?

I think my commitment to edifying books and movies and company during pregnancy needs to include my blog buddies, too. I am not suggesting censorship or any nonsense like that; but as I begin to nest for my baby, keeping the walls of my home safe and sturdy is not the only preparation I need to do. My heart and character need a little strengthening, too. Virtue - in the powerful, “not a tame lion” sense - is not easy. It has always taken preparation and work and a whole lot of grace. And my baby needs all three. So I am recommitting to respectful writing, and some respectful reading, too. Join me if it suits you.

I have written before about my experiences with beggars and my general policies about it. I give pocket change to panhandlers. I try to do this not because I think it helps them much, but because of what I want my own character to be. Jesus said, “Give to whoever asks of you,” and I don’t do that perfectly, but I try to remember to give the destitute something.

Friday night I said no to a panhandler.

There are rules to panhandling, a kind of unwritten contract between the beggar and the mark. When people approach me for money, I am either alone or with my kids, and the panhandler is always very careful not to be threatening. Whether male or female, they stand four or five feet away, well out of arm range. They begin with “Pardon me, ma’am” or “Good morning, ma’am.” They ask for change, sometimes giving an excuse like bus fare or money for food. If I say yes, they patiently wait while I fish out my change. If I say no, they accept it without argument.

My favorite was a guy who asked for busfare. I had exactly twelve cents, so I gave it to him, saying, “That’s all I have.” He said thank you, and carefully selected the two pennies I had put in his palm. He handed them back to me and said, kindly, “You take these. You might need them.” I chuckled the rest of the day.

But the guy I refused on Friday broke the rules.

I was getting into my car in a dark parking lot in a busy shopping center. It was raining, so there was no one else outside. I buckled myself in and locked my door and was beginning to back the car out of the space, when a big man in a black coat walked up to the car and motioned for me to stop. I stopped, thinking there might be some emergency, but he said nothing. He stood there waiting for me to roll the window down. I didn’t. He said, angrily, “Everybody’s afraid of me!” I said nothing.

He asked for money to get some food “for my baby and my wife.” There was no one else around, and it seemed unlikely he would leave a baby and wife alone in the rain somewhere, so I assumed he was making them up. I said, “I can’t help you.” He pretended he could not hear me through the closed window. He wanted me to roll it down. I said, “No,” loudly and clearly. He said, “One dollar? Two dollars?” I said “No” again. He left, or stalked off might be more accurate.

There are dozens of ways people communicate threat, and despite the fears of lots of middle class people, most beggars are careful to avoid any threatening behavior; there is no benefit to it. This guy was exceptional. Everything about him communicated anger. I feel no guilt about saying no to bullies about anything. I muttered to myself as he left, ” I hope he wasn’t Jesus.” But I wasn’t really worried - somehow I don’t think Jesus would try to bully money out of people.

I am not sure why I am telling you this. I suppose because I have been dry on the blogging lately and this is the only thing that has happened lately. Or maybe it’s because of the concern some of you expressed on my last post on this subject: I want you to know I don’t take foolish risks. Or maybe it’s something even more self-serving. But most likely, it’s because I dislike bullies so much, that I want to resist this one a little more, even with a blog post.

I cannot blog today because I must lie very, very still or the food I have eaten for the last two years will come hurling up through my body, possibly including my nose in its desperation to escape the queasiness caused by the tiny despotic lifeform growing in my womb.

Last week I was putting laundry away. JellyBean stood behind me and chanted, sing-song, “Dam-mit! Dam-mit! Dam-mit!”

Um. I tried to change the subject and give her something else to talk about. At dinner I *discussed* the event with Az the Occasionally Indelicate, who looked shamefaced and promised to be more careful with his words in future.

Today I took the girls to our church picnic. Az could not come because of work, so it was just me - tired, nauseated and pregnant - and my two girls. They had a great time. Sweetpea loves to sit on adult chairs, and was content to sit with me in the shade on a bench at the playground, watching her older sister run around on the monkey bars, or whatever those elaborate playsets are called nowadays.

There are lots of reasons to love our church: good preaching, many active ministries, a great nursery. But the physical space of it is not very welcoming. Like many city churches, it has security issues, so every door to the building gets locked. The sanctuary doors, loud and distracting, remain open during the service, but are locked moments after it is over. All of this was a bit frustrating today when I had to leave the sanctuary because of morning sickness. I longed for some fresh air, but the girls were in the nursery, and I knew if I stepped outside the chances were very slim that I could get back inside the building to meet them when the service was over (Az tried to go to the men’s breakfast last week, and he couldn’t get inside at all).

So I was feeling a little frustrated already when I tried to find the park chosen for the church picnic. I had not heard of it, and there were no directions offered at church, and MapQuest’s directions were wrong. I found the park, and then had some trouble finding the church crowd. I was a little grumbly by the time I did, and I think I muttered something about how this church stinks at the physicality of welcome.

Only I must not have muttered, because JellyBean started chanting, as we pulled into the parking lot, “This church stinks! This church stinks!”

Yikes.

Of course, we had a lovely time, and everyone was very friendly. The girls, offered an array of good food, dined happily but exclusively on beans and raisins, and wore themselves out playing and gawking at the boats on the river. A few people kindly offered to help me get my supper while I was trying to manage two toddlers. All in all, a good evening, and I repented of my sour attitude.

But I don’t think I can hassle Az for the “Dam-mit!” anymore.