I've been here before. The hospital rooms, the unanswered questions, the calm resolution and clarity of priorities. I've held my husbands hand before as they told us he had a brain tumor...told him before that we would beat this, we'd fight it. Four years ago actually. And we did, we fought and we won. Or this is what we thought. But I'm standing in the ER and the Doctor shows me the cat-scan and tells me it's back. And it is. Bigger, badder. And I lean down to tell Dustan in a choked whisper..."its back babe." And he says, "that's not good". And its not. I know this. I've been here before...but I've never been here before. Because this time, back at home, there are two little girls who call us "mama" and "dada". Because this time, there are innocents. Two little lives that belong to us. This time, it's not just me, or us...its ours. Because this time the stakes are higher. And we know this. And I wonder, how strong can I be?
It's an ambulance transfer, drugs, tests, scans, and a frenzy of Doctors. It's questions, and possible solutions, and the reality that the answers are unknown. It's numbness, and resolutions, and a determination to get through. I've been here before...but I've never been here before. Because tonight instead of staying with Dustan in his room, I will go home. Because there are two more little people that need my care. So I leave him...and wish I could be more then one. Tonight I feed them and dress them and sing them lullabies. Tonight I hold them and tell them I love them and tuck them into their cribs. And tonight little Emmie pulls herself up to grip the bars and expectantly cries. "Dada! Dada! Dada!" and something inside me tears right in two, top to bottom and everywhere in-between. And it hits me so hard it could have been a freight train. This time, it's not about me, it's not about Dustan, its' not about us. This time the reason for fighting this is them. They are my reason. Emmie quiets down and goes to sleep. Yes, she would get used to not having her daddy there to put her down... but I never want her to. Both my babies need their daddy. Both of them adore him and he them. But little Emmie is so much like her father. I want her to know how she is like him, I don't ever want to have to tell her. And little Ellie is my coordinated sportswoman, I just know it. And I need her dads physical talent and ability to nurture that. Yes, this time, they are my reason.
I don't know if I would call it resentment. But this motherhood thing has been slow in coming for me. Slow in taking hold that I am now not my own. I often feel in a blur of functioning, and less of really experiencing. But tonight there is something bigger then myself. Something wholly powerful beyond my own understanding that takes root. THEY ARE YOUR REASON. The reason for everything I choose, I do, I endure.
And so, my strength is gathered around me with a new purpose. Stronger and bigger then I ever knew possible. I put on my boxing gloves and stake down in the corner of the man who my children call "Dada." And I fight, I fight, I fight. I tell him we will beat this, I tell him we will live...really live. I tell him we will simply work this into our extraordinary life. I hold his hand while he vomits. I clean him up when he cannot clean himself. I spend sleepless nights repeating bible promises to him to ease his troubled mind. I answer the same questions over and over because he cannot remember. I help him sit. I help him stand. I help him walk. And we walk, and walk, and walk. I ride the emotional, mental, spiritual, and physical roller-coaster that is brain trauma and cancer. And I fight, I fight, I fight. I am tired. Not tired, more then tired...weary. But I fight, I fight, I fight with him, for him...because they are my reason.
We take each day for what it is...and we live, really live. There is something beautiful about this. Something precious and holy. It is a privilege to see life like this, to understand the clarity of your priorities. To have so much to live and fight for. I do not resent it, I do not fear it. They tell us there is no cure. And then time lines are discussed. And I find myself calculating where the girls will be in life. There is never enough time to love them. To watch them grow and learn. There is never enough time to discover these incredible little humans who God has somehow graced us with. They are my reason. And I fight, I fight, I fight.
Dustan is an incredible man, with incredible spirit. And together we will win again. It may not be forever, but it will be rich. We will live...really live. We will keep growing, keep learning, keep exploring, keep moving until we cannot anymore. Until we have to succumb to our humanity and go where every man most go. We will do this for our children. They are our reason.
I will not stop. I will do the harder thing. Today I came home from radiation and tried to make amends for a house in chaos while Dustan rested. My girls where restless and demanding at my feet. I wanted nothing more then to put in a movie and zone them out. But my strength gathered round me and I pulled out the finger paints. I stripped them down and put them on the kitchen floor and we painted. Bright splatters of wild color, hand prints, and feet prints, and chaotic swirls. And at the end there was more paint on them and the floors then the paper. But we lived...really lived. They are my reason.
