Blank space, memory and feeling. Monuments, stone, love. Falling, falling, speeding ahead, no sight. There you go, Gertrude Stein. Out of feeling, into thinking.
Perhaps this is my impetus, the push - the shove - back into creativity. Solitude always did that for me. When you're busy and happy there's no reason, no time, no desperation for writing. Are you my friend, blank screen? Oh, to be alone, to wake every day fearing my solitude. These babies, my social creatures, my reasons for smiling and crying. What would life look like if I we were transplanted anywhere but here? Pick us up, O Great Hand, move us along to that place where we are Known and Loved. But not too quickly. Don't let them grow, please let them change. So childish, only a child. Not here, not there. This is the mortal discontent, the sadness that traps me and brings me back to the place of hope and longing. How loved is our Forever Home when our temporary shell is empty and cold.
So cold.
I am lonely. Alone, yet never alone. Am I weak, to not see the beauty, not love the temporal for what I'm learning? What am I learning that I did not know?
I know that I am weak, I am selfish, I am needy. I know. Please stop reminding me.
I want to see a therapist - at least then I would have someone to talk to - face to face. If I paid you to listen to me, would you be my friend? Can I listen to you? Do you exist?
Is our life just a series of repetitions? I am older, I have a few gray hairs, I've born children. Yet this life pulls me back, 17 years ago - SEVENTEEN - I was just as lonely, just as unsatisfied and powerless. One man's job moved me away from friendship into solitude. Seventeen years forward - repeat - another man's job moves me away. Hope rises and crashes. Am I better equipped for the isolation? I'm not sure. This time there are the lovelies, my poor babies. They deserve so much better.
Perhaps this is the shove into grace - perhaps that is the cycle. Forgiven, loved, joyful, lazy, easy, forgetful, sad, needy, lonely, humbled, repeat.
There is no conclusion to this. This piece does not end -
November 20, 2014
November 8, 2014
We're Weaning
Dear Mateo,
It's been three nights since we last nursed. Someday you may read this and not understand or remember what that means, but right now - it means everything. My sweet boy, my firstborn, my angel eyes...I cannot hear you ask to "nurse in bed," watch your little wheels turn as you try to come up with a reason to nurse that is most likely to elicit my sympathy and cave my resolve (this resolve is all pretense, my love). I nurse your sister in secret, too pained by your cries of, "I want to nurse because you just nursed Annie" to throw it back in your face. You are a jealous, while loving, brother and dare not stoke that fire any more. I want nothing more than to draw your head to my breast, let your pawing hands find their comfort. So many times these past few days I have almost - almost - almost given in. Even now, writing this, I want to run upstairs and snuggle you close, feel you search out the comfort you've known every. day. of. your. life. What cruel mother am I to deny you this basic ritual of your existence? What is life without it?
"You've given him more than 3 years." "You've been so patient and gentle with him." They tell me these things and I have no response, there is nothing I can say that will make three years seem like not enough. No one can understand - I doubt even another mother who has been in this position can understand. The mother/child breastfeeding relationship is that specific that only you and I - right now - can understand. One day soon you will forget and then it will just be me left alone with the memories and the twinges of loss. When you were a baby I would half joke that I would just nurse you until I had another baby and then go straight into nursing them, so I would never be without a nursing child. What naivete, to think that another child could take your place. The bond you and I have shared through your precious nursing is not the bond that Annie and I share - lovely as that is. You and I are our own, she and I something separate. I have felt a hint of what lies on the other side of this grief - I cherish my nursing Annie a bit more now, I look at her with fresh eyes - my only true baby (oh, baby, I will never stop calling you that - you will always be my baby, as I remind you daily). I snuggle you closer, tighter than I did before. I am brutally aware of you growing up too quickly and am more resolved than ever to respect your innocence and good intentions, to love you fully. These are the good things, the things I should choose to focus on through my sadness. But oh, this sadness. My tears soak our pillow as I stroke your hair back from your forehead and watch your eyes blink slowly and then shut. I tell you I love you apologetically, intensely, begging you to accept those words in exchange for the milk I deny you. You push me away, telling me you don't want to snuggle, you "just want to nurse" and a few minutes later wrap your arms around my neck and whisper you love me, you love me "so much."
