The Chapter After This

"Your pain is the breaking of your shell that encloses your understanding." -Khalil Gibran

I never thought I would take an early miscarriage as a loss in the way that I did. I never thought the pain would be so all-consuming. I never thought I would feel such an ache, such sorrow, and so very alone. Then again, I never really thought about myself having a miscarriage.

But I did have a miscarriage. At a mere 7 weeks pregnant. I wanted nothing more than to shed my skin - to run away. I stopped washing my hair because it felt extraneous. I stopped wearing my wedding ring because it felt too heavy. I didn't know what I wanted or needed but I knew it wasn't anything that could come from anyone. The word "loss" was pulsing through my head. Over and over and over again; like the clacking of a train that seems endless. It eventually became soothing. Easier to tune out. I was physically, mentally, and emotionally aching. But did I have the right?

For the record, the term "blighted ovum" is the worst. A fetal sac in which no fetal development takes place. No fetal pole. No heartbeat. No baby.

I've never really been sure where I stand on the whole "when does life begin?" question. And some kind folks tried to ease my pain by assuring me I hadn't "actually" lost a baby. Inserted somewhere in between my sadness and my grief was this questioning I just couldn't shake of "what did I really lose?" I think miscarrying so early in my pregnancy and the way I did made it harder for me than it would have had the event happened further along or in another way. I thought maybe I didn't have the right to take it as a loss because, after all, there hadn't been an actual baby. When I expressed these feelings, as well as I could, to a friend who had gone through not one but two miscarriages, she told me that of course this was a loss. Of course I had the right to grieve. The physical reality of the loss wasn't the issue. The issue was that I had had this vision of the next chapter of my life and suddenly that vision was gone. It was lost. And so, of course, was I.

Having a toddler to care for while dealing with my carouselling emotions meant I couldn't burst into tears every time I felt myself building up to it. It's not that I was afraid to cry in front of my child. It's just that I didn't want to lie to him about the reason. And he wouldn't have understood this. We got into the car and drove a LOT those first couple of weeks. That's where I cried. While he listened to "Step In Time" on the iPod and told me about how many garbage trucks he would find.

Having a toddler to love (and to love me) while dealing with my carouselling emotions meant I knew I would come out it. Meant I got to laugh. And sing. And dream of the chapter after this.

What Summer Is

Everything is so much more fun with a toddler. My current mantra to new and soon-to-be parents is "parenting a toddler is the reward for parenting an infant." It's true. Toddlers are great, man. Infants are tough. Of course, toddlers bring with them their own set of challenging days and times but, 95% of the time, they are just so fun. So much language and learning and curiosity. And what better time to be parenting a toddler than summer, eh?

Our days are full. We end our days smelling of wet dirt, sunblock, sweat, bubbles, paint, fresh fruit, and wind. We cannot remember the days too cold to play outside. We try, see, and do new things. Swing on swings, Go down slides. Collect - gently - roly poly bugs. Dig and dig and dig and dig in the dirt. Run through the sprinkler. Eat berries and veggies right off the plant. Have picnic dinners outside. Run. And laugh and laugh and laugh. These are the days I hope to always remember.

Whose Day Is It, Anyway?

There is a phenomenon going on around Mother's Day that I've just recently been tuned into. In the days leading up to the day on which we celebrate Mothers my newsfeed is flooded with memes, posts, articles, and status updates telling me why the day is not just a day for Mothers, but is, in fact, a day to honor "all those who 'Mother'". Every year, on the second Sunday in May, teachers, mentors, nurses, grandparents, aunts, and even fathers are to be "remembered" and "thanked" for "mothering" us. And oh yeah, mothers, too.

Three Mother's Days ago I didn't care about this opening up of the one day a year specifically held to honor Mothers to so many different groups of people. Indeed, I hardly even noticed. But now that I am a mother, I do notice. And I care. A lot. Why? Because Mothers are not an everybody job. As a Mother I fulfill a role in my child's life that nobody else can or will: not a teacher, not a mentor, not a grandmother or aunt, and not a father. And I think that deserves a day.

I know, know that there are plenty of females out there who are raising children that have no business doing so. I know that many people have been hurt by said female in their lives and have gained positive caregiving from another source. I do not presume to define who is and who isn't a genuine Mother, deserving of celebration on Mother's Day. I pretty much believe that if you consider yourself a Mother, then you are one, regardless of birth or bloodlines. But I don't think taking one day a year to honor, thank, and celebrate Mothers, and only Mothers, is asking too much.

So let it be known now that here, on my Facebook feed, in my text messages and phone calls, I will celebrate Mothers, and only Mothers. Teacher, mentors, nurses, grandparents, aunts, and fathers, you all have your own days (actually, several of you have your own week or MONTH, but I'm not here to quibble). It's not that I'm selfish, it's just that I think credit should be given where credit is due.

P.S. Happy Mother's Day, Mams.