Friday, August 31, 2012
Saturday, June 16, 2012
The Luxury of Beauty
I come from a long line of women who take care of themselves. My great grandmother on my mother's side was a little firecracker of a flirt who wore red lipstick and pretty dresses, and although I never really knew my great grandmother on my fathers side he had a picture on his dresser where she looked like a Cameo in an elegant top knot and lace peter pan collar perfectly pressed in the soft black and white of the photo paper.
My Grandmother on my mothers side who I affectionately call Gamu, is a a delightful platinum blond piece of work, with designer clothes and tan skin and a remarkably perky figure for a woman in her eighties. She has beautiful soft skin that has hardly aged at all, especially given the fact she has spent most of her life in the sun. She is beautiful...really, and when she was young she was all legs and tiny short shorts and a little bit of rock and roll. My Grandmother on my dads side who I call Granny, is in her nineties and still stunning. I never remember her elegant white hair ever being out of place. She told me once when I was ten, while I sat in front of her vanity on a little white wrought iron chair swinging my legs while she got ready, that a woman should always wear pretty underthings and made sure they matched. She had as a young woman an impossibly tiny waist and fantastic figure. Trying on one of her one of a kind tailor made dresses as a 14 year old, I discovered my waist to large and my body considerably lacking to fill out other areas. She must have been a real knock-out.
My own mother is a beautiful woman and even in the woods of Montana where there would be no one for days and days. She always got herself fixed up first thing in the morning...a little makeup, hair done. I never have once, seen my mother in jeans. She always wore something just a little bit classy, a little bit nice. She always was active and healthy. I remember as a child some women being jealous of her. Intimidated by her graceful, thin, classic, beauty. But I was proud...still am proud.
And so, I try to carry it on...I do love beautiful clothes, and shoes, and makeup...I spend considerable amount of energy trying to stay healthy and fit. I try to dress well, and appear put together. But the luxury of beauty is somehow escaping me these days.
When my twins were first born I felt like my body was a bit of a train wreck...all night sweats and bloated, loose and out of shape. My skin was going crazy with all the shedding hormones and I didn't quite know what to do with the in between stage of regular clothes not fitting me, but the maternity clothes making me look like I was still pregnant. It didn't take that many times of brushing baby puke out of my hair that my long, thick hair got lopped off for a more practical, out of my way, bob. Putting on makeup in the morning became a circus act...shoot even getting dressed became a circus act and I found that these days I'm lucky if I get out of the door with my pants on the right direction. Twins and uninterrupted productivity is really not a common combination. Most days I'll glance down to find some greasy little hand print on my suit, or a mystery stain right on the front of my shirt. I'm always wrinkled, usually from carrying a baby on my hip, and there has been times when I look in the mirror at work to discover I only got one eye of makeup on before I rushed out the door. Blowouts don't wait. Clumsy top heavy toddlers don't wait to crash of the couch. "Sister stole my binki" squabbles don't wait for mommy to finish the other eye.
My body has changed too. I trained and ran a marathon, a half marathon, and a obstacle endurance event since giving birth. I run and work out like potato chips, often pushing significantly heavy babies with me. Previously this would have afforded me the body I wanted. But still my body protests loosing those last five-ten pounds and stores them in the most frustrating places. Presumably terrified I will put it through the strain of 10 months of making people again. Whatever it is, it's ridiculous how hard it is to make my body what I want it to be since pregnancy.
I try to make amends in the morning with the dark circles under my eyes when the girls are cutting teeth and fitfully sleep. I try to find the time to keep up with my hair. I try to make sure I at least smell nice and am clean. But I've had to let go of the luxury of beauty as I've known it. I still value it and hope to pass it on to my children, but it isn't what it was. And perhaps this is good. Perhaps it is truer beauty to find that what you do is more important then what you look like. Because I am a mother. That is what I do. And if I have stains on my shirt and oatmeal in my hair...if my clothes are wrinkled and my body defies me in some places its really ok. Because to my little girls I will be beautiful. Just as to me, my mother will always be beautiful.
Sure I like to think in time I may be able to get back the stolen moments of luxury. Sometimes I try to create a moment of oasis...like the other night when I drew a hot bubble bath after the girls went down, lit some candles, plugged in the Ipod, and slipped deliciously slowly in, letting out a sigh of content...until something sharp and slimy dug into my spine. Fishing through the bubbles I pulled out a rubber duck with a rather sharp beak, an incredulous smirk frozen on his face...the moment was entirely gone, but I shook my head as I squeezed a liquid squeak out of it and laughed. I am a mother, this is my beauty.