I knew it would not be easy, but I never thought it would be this hard. I listened to others talk of weaning their older nurslings, how nursing sessions would gradually decrease until one day you realized you couldn't remember when the last time was. "How beautiful and sad," I would think, wondering if I would remember when that day came. I remember - November 4th, bedtime. I should have known it would not end easily, or quietly. When you were born Linda, the midwife's assistant, told me that she believed how a birth progressed is symptomatic of that baby's character. Your birth was days long, slowly progressing, intense, never ending and powerful. You came on your own sweet time, eyes open. Is it any wonder, then, that your nursing relationship would be long, intense, and difficult to bring to an end? My heart says to give in to your sweet pleas, to let you be the one who ends it - but my mind says it's time. I can't say exactly why, but I feel I will be a better mother to you if it ends. My body will be more patient, less touched out. My heart will have more sympathy toward you. I wish it were not this way - but I am only human. I gave you so much, my love. I give you so much. My lap is yours, my arms are yours, my heart is yours. You are not a baby anymore, I tell you this and it is true. You are a little boy - soon you will be a big boy and one day you will be a man. Time passes and our relationship must evolve with it. I am so grateful for those 3 years, 1 month and 11 days that I gave you my body to grow yours, my heart to comfort yours. There was so much more to it than just milk. Thank you, my son, for teaching me to give. You made me a mother, three years ago and each day over again. I am mourning, but also hopeful - this is a new season for us. I'm sure you will lead me somewhere else I've never been.
All my love, always,
Mommy
A baby nursing at a mother's breast... is an undeniable affirmation of our rootedness in nature. ~David Suzuki
It is only in the act of nursing that a woman realizes her motherhood in visible and tangible fashion; it is a joy of every moment. ~Honoré de Balzac
Mothers ought to bring up and nurse their own children; for they bring them up with greater affection and with greater anxiety, as loving them from the heart, and so to speak, every inch of them. ~Plutarch
Breastfeeding is an unsentimental metaphor for how love works, in a way. You don't decide how much and how deeply to love — you respond to the beloved, and give with joy exactly as much as they want. ~Marni Jackson
Breastfeeding is a gift that lasts a lifetime. ~Author Unknown
It's been three nights since we last nursed. Someday you may read this and not understand or remember what that means, but right now - it means everything. My sweet boy, my firstborn, my angel eyes...I cannot hear you ask to "nurse in bed," watch your little wheels turn as you try to come up with a reason to nurse that is most likely to elicit my sympathy and cave my resolve (this resolve is all pretense, my love). I nurse your sister in secret, too pained by your cries of, "I want to nurse because you just nursed Annie" to throw it back in your face. You are a jealous, while loving, brother and dare not stoke that fire any more. I want nothing more than to draw your head to my breast, let your pawing hands find their comfort. So many times these past few days I have almost - almost - almost given in. Even now, writing this, I want to run upstairs and snuggle you close, feel you search out the comfort you've known every. day. of. your. life. What cruel mother am I to deny you this basic ritual of your existence? What is life without it?
"You've given him more than 3 years." "You've been so patient and gentle with him." They tell me these things and I have no response, there is nothing I can say that will make three years seem like not enough. No one can understand - I doubt even another mother who has been in this position can understand. The mother/child breastfeeding relationship is that specific that only you and I - right now - can understand. One day soon you will forget and then it will just be me left alone with the memories and the twinges of loss. When you were a baby I would half joke that I would just nurse you until I had another baby and then go straight into nursing them, so I would never be without a nursing child. What naivete, to think that another child could take your place. The bond you and I have shared through your precious nursing is not the bond that Annie and I share - lovely as that is. You and I are our own, she and I something separate. I have felt a hint of what lies on the other side of this grief - I cherish my nursing Annie a bit more now, I look at her with fresh eyes - my only true baby (oh, baby, I will never stop calling you that - you will always be my baby, as I remind you daily). I snuggle you closer, tighter than I did before. I am brutally aware of you growing up too quickly and am more resolved than ever to respect your innocence and good intentions, to love you fully. These are the good things, the things I should choose to focus on through my sadness. But oh, this sadness. My tears soak our pillow as I stroke your hair back from your forehead and watch your eyes blink slowly and then shut. I tell you I love you apologetically, intensely, begging you to accept those words in exchange for the milk I deny you. You push me away, telling me you don't want to snuggle, you "just want to nurse" and a few minutes later wrap your arms around my neck and whisper you love me, you love me "so much."