Reason

Reason #368 to bedshare:

Having your little one, in the wee hours of the morning, roll over, see you, smile, then fall back into a peaceful sleep. This is the life.

23 Months

What a blessed life I have. Rocking my 23 month old for the last time because in 25 hours he will be a 2 year old (although I'm strongly considering saying "24 month old"). I'm not entirely sure what I did or why I did it for those 29 years leading up to his birth. These last 2 have been the most purposeful, grounded, present, and happiest I've known. 

Before I became a mother I promised myself and anyone who inquired that I wouldn't "lose myself" to parenthood. I vowed I would remain confident in who I was and wouldn't let a child alter my existence in the drastic ways I had seen other women allow themselves to be altered. What a laugh. To think that I could stop this child from transforming my core, my being, is naive at best. The way in which I enter the world is as a mother now. This identity - this truth - informs everything I do. And what a blessed life it is. 

Happy Birthday, Sprout. Thank you for making me your mother.

~Mama

Boy, Oh Boy*

Sometime during my pregnancy my husband and I decided we didn't want to know what the gender was of our little Sprout. We wanted to be surprised. Of course we didn't really care what the gender was, as long as we had a healthy baby, but deep down inside I knew I had a baby boy. I just knew it. I wouldn't have cared if baby had come out a girl but I would have been surprised. I vowed to myself that no matter what I would never thrust gender roles or gender stereotypes on my child(ren). My sons would play with dolls and my daughters would play with action figures. Everyone would love blue as well as pink and "boy things" and "girl things" would have no place in our house! I used to secretly roll my eyes whenever I heard a mom talk about her son being "such a boy" or "all boy". "Right," I would think. "Only because you have shoved 'boy things' in his face since birth." I honestly thought these often gender-defining characteristics of loving loud, mechanical, dirty things were 100% nurture and not at all nature. That would never be something I would say because MY son would play house and paint his nails and paint neatly and love his baby doll. And then I had my son.

My son, BC, is fifteen months old. He does have a baby doll that he does love. Here are some of the things he also loves: tractors, semi trucks, dump trucks, regular trucks, motorcycles, lawn mowers, edgers (one of his first clearly articulated words), insects, bugs, gooey things, trains, Bob the (for the love of god) Builder, sand, mud, dirt, and his penis.

BC fell in love with lawn mowers and edgers while staring out our front window and watching our neighbor obsessively mow and edge his lawn (3 times a week, roughly). I'm not sure what first sparked his obsession with tractors. He didn't own a single tractor or even remotely tractor-shaped toy until he lifted one from my husband's parents house last month. As for dirt, well, that's been a solid relationship for him pretty much since birth - much like the one he has with his penis. I didn't set him in front of all of these quote unquote boy things, dress him only in blue, and make him practice until he perfected the subtle differences in the sounds of heavy machinery. I just followed his lead which, it turned out, went directly down Boy Alley.

It's not that I'm concerned about BC's overtly "boy" interests. It's just that, while fretting over the idea of his identity being defined by his gender and of him only being exposed to "boy things", it never occurred to me that he would gravitate towards those things himself. And if I am to let my son be my son, to not interfere with who he innately is, if I am to allow his interests to lead him and encourage him to trust and follow those interests, then I need to be okay with whatever those interests may be. I wanted so badly to be the mom who encouraged her son's love of thing that defied stereotypes that I forgot to be the mom who encouraged her son's love of whatever he chose. That's a hard one to swallow. Since I'm new at this, I'll cut myself a break.

*In writing this post I realize I take the terms "gender", "boy", and "girl" quite prescriptively. I understand the complexities behind gender identity are vast and I have over-simplified them here. My apologies to the LGBT Community, whose members are heroic.

Pure Joy

Every day I try to determine
just how, exactly, I ended up
with this little ball of joy.
Pure joy is what he is.
My son moves my world
at its very core,
but also on its surface.
The topographic map of
my daily life has become
a foreign land.
There are peaks and valleys
that appear unexpectedly
in my soul.
There are rivers and streams
that wind through the forest
of my heart.
There are roads yet to be laid
and others that bear the
footprints of the thousands
who have walked before me.
Those parents look at my life
and nod, knowingly.
They see my joy,
they understand my struggle,
for they have lived my fear
and embraced my love.
They knew this is how
it would be for me.

I don't understand how they
could keep this a secret.
How are parents all over
the world not shouting,
"Pure Joy!" from every
rooftop?
Why aren't parents all over
the world dancing,
singing, weeping from
that joy?
We are all blessed.
We are blessed one million
times over to be witness to
the life of our children.
Let us celebrate that;
that pure joy that comes
with being somebody's
parent.
For it is, indeed, joy.
It is a blessing.
It is a heartache.
It is frightening.
It is inspiring.
It is the most difficult
of tasks.
It is an honor
and it is a privilege.