My Grandmother on my mothers side who I affectionately call Gamu, is a a delightful platinum blond piece of work, with designer clothes and tan skin and a remarkably perky figure for a woman in her eighties. She has beautiful soft skin that has hardly aged at all, especially given the fact she has spent most of her life in the sun. She is beautiful...really, and when she was young she was all legs and tiny short shorts and a little bit of rock and roll. My Grandmother on my dads side who I call Granny, is in her nineties and still stunning. I never remember her elegant white hair ever being out of place. She told me once when I was ten, while I sat in front of her vanity on a little white wrought iron chair swinging my legs while she got ready, that a woman should always wear pretty underthings and made sure they matched. She had as a young woman an impossibly tiny waist and fantastic figure. Trying on one of her one of a kind tailor made dresses as a 14 year old, I discovered my waist to large and my body considerably lacking to fill out other areas. She must have been a real knock-out.
My own mother is a beautiful woman and even in the woods of Montana where there would be no one for days and days. She always got herself fixed up first thing in the morning...a little makeup, hair done. I never have once, seen my mother in jeans. She always wore something just a little bit classy, a little bit nice. She always was active and healthy. I remember as a child some women being jealous of her. Intimidated by her graceful, thin, classic, beauty. But I was proud...still am proud.
And so, I try to carry it on...I do love beautiful clothes, and shoes, and makeup...I spend considerable amount of energy trying to stay healthy and fit. I try to dress well, and appear put together. But the luxury of beauty is somehow escaping me these days.
When my twins were first born I felt like my body was a bit of a train wreck...all night sweats and bloated, loose and out of shape. My skin was going crazy with all the shedding hormones and I didn't quite know what to do with the in between stage of regular clothes not fitting me, but the maternity clothes making me look like I was still pregnant. It didn't take that many times of brushing baby puke out of my hair that my long, thick hair got lopped off for a more practical, out of my way, bob. Putting on makeup in the morning became a circus act...shoot even getting dressed became a circus act and I found that these days I'm lucky if I get out of the door with my pants on the right direction. Twins and uninterrupted productivity is really not a common combination. Most days I'll glance down to find some greasy little hand print on my suit, or a mystery stain right on the front of my shirt. I'm always wrinkled, usually from carrying a baby on my hip, and there has been times when I look in the mirror at work to discover I only got one eye of makeup on before I rushed out the door. Blowouts don't wait. Clumsy top heavy toddlers don't wait to crash of the couch. "Sister stole my binki" squabbles don't wait for mommy to finish the other eye.
My body has changed too. I trained and ran a marathon, a half marathon, and a obstacle endurance event since giving birth. I run and work out like potato chips, often pushing significantly heavy babies with me. Previously this would have afforded me the body I wanted. But still my body protests loosing those last five-ten pounds and stores them in the most frustrating places. Presumably terrified I will put it through the strain of 10 months of making people again. Whatever it is, it's ridiculous how hard it is to make my body what I want it to be since pregnancy.
I try to make amends in the morning with the dark circles under my eyes when the girls are cutting teeth and fitfully sleep. I try to find the time to keep up with my hair. I try to make sure I at least smell nice and am clean. But I've had to let go of the luxury of beauty as I've known it. I still value it and hope to pass it on to my children, but it isn't what it was. And perhaps this is good. Perhaps it is truer beauty to find that what you do is more important then what you look like. Because I am a mother. That is what I do. And if I have stains on my shirt and oatmeal in my hair...if my clothes are wrinkled and my body defies me in some places its really ok. Because to my little girls I will be beautiful. Just as to me, my mother will always be beautiful.
Sure I like to think in time I may be able to get back the stolen moments of luxury. Sometimes I try to create a moment of oasis...like the other night when I drew a hot bubble bath after the girls went down, lit some candles, plugged in the Ipod, and slipped deliciously slowly in, letting out a sigh of content...until something sharp and slimy dug into my spine. Fishing through the bubbles I pulled out a rubber duck with a rather sharp beak, an incredulous smirk frozen on his face...the moment was entirely gone, but I shook my head as I squeezed a liquid squeak out of it and laughed. I am a mother, this is my beauty.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
The Cultivation of Character
They say that to grow a character...to really overcome things such as prejudice, dishonesty, and selfishness you have to work it like a garden. Get down and dirty and take hold of those pesky intrusions of fallacy and uproot them. Like weeding...I hate weeding.
