Day 5 Photo/Writing Prompt: Sweet
My daughter was full of protests, tantrums, and screaming toddler attitude tonight. There was no patience and no use of the bits of sign language we’ve been practicing. When I laid her in her crib, she reached around for her lamb who has long been her source of extra comfort when she’s tired. That lamb has been missing for a couple days, sadly, and as her disappointment brought tears I felt the guilt creep in. I chided myself for not looking harder for it today. Nevermind that I’d spent a considerable amount of time combing through every room in the house the day before. Forget the fact that she would undoubtedly sleep just fine once she relaxed despite the absence of her favorite little stuffed animal. There was the mom guilt ready to climb on my back.
A couple hours later I snuck into her room. She stirred a little then stilled. I stood at her crib, a shaft of light from the hallway allowing me the sight of her back rising and falling as she breathed. My eyes fell on her mouth, so tiny and pink. Where earlier there was the high pitched crying of a one year old who wants her dinner right now, there was only quiet. Steady inhales and exhales. My own breathing slowed as I listened. I caressed her soft cheek and let go of the guilt; the “I didn’t play with you enough today” and “I forgot to read books with you before bedtime” and “I shouldn’t have lost my patience with you” guilt. She was resting well, in all her inherent sweetness, and tomorrow I would try again.
The last time I posted, I was pregnant. Pregnant and proclaiming that I was back to the blogging world. Ha. I am now the happy mama of a 2 1/2 month old boy. Timothy Michael was born on September 27th after a blessedly simple labor. He came home with us on my 32nd birthday and I have enjoyed almost 12 weeks of glorious time with him.
A friend reminded me, shortly after Timothy was born, of a blog post I’d written a few years ago. It was when Matt and I were first getting serious and I was adapting to being involved in (my stepson) Nethanial’s life. I shared how, compared to my closest friends and plenty of other girls I knew, my desire to be a parent was weak. I didn’t have a strong urge or longing for it. I feared it wouldn’t come naturally, that I wouldn’t be able to do it wholeheartedly as it should be done. I couldn’t help smiling to myself when she brought that up. God be praised, I can honestly say that nothing has felt more natural to me than being Timothy’s mom. Nothing. Being Matt’s wife is an extremely close second but otherwise, I can’t think of anything that didn’t feel forced or awkward or unsuited to me in at least one way or aspect.
Twelve weeks of cuddling, rocking, diapering, breastfeeding, learning, laundry, dishes, house cleaning, cooking, singing to sleep, cooing, marveling, and praying. Praying I’ll do it right. Praying it all doesn’t go too fast for me to handle.
But it has gone too fast. I return to work this Thursday. Only part time; 3 days a week instead of 5, for which I’m so thankful. For the last few weeks, it is everyone’s first question: “When do you have to go back to work?” Usually followed by “who will be watching him?” and “are you ready?” Day after day, I answer each of them with a calm manner and as much of a smile as I can manage. Then I sneak to another room or get in the car or hang up the phone, and I cry. I cry and I hug my boy. I cry and I talk to him. I cry and I snuggle him to my chest and feed him. I give myself a few precious minutes to stare at him and caress him without thinking about the laundry to be folded or the dinner to be planned.
I’ve never had my heart broken. Not truly. I had one boyfriend before Matt, and that was a simple junior high/high school relationship. Matt and I never broke up along the way, despite some extremely difficult times. I have not lost one of my parents or a sibling or a best friend. I’ve been disappointed, wounded, hurt, yes, but never has my heart been broken. I don’t know if I’ll be able to say the same come Thursday.
Mothers have been doing this for years, many of them for far more hours per week than what I’ll be doing. It’s necessary. There’s no way around it. I’ve found a great situation for him as far as care while I’m at work. There is every logical reason for it all to be fine. I am so far from being unique in this necessity and difficulty. Even my pain over it feels shameful at times as I know so many women have gone through it (and survived it) before me. Unfortunately, that doesn’t make it any less gut-wrenching.
With each day that brings me closer to leaving him in someone else’s care, I feel a desperate, unanswerable need to apologize to him. To explain and reassure. There’s no release from it as there’s no way to actually do this. All I’ll be able to do is count the hours until I bring him home, wrap him in my arms and tell him I love him.