I knew it would not be easy, but I never thought it would be this hard. I listened to others talk of weaning their older nurslings, how nursing sessions would gradually decrease until one day you realized you couldn't remember when the last time was. "How beautiful and sad," I would think, wondering if I would remember when that day came. I remember - November 4th, bedtime. I should have known it would not end easily, or quietly. When you were born Linda, the midwife's assistant, told me that she believed how a birth progressed is symptomatic of that baby's character. Your birth was days long, slowly progressing, intense, never ending and powerful. You came on your own sweet time, eyes open. Is it any wonder, then, that your nursing relationship would be long, intense, and difficult to bring to an end? My heart says to give in to your sweet pleas, to let you be the one who ends it - but my mind says it's time. I can't say exactly why, but I feel I will be a better mother to you if it ends. My body will be more patient, less touched out. My heart will have more sympathy toward you. I wish it were not this way - but I am only human. I gave you so much, my love. I give you so much. My lap is yours, my arms are yours, my heart is yours. You are not a baby anymore, I tell you this and it is true. You are a little boy - soon you will be a big boy and one day you will be a man. Time passes and our relationship must evolve with it. I am so grateful for those 3 years, 1 month and 11 days that I gave you my body to grow yours, my heart to comfort yours. There was so much more to it than just milk. Thank you, my son, for teaching me to give. You made me a mother, three years ago and each day over again. I am mourning, but also hopeful - this is a new season for us. I'm sure you will lead me somewhere else I've never been.
All my love, always,
Mommy
A baby nursing at a mother's breast... is an undeniable affirmation of our rootedness in nature. ~David Suzuki
It is only in the act of nursing that a woman realizes her motherhood in visible and tangible fashion; it is a joy of every moment. ~Honoré de Balzac
Mothers ought to bring up and nurse their own children; for they bring them up with greater affection and with greater anxiety, as loving them from the heart, and so to speak, every inch of them. ~Plutarch
Breastfeeding is an unsentimental metaphor for how love works, in a way. You don't decide how much and how deeply to love — you respond to the beloved, and give with joy exactly as much as they want. ~Marni Jackson
Breastfeeding is a gift that lasts a lifetime. ~Author Unknown
July 19, 2014
Healing
Without even realizing it, I've fallen by the wayside. I thought I was doing fine, on the way to great new things, happier children, sunshine and roses.
Instead I've looked up and found a gray sky, instead of blue, frightened children, instead of connected, chaos, instead of order, anxiety, instead of peace.
I'm not sure how I got here. Well, maybe I am. I'm in transition- but aren't we always? I thought myself stronger than this; the blow to my ego upon realizing my vulnerability has been acute.
I am anxious. I am controlling. I am sad. I am lonely. I am in that dark tunnel. I am scary mommy.
I will talk. I will reach out. I will exercise, for my sanity, and for my children. I will read to them. I will give her to Justin, and connect with him. I will ask his forgiveness for my impatience and neglect through my time, and hugs. I will listen. I will be present.
I will let the house go, before I begin. I will take baby steps and accept that time heals all things.
I accept myself. I value myself. I am myself, I cannot compare my worth and life to another's. My job earns no paycheck, merits to promotions or accolades. I have no prestigious title, no hard earned degrees. That is more difficult than I expected, to not see proof of my value and hard work in concrete ways every day. To always question if I'm doing enough, being enough to them, giving enough to myself, let alone my marriage. I sometimes feel like a fragmented, anxious squirrel, darting from project to task to errand, never completing something because my brain is racing around ahead of me, compiling lists. I have convinced myself that I'm a juggler, when I can barely catch a ball. I never stop to ask myself if the juggling is even necessary (it's not).
But I have value. I am important, essential, to two amazing little people. What is more prestigious than that.
I will let go of my guilt. I will judge no one, myself included. As Laura's mother said, I will ask myself daily in moments of self doubt and anxiety, - what is the most loving decision I can make?
What is the most loving decision I can make? It seems so simple when I remember to love.
May 9, 2014
Their Ways
The way she bounces back and forth, full body rejoicing in her new sitting up skills. The throwing herself around in her high chair, laughing out of the pure joy of movement.
The way he informs his overprotective, temporarily absent father, "I got this boo boo, I got this boo boo. I got four boo boos." The panic in his father's voice because he's not here to protect him from my lackadaisical parenting skills. (He only has two boo boos).
The giggles that spill out of her when he comes near her, her anticipation of the fun he brings.
The way he hugs me tight when I pick him up.
The way she yells at me to get my attention, not crying like other babies- yelling.
His sweaty head, the ring of food bits around his mouth that gets pushed just beyond the reach of his tongue and dries there, a toddler five o'clock shadow.
Her sweet, sweet breath. The gummy smiles I do not yet have to cede to tiny teeth.