As a young child it was my most dreaded job and unfortunately one of my mothers most popular hobbies was to create elaborate English herb gardens and flowerbeds that grew weeds in abundance. Secretly I believed that she gave birth to three strong children simply to use them as serf labor in her grandiose schemes of turning the Montana wilderness into something tamed and "civilized". Which of course in her defense, as an adult, I do understand was not the case.
Weeding is just so un-pleasant. It's boring for one, and infuriating for another, there is nothing more frustrating then laboring hard over a bed of dirt to turn around two days later and have it all for nought. There is something awful about getting dirt jammed under your fingernails, and the feeling of dry dusty dirt drying on your hands is not high on my favorite sensations. Yes, I truly dislike weeding, which may explain why I haven't even attempted a garden in my adult life, which is also because I seem to have a cursed brown thumb that could kill even plastic plants. I have never been successful, not even once. In keeping a small green thing alive. I've even killed African Violets, which my mother assures me is the most hardy and un-killable plant there is, as they are in fact..from Africa and do survive in some of the most inhospitable conditions possible. But that is no match for my plant killing skill apparently. There are no African violets in my house at the moment, if that tells you anything.
So yes, I'm not great at growing things, and I hate weeding. Which is ironic, because in the development of character as a garden plot...I am in great need. More then the average person out there I think. I have always considered myself selfish. More then most. I have had a great knack of getting what a wanted through-out my life for which I am not proud. As well as sometimes being a bit of a bulldozer when I have something in my sights and ashamedly at times have left the wreckage of the ends justifying the means in my wake. Again, I am not proud of this. I could go on with other arguments to substantiate my claims of being more selfish then most, but am also guilty of a fair bit of pride so will stop before it is to embarrassing.But motherhood, doesn't allow much room for selfishness it appears...or if it does, I haven't found out how. I know this because motherhood hurts. It hurts in the selfishness department and by this I know I've got to weed.
As a young child it was my most dreaded job and unfortunately one of my mothers most popular hobbies was to create elaborate English herb gardens and flowerbeds that grew weeds in abundance. Secretly I believed that she gave birth to three strong children simply to use them as serf labor in her grandiose schemes of turning the Montana wilderness into something tamed and "civilized". Which of course in her defense, as an adult, I do understand was not the case.
Weeding is just so un-pleasant. It's boring for one, and infuriating for another, there is nothing more frustrating then laboring hard over a bed of dirt to turn around two days later and have it all for nought. There is something awful about getting dirt jammed under your fingernails, and the feeling of dry dusty dirt drying on your hands is not high on my favorite sensations. Yes, I truly dislike weeding, which may explain why I haven't even attempted a garden in my adult life, which is also because I seem to have a cursed brown thumb that could kill even plastic plants. I have never been successful, not even once. In keeping a small green thing alive. I've even killed African Violets, which my mother assures me is the most hardy and un-killable plant there is, as they are in fact..from Africa and do survive in some of the most inhospitable conditions possible. But that is no match for my plant killing skill apparently. There are no African violets in my house at the moment, if that tells you anything.
So yes, I'm not great at growing things, and I hate weeding. Which is ironic, because in the development of character as a garden plot...I am in great need. More then the average person out there I think. I have always considered myself selfish. More then most. I have had a great knack of getting what a wanted through-out my life for which I am not proud. As well as sometimes being a bit of a bulldozer when I have something in my sights and ashamedly at times have left the wreckage of the ends justifying the means in my wake. Again, I am not proud of this. I could go on with other arguments to substantiate my claims of being more selfish then most, but am also guilty of a fair bit of pride so will stop before it is to embarrassing.But motherhood, doesn't allow much room for selfishness it appears...or if it does, I haven't found out how. I know this because motherhood hurts. It hurts in the selfishness department and by this I know I've got to weed.