The scent of warm pear bread – cinnamon and sweetness – hangs in the air of my kitchen. There are dishes to wash and a floor to sweep but they can wait. There is a to-do list beside this computer, its uncrossed items lifting off the page to remind me there is still much to be done. However, much can wait. Even as I assess whether these are real contractions I’m experiencing or simply more Braxton Hicks after a long, tiring day, I am pulled toward quiet thoughts. There simply haven’t been enough of them lately. They are stolen, pushed aside, stepped over, or buried under heaps of mental activity. They wait. They wait for me.
Do yours do likewise? Are the edges of your mind lined with subtle, patient, quiet thoughts? Wallflowers in the spinning ballroom of your head. Do they wait for you to sit out a dance?
Mine wait. Patiently, perseveringly, but not permanently. Eventually, they do go. They slip regretfully out the door like the party guest who will not intrude upon others’ conversations but could’ve been the highlight of the evening if anyone had taken a moment to look them in the eye and invite them into their circle.
During weeks of tiredness, my body longing for sleep by seven p.m yet not finding it until much later and then only intermittently, my brain is aching for energy. I get caught up in despondent reflections of ‘I used to write,’ and ‘I used to teach,’ and so on. Not that they last long. They are overrun by the joy I have at what my life has become. Wife, stepmother, and now mother. I feel my child turn over inside me and I imagine holding him in my arms. How can such regrets withstand it? The negativity is polished away by my blessed reality and what remains is only the root of the regrets. That I do still long to be a writer, a teacher, a thinker! That those should be woven into marriage and motherhood for as many days as I’m given. It’s the figuring out how that is the challenge. Challenge does not equal impossibility though. In fact, a challenge must be possible to achieve or it is merely nonsense and nothing else.
Yes, this is a genuine challenge. One that I will take up each day – sometimes setting it back down after only a moment and a sigh, certainly, but other times engaging it with strength and wit and success. It’s my belief that the engagement must begin with quiet thoughts: the ones waiting on me, eager but calm, ready to pull me deeper into truth, beauty, and holiness. Anything good must begin there.
“What is on the way?” you may be wondering. A baby! Well on his way, actually! A few months into our marriage, Matt and I were thrilled to discover we were expecting a child. Timothy Michael is due October 4th and I’m having trouble believing how quickly that day is approaching. I can hardly wait to hold my son in my arms. To touch his skin, hear his voice, stroke his hair, kiss his nose. He is in constant motion lately, a thrilling sensation of flips and kicks and stretches.
I’ve had a healthy, ordinary-in-the-best-way pregnancy. Predictable symptoms, expected progressions, and no scares. About the biggest complaints as this third trimester gets underway are hatred for humidity and a longing to be able to sleep on my back once in a while. And a wistful pining for a chilled glass of moscato, I suppose.
In the 10 months since I became a wife, I have frequently thought about getting back to blogging. Of course, it was usually a passing thought in between “what should I make for dinner” and “maybe I can get these last boxes unpacked this week.” (They’re still not unpacked.) Then came pregnancy and instead of there being one or two things I could more sensibly do instead of blogging, there were three or four or more.
Oh, silly me. Falling into that age old trap of practically every writer who ever lived. There are always things to do instead of write! Always! My first book didn’t get written because I had nothing else to do. It was written because I chose to write it. All my prior blog posts weren’t written out of boredom. They were written because I needed to transfer the words from my brain to the world.
So, I hope you’ve missed me. I’m back. Giant belly blocking the keyboard and all.
I’ve never held a dear desire to have children. Making that statement inclines me to hide my face for a moment. I’m well aware that it doesn’t fit. It has long felt like something ‘wrong’ in me. I’m Catholic, wholly pro-life and pro-family. I don’t believe in the use of contraception of any sort and I celebrate the beautiful gift that is our cooperation with God in creating His most precious creatures – human beings. I hold children to be among the greatest gifts bestowed by God, never burdens and never unwelcome. I am the youngest of 7 children and those siblings… well, there’s little I wouldn’t do for them. When friends or family members announce pregnancies or introduce me to their new little ones, I rejoice with them. I relish the tender snuggles and vivacious antics of my 11 nieces and nephews. I mourn with those close to me who have lost a child or struggle to conceive. I love children. And yet…