At night, straddling the crack between the two full size mattresses that make up our big bed on the floor, I alternate between them. I roll to my left, drape my arm across the impossibly big, strong, slim body of my two and a half year old in 4T. I scratch his back, play with his hair, hug him tight, half trying not to wake him, and half hoping he'll rouse just enough to hug me back.
I feel her absence, always missing one when I'm with the other. I roll to my right, draw my knees to my chest, my head on my right arm, lift my shirt and pull her small body in close. Her own knees draw up in her footie jammies, our bodies curl into each other perfectly, an ancient puzzle cut by a master crafter.
In the morning I will beg to use the bathroom, "By myself!" Tonight I long to absorb their newness, to let their sweet heaviness sink into my bones. This is my constant paradox.
These are the bits and pieces that make up my days, a year round Thanksgiving.
April 9, 2014
Better
Every day I wake up and say, "I will let it go. All of it. Nothing he does will matter, but my reaction will matter. Nothing deserves a reaction." And every night I lay here and apologize to my babies for being crazy-yelling-mom. I pray the next day will be better.Some days are, but most of the time it feels like one step forward, two steps back. My toddler doesn't handle change well. I don't handle my toddler well.
Tomorrow will be better.
January 5, 2014
New Year, Clean Slate
Facebook status update today:
2014 has begun with a bang with Justin receiving orders for March to his A school in Yorktown, Virginia. We never expected to live in Port St. Lucie for as long as we have; most A school waiting lists are not nearly three years long. The news is bittersweet - while Florida and I have an on again, off again relationship (currently on, thank you, winter) the past (almost) three years have been an intense period of growth and change for me and I will always have a special place in my heart for the Treasure Coast. My babies were born in this house...the friends I've made through La Leche League and the wonderful community of loving, supportive women I've found here have helped me survive the first years of motherhood, have loved me and my children, and have been my family when I am so far from my own. I am so thankful for God placing us here for this time in my life. I knew He was in control from the moment I sat on my parent's couch, twenty weeks pregnant, Googled "home birth certified nurse midwives in Florida," prayed for a miracle, and found the amazing Angela Love. While I'm crying as I write this, I'm also so excited to see where we'll be stationed next. The babies and I will be staying with family in VA while Justin is in school and then...who knows! Adventure awaits!
More blogging, less FB - that's part of the adventure. More nature, less "stuff." More breathing, less yelling. More hugs and tickles, less hand holding and counting to ten.
I am thankful for the rollercoaster the next six months will be, for the break from a routine or familiar surroundings, for the family we'll be with, for the yards we'll have to explore. I'm grateful that Mateo will have these experiences...
My biggest fear is seeing the light go out in his eyes. For him not to want to hug or kiss me one night. For his unbridled joy to become bridled. I am being driven crazy by the Twos, and yet I never want them to end. I hold him, I kiss him and I am full of fear and love. Sand through my fingers...
2014 has begun with a bang with Justin receiving orders for March to his A school in Yorktown, Virginia. We never expected to live in Port St. Lucie for as long as we have; most A school waiting lists are not nearly three years long. The news is bittersweet - while Florida and I have an on again, off again relationship (currently on, thank you, winter) the past (almost) three years have been an intense period of growth and change for me and I will always have a special place in my heart for the Treasure Coast. My babies were born in this house...the friends I've made through La Leche League and the wonderful community of loving, supportive women I've found here have helped me survive the first years of motherhood, have loved me and my children, and have been my family when I am so far from my own. I am so thankful for God placing us here for this time in my life. I knew He was in control from the moment I sat on my parent's couch, twenty weeks pregnant, Googled "home birth certified nurse midwives in Florida," prayed for a miracle, and found the amazing Angela Love. While I'm crying as I write this, I'm also so excited to see where we'll be stationed next. The babies and I will be staying with family in VA while Justin is in school and then...who knows! Adventure awaits!
More blogging, less FB - that's part of the adventure. More nature, less "stuff." More breathing, less yelling. More hugs and tickles, less hand holding and counting to ten.
I am thankful for the rollercoaster the next six months will be, for the break from a routine or familiar surroundings, for the family we'll be with, for the yards we'll have to explore. I'm grateful that Mateo will have these experiences...
My biggest fear is seeing the light go out in his eyes. For him not to want to hug or kiss me one night. For his unbridled joy to become bridled. I am being driven crazy by the Twos, and yet I never want them to end. I hold him, I kiss him and I am full of fear and love. Sand through my fingers...
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