I have always feared that somewhere I've missed some "goodness" gene, or at least a natural mothering gene. I felt this first during pregnancy when, I heard other expecting mothers profess love for their unborn children in glowing terms of endearment and express that whatever discomfort they may be experiencing, be it vomiting, back pain, leg cramps, loss of sanity, loss of sleep, loss of memory...whatever it was, would in fact all be worth it once they saw that little child. I'll be honest, I wasn't so sure. I felt like a host planet to aliens and resented the invasion of my body. Which of course I felt guilty about. And I feel guilty now, when young new mothers talk about the joys of motherhood and how life is so much better now that they came along, and how did they ever live with out them. I'll be honest, I remember how I did. Life was easier then...Dustan and I actually knew how to communicate fairly well, I got a lot more sleep, I didn't feel like I was on a hair trigger of insanity, and it was fairly easy to complete everyday tasks. I actually felt like I knew what I was doing most days, and was a dependable, reliable, on time kind of person, who's house was respectable at most points, and appearance was mostly professional. Not any more! And guess what, it hurts a bit. It hurts to be knocked down to size, actually to feel like you've been knocked down to miro-size. It's painful to feel like you are divided and lacking on all fronts and failing miserably in some. I hate to say this because I don't hear it often from other mothers so I feel a bit like a chicken with its neck out...but I've got to say it just in case there is a mother anywhere in the world who feels like me and needs to know she isn't insane. Or if she is, that she isn't the only one.
And to encourage her to hang on, just do the next thing, keep working hard, and praying harder...and to hold so tight, to the precious little moments that slip in during those insane days. The moments of a little hand squeezing your finger, the calm that ensues in a hysterical child from your touch and yours alone, for the little imp smile that makes them so hard to be mad at when you find them putting all their toys in the toilet bowl, and for the beautiful face that is a part of you. These are God's gift to remind you, you were in fact...made to be a mother.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
I am angry
Today I am angry.
I've taken a keen interest in the recent news frenzy of doomsday coming on May 21rst. Not because I believe it, but because my job surrounds me with wide eyed teenagers who live on the computer and look to me for some spiritual input.
I've heard the arguments of the times of Noah...that a day is as a thousand years in the bible...and that the time to be ready is now. And I've marveled at how it so often in a mix of truth and error that confusion is bred.
I've followed the story of the Doomsday spokesperson of NYC, Fitzpatrick. who spent his entire life savings of 140 grand to pay for advertising in the subways and buses of NYC. And today I saw the pictures of a confused and deflated man, checking his watch as a loud, jeering man with a wiry black beard, stands next to him and sneers into the camera as he holds up some of Fitzpatrick's flyer's. And it makes me angry.
My heart breaks for him and bristles at the callousness of humanity to mock a man who is down. We all have much to learn.
I stood in a checkout line the other day and listened to the checker and bagger go back and forth about the validity of the Bible, the concept of prophecy, and the Second Coming. And I prided myself that I had the reassurance the there would be no end of the world on May 21rst because of my knowledge of the Bible and the fact that it says no man knows the day or hour. And I was silent.
But as I loaded my groceries in the car a slow wave came over me, questions that made me think. Does it really matter if the world doesn't end tomorrow? Do I somehow rest in complacency because I know it won't happen? Would I give all I had to spread the word and stand publicly in Times square if I was truly convicted? Have I become lazy in "truth".
I do not believe in the method of Fitzpatrick, or the message that he taught. But I cannot point a finger or mock a man who has sold out for hope and now lost it all. I can only be convicted of my own responsibility to know what I believe.
I wonder what drives humanity to find the weaker man, to kick someone who is already down? Somehow the golden rule has been forgotten. Who has never been wrong? Who has never been prideful? Who has never been awkward or alone? Let them take up the dirty job of hate. As for me, I will never claim to have been immune from any of these things. And today, as Fitzpatrick wakes up bewildered and alone...I will pray. Pray for healing in a man who is broken, pray for hope when its hard to see, and pray that someday...God will come.
I've taken a keen interest in the recent news frenzy of doomsday coming on May 21rst. Not because I believe it, but because my job surrounds me with wide eyed teenagers who live on the computer and look to me for some spiritual input.
I've heard the arguments of the times of Noah...that a day is as a thousand years in the bible...and that the time to be ready is now. And I've marveled at how it so often in a mix of truth and error that confusion is bred.
I've followed the story of the Doomsday spokesperson of NYC, Fitzpatrick. who spent his entire life savings of 140 grand to pay for advertising in the subways and buses of NYC. And today I saw the pictures of a confused and deflated man, checking his watch as a loud, jeering man with a wiry black beard, stands next to him and sneers into the camera as he holds up some of Fitzpatrick's flyer's. And it makes me angry.
My heart breaks for him and bristles at the callousness of humanity to mock a man who is down. We all have much to learn.
I stood in a checkout line the other day and listened to the checker and bagger go back and forth about the validity of the Bible, the concept of prophecy, and the Second Coming. And I prided myself that I had the reassurance the there would be no end of the world on May 21rst because of my knowledge of the Bible and the fact that it says no man knows the day or hour. And I was silent.
But as I loaded my groceries in the car a slow wave came over me, questions that made me think. Does it really matter if the world doesn't end tomorrow? Do I somehow rest in complacency because I know it won't happen? Would I give all I had to spread the word and stand publicly in Times square if I was truly convicted? Have I become lazy in "truth".
I do not believe in the method of Fitzpatrick, or the message that he taught. But I cannot point a finger or mock a man who has sold out for hope and now lost it all. I can only be convicted of my own responsibility to know what I believe.
I wonder what drives humanity to find the weaker man, to kick someone who is already down? Somehow the golden rule has been forgotten. Who has never been wrong? Who has never been prideful? Who has never been awkward or alone? Let them take up the dirty job of hate. As for me, I will never claim to have been immune from any of these things. And today, as Fitzpatrick wakes up bewildered and alone...I will pray. Pray for healing in a man who is broken, pray for hope when its hard to see, and pray that someday...God will come.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
The Evolution of Man
She lays on his arm, her tiny head engulfed by his broad hand. He has black grease stains up to his elbows that soap didn't take off. It's clung to the callouses on his fingers like black ink spots would on men who write stories, and it tells his story.
A hard working man's man who loves cars, and sports, and getting dirty. Who doesn't have time for frills or fluff or delicate things. But you wouldn't guess it now. Because she is nothing but delicate and perfectly at home there. And he handles her as gently as a person could and holds her with a tenderness that cannot be rivaled, for she belongs to him. She is his child.
He used to worry about the frailness of babies, used to worry about the diapers, and demands, and needs of those mysterious things. But you wouldn't guess it now, because he has stepped up to the plate and taken that ball home...changing diapers in seconds, dressing, burping, feeding.
I watch him kiss them, listen to him gurgle and coo, and hear him tell extravagant stories to two little big eyed babies...and I wonder at the evolution of this man from just a guy...to father.
It's time to go now and he scoops her up with a deftness he has previously always shown in anything physical, and walks out the door, only to return seconds later and ask..."is there another binki? this one doesn't match her outfit."
A hard working man's man who loves cars, and sports, and getting dirty. Who doesn't have time for frills or fluff or delicate things. But you wouldn't guess it now. Because she is nothing but delicate and perfectly at home there. And he handles her as gently as a person could and holds her with a tenderness that cannot be rivaled, for she belongs to him. She is his child.
He used to worry about the frailness of babies, used to worry about the diapers, and demands, and needs of those mysterious things. But you wouldn't guess it now, because he has stepped up to the plate and taken that ball home...changing diapers in seconds, dressing, burping, feeding.
I watch him kiss them, listen to him gurgle and coo, and hear him tell extravagant stories to two little big eyed babies...and I wonder at the evolution of this man from just a guy...to father.
It's time to go now and he scoops her up with a deftness he has previously always shown in anything physical, and walks out the door, only to return seconds later and ask..."is there another binki? this one doesn't match her outfit."
Monday, November 22, 2010
A Mother's Heart
Today we laid to rest one of our youth, 21 years old, talented, passionate, and smart. Gui Sobral. His smile has graced our lives, his energy contagious. The only son of dedicated and loving parents, killed in a twisted car crash a week ago. And for the first time in my life, I felt something new, something unexplainable, something so much bigger then myself.
I watched as his mother supported by someone on each side stepped up to read a poem she had written, the kind of raw emotion, grief, loss, pain…the stricken look of devastation, of lost expectations, of memories, of love. I watched as childhood pictures flickered across the screens, simple pictures to us, but to his parents, parts of their lives, parts of everything that he had been. Glimpses into a lifetime of love. And I saw her anguish and something intensely foreign began to well inside of me.
I have to be honest; I haven’t felt attached to this pregnancy. I’ve felt invaded, taken over, not in control. I’ve resented the days and nights of sickness, the limitations, the tiredness, I’ve felt claustrophobic and trapped. I’ve laid awake at night and wondered if somehow I’m missing some vital mothering instinct that is supposed to be apparent in all females. I’ve heard those around me who are pregnant, gush about their feelings of passionate love for their unborn, their excitement, that glow. And I’ve been jealous of it. Worried really. People have asked me everyday how excited I am, and I’ve answered with caution and a simple smile…”I’m getting there” when in reality, I feel very far from it.
But today, I sat there…in that pew and an emotion started to well from within the very depths of my being, a understanding, an agony. As I felt the kicks of my own children, and heard the wail of a mother who had lost hers, I felt it…what must be, has to be, a mothers heart. Nothing so intense, nothing so clear, nothing so pure in feeling , in emotion, has ever overcome me. I had to hold on to the seat, literally, to keep from rushing to a woman I don’t even know, to grasp her to me, to weep with her, to hold her in her loss, to help feel a pain I am now only beginning to understand. And in that moment, I loved my children, they are not just what lives inside of me, but they are why I live. I will be from this moment on, always a mother. They are mine, a part of myself, my responsibility, my inspiration, my motivation, my heart.
They lower Gui into the ground, and as they do, my babies kick. And I feel a holy fear of the sense of protectiveness I feel for these unborn children of mine. A complete abandon of any sense of sacrifice to big or to great for those that I call my own. There is nothing, nothing, that would be to big, or too much for me to give or do, to protect them, to uphold them, to see them succeed, to see them live fulfilled and happy, to have them understand my love. There is nothing that I could even call a sacrifice, because it is what I want to do. Because today…I am a mother.
I watched as his mother supported by someone on each side stepped up to read a poem she had written, the kind of raw emotion, grief, loss, pain…the stricken look of devastation, of lost expectations, of memories, of love. I watched as childhood pictures flickered across the screens, simple pictures to us, but to his parents, parts of their lives, parts of everything that he had been. Glimpses into a lifetime of love. And I saw her anguish and something intensely foreign began to well inside of me.
I have to be honest; I haven’t felt attached to this pregnancy. I’ve felt invaded, taken over, not in control. I’ve resented the days and nights of sickness, the limitations, the tiredness, I’ve felt claustrophobic and trapped. I’ve laid awake at night and wondered if somehow I’m missing some vital mothering instinct that is supposed to be apparent in all females. I’ve heard those around me who are pregnant, gush about their feelings of passionate love for their unborn, their excitement, that glow. And I’ve been jealous of it. Worried really. People have asked me everyday how excited I am, and I’ve answered with caution and a simple smile…”I’m getting there” when in reality, I feel very far from it.
But today, I sat there…in that pew and an emotion started to well from within the very depths of my being, a understanding, an agony. As I felt the kicks of my own children, and heard the wail of a mother who had lost hers, I felt it…what must be, has to be, a mothers heart. Nothing so intense, nothing so clear, nothing so pure in feeling , in emotion, has ever overcome me. I had to hold on to the seat, literally, to keep from rushing to a woman I don’t even know, to grasp her to me, to weep with her, to hold her in her loss, to help feel a pain I am now only beginning to understand. And in that moment, I loved my children, they are not just what lives inside of me, but they are why I live. I will be from this moment on, always a mother. They are mine, a part of myself, my responsibility, my inspiration, my motivation, my heart.
They lower Gui into the ground, and as they do, my babies kick. And I feel a holy fear of the sense of protectiveness I feel for these unborn children of mine. A complete abandon of any sense of sacrifice to big or to great for those that I call my own. There is nothing, nothing, that would be to big, or too much for me to give or do, to protect them, to uphold them, to see them succeed, to see them live fulfilled and happy, to have them understand my love. There is nothing that I could even call a sacrifice, because it is what I want to do. Because today…I am a mother.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
A Whole Box of Positive
I just couldn't remember...one line or two lines? I sat there on the edge of the bathtub holding the pregnancy test thinking rather blindly that I thought it was two lines for positive, but that just couldn't be right, because there were two lines on that little sucker and well, I couldn't be pregnant.
I had woke up feeling very odd that morning, and on a hunch had rummaged through my bathroom drawer for that old test I had had from a previous scare years ago. I had long since thrown away the box, and had no idiot proof reference in the instruction book ,that actually gives you a little picture of what it's supposed to look like if it's positive.
I googled the question "what does a positive cvs pregnancy test look like" and wouldn't you know it. Dozens of other women had the same question. And wouldn't you know it, they said it was two lines. And wouldn't you know it, I didn't believe it. I woke Dustan up and told him we needed to go to Rite aid THIS MINUTE and get some pregnancy tests...he was a little to stunned to argue and off we marched. We got a box, and I mean a box of pregnancy test and brought them home.
In a daze I went through the entire box and blinked unbelievably as one after another came up positive, within moments. I'm not a swearing person, I'm a pastor and I was raised with a clean mouth policy...but there is something about finding out you are pregnant that kind of makes you want to swear. I certainly thought it, if I didn't say it...."$&%*"what have we gotten ourselves into. Visions of sleepless nights, screaming children in checkout lines, snotty noses, and dirty diapers whirled through my head. Loss of freedom and flexibility seemed to creep in from the dark corners of my mind as we looked at that bathroom windowsill...at the lineup of our future. A whole box of positive. Yep, a whole box. Not one, not two....a...whole....box. And then Dustan took pictures, and gave me a huge, and told me I was going to be a great mommy. And I cried, because I was so darned sacred. Dustan was all smiles and laughter...and I didn't talk for three days.
Six weeks later we found ourselves in a small maroon and teal office waiting for the Doctor to give us the first glimpse of our baby. He did his job with ease and professionalism right up to the point where he paused and said, "huh". We froze..."look at that, there are two." I wish I had a picture of Dustan's face...the color drained, the eyes dilated...I argued with the Doctor, "no, you don't understand, that is not possible. There are no twins in my family, this was not planned, I'm not an older mother...there can't be twins." He very factually replied that one out of every eighty couples have twins without fertility drugs...ONE OUT OF EIGHTY! Why have I never heard that statistic?!? And then we heard two little heart beats, and visions of forty little fingers and toes flashed through my head, of two little blue eyed blonds, and I laid my head back on that table and laughed and shook my head, and laughed some more....and Dustan didn't talk for three days.
I had woke up feeling very odd that morning, and on a hunch had rummaged through my bathroom drawer for that old test I had had from a previous scare years ago. I had long since thrown away the box, and had no idiot proof reference in the instruction book ,that actually gives you a little picture of what it's supposed to look like if it's positive.
I googled the question "what does a positive cvs pregnancy test look like" and wouldn't you know it. Dozens of other women had the same question. And wouldn't you know it, they said it was two lines. And wouldn't you know it, I didn't believe it. I woke Dustan up and told him we needed to go to Rite aid THIS MINUTE and get some pregnancy tests...he was a little to stunned to argue and off we marched. We got a box, and I mean a box of pregnancy test and brought them home.
In a daze I went through the entire box and blinked unbelievably as one after another came up positive, within moments. I'm not a swearing person, I'm a pastor and I was raised with a clean mouth policy...but there is something about finding out you are pregnant that kind of makes you want to swear. I certainly thought it, if I didn't say it...."$&%*"what have we gotten ourselves into. Visions of sleepless nights, screaming children in checkout lines, snotty noses, and dirty diapers whirled through my head. Loss of freedom and flexibility seemed to creep in from the dark corners of my mind as we looked at that bathroom windowsill...at the lineup of our future. A whole box of positive. Yep, a whole box. Not one, not two....a...whole....box. And then Dustan took pictures, and gave me a huge, and told me I was going to be a great mommy. And I cried, because I was so darned sacred. Dustan was all smiles and laughter...and I didn't talk for three days.
Six weeks later we found ourselves in a small maroon and teal office waiting for the Doctor to give us the first glimpse of our baby. He did his job with ease and professionalism right up to the point where he paused and said, "huh". We froze..."look at that, there are two." I wish I had a picture of Dustan's face...the color drained, the eyes dilated...I argued with the Doctor, "no, you don't understand, that is not possible. There are no twins in my family, this was not planned, I'm not an older mother...there can't be twins." He very factually replied that one out of every eighty couples have twins without fertility drugs...ONE OUT OF EIGHTY! Why have I never heard that statistic?!? And then we heard two little heart beats, and visions of forty little fingers and toes flashed through my head, of two little blue eyed blonds, and I laid my head back on that table and laughed and shook my head, and laughed some more....and Dustan didn't talk for three days.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
