Today I start a 40 day nap-a-thon. Gluttonous, selfish, entitled, privileged, and guilty. Those were the first thoughts that came to mind when I considered signing up for this. That I haven't yet told Adam that I've done this indicates the level to which I am not ok with how I am at least half-assedly committing to making this time for and with myself. For 40 days I will lie down, sit down, quietly, and commune with my body in a positive way for 30 minutes. My goal: to regain a positive relationship with my body. To learn to love my physical self again.
Yoga Nidra. Nap yoga. A practice when one sits quietly, and listens to one's body. Where it is quiet, where it is loud. Where it is heavy, where it is light. Where a body is bright, where it is dull. Where it is musical, where it is not.
I have been pregnant or nursing for over three years straight now and my body, mind, and soul are tired. Its the best kind of tired, but I am tired. I want to loose the weight, physically, from these pregnancies. I want to regain the physical strength I lost from the two surgeries. I want to regain the faith I had in my body to endure, to recover, to bare burdens with grace. I've lost this in these last three years. I am not physically the person I want to be.
Here I go, feel free to join me. Don't judge me harsly, please. I am doing this for me, for my kids, for my husband, for my work. We will all be better off in 40 days, I am hopeful.
Stay tuned~
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Monday, October 4, 2010
Overdue
I really don't know where to begin. That thought, until recently taking the shape of a large, unmovable obstacle to my writing, is as of today, pushed aside. Its been too long. Too long for me, too long for my children, and too long for my heart since I last wrote. Today I recommit myself, not fooling myself into thinking that this will be the last time I do this in this lifetime, to writing. To sharing with whomever wants them, my thoughts, queries, foibles, efforts, feelings, and experiences about life as it is today. Therefore, I suppose, a good place to begin, is indeed, today.
Today, as I write, I am nestled in a room, at a desk, between my napping children. One toddler of a terror at 2 years and three days old, and one sweet as honey infant checking in at 4 months. They sleep, and perhaps it is that I am occupying the heavenly space between their sleeping selves that I am able to take the space to write. I've missed this, as I miss them (sometimes) when they sleep. My writing self is a bit like that, she's been sleeping. But its time to wake her, there are things to say.
We passed a blissful weekend celebrating here in our house. Celebrating the birth two years ago of this magical laughing toddler. I cannot believe that much, or little depending on the day, time has passed. Yet, here we are. Two years older, and if we are really lucky, wiser. He certainly has schooled his humbled Mama in a topic or two in the last two years. Just a glimpse of my education yet to come, I suppose. Blessed beyond measure we are for his choosing us as his family. So so so much fun.
I found myself smiling to the point of cheeks cramping, heart bursting, these last days with my family and friends here. I've not been able to get my head around the reality that this is my life, right now, happening before me. I seem to find myself having numerous conversations with myself about how different things will be when we get "there" or reach some yet to be determined mystical date. Well, guess what, life is happening, right now, my life is happening. I cannot allow myself to make any further excuses for things I can put off until life is more comfortable, more pliable, more willing.
It is today, and today is it. Life is here, so here I go. No more excuses about when I will write, when I will love better, when I can be more true. Today is it. And with this realization, I offer a gush of gratitude. Gratitude to my parents and my husband's parents who without your grace and attention our lives would lack the space we find here these days. Thanks to my children who smile, smile, and smile more; hearts filled to capacity and then more. Thanks to my husband who has the capacity to heal so many and has taken a year to focus on his own family. Thanks for new friends, and old, who keep me laughing and learning as we grow older. Thanks to the heat for leaving us, and for the grace found in cooler days and nights. Sigh, thank you.
Overdue, these thanks are overdue. This writing is overdue, these efforts. Overdue. And with that, I hope to be back here again before another year+ passes to find my own words, clarity, and purpose renewed. Too too long overdue.
Today, as I write, I am nestled in a room, at a desk, between my napping children. One toddler of a terror at 2 years and three days old, and one sweet as honey infant checking in at 4 months. They sleep, and perhaps it is that I am occupying the heavenly space between their sleeping selves that I am able to take the space to write. I've missed this, as I miss them (sometimes) when they sleep. My writing self is a bit like that, she's been sleeping. But its time to wake her, there are things to say.
We passed a blissful weekend celebrating here in our house. Celebrating the birth two years ago of this magical laughing toddler. I cannot believe that much, or little depending on the day, time has passed. Yet, here we are. Two years older, and if we are really lucky, wiser. He certainly has schooled his humbled Mama in a topic or two in the last two years. Just a glimpse of my education yet to come, I suppose. Blessed beyond measure we are for his choosing us as his family. So so so much fun.
I found myself smiling to the point of cheeks cramping, heart bursting, these last days with my family and friends here. I've not been able to get my head around the reality that this is my life, right now, happening before me. I seem to find myself having numerous conversations with myself about how different things will be when we get "there" or reach some yet to be determined mystical date. Well, guess what, life is happening, right now, my life is happening. I cannot allow myself to make any further excuses for things I can put off until life is more comfortable, more pliable, more willing.
It is today, and today is it. Life is here, so here I go. No more excuses about when I will write, when I will love better, when I can be more true. Today is it. And with this realization, I offer a gush of gratitude. Gratitude to my parents and my husband's parents who without your grace and attention our lives would lack the space we find here these days. Thanks to my children who smile, smile, and smile more; hearts filled to capacity and then more. Thanks to my husband who has the capacity to heal so many and has taken a year to focus on his own family. Thanks for new friends, and old, who keep me laughing and learning as we grow older. Thanks to the heat for leaving us, and for the grace found in cooler days and nights. Sigh, thank you.
Overdue, these thanks are overdue. This writing is overdue, these efforts. Overdue. And with that, I hope to be back here again before another year+ passes to find my own words, clarity, and purpose renewed. Too too long overdue.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
For my mother
I offer you these words on this day that I am one of you for the first time. I hope that you feel the pride, love, and appreciation on this day that you've worked so hard to foster in me, and in others.
"One is a mother in order to understand the inexplicable. One is a mother to lighten the darkness. One is a mother to shield when lightning streaks the night, when thunder shakes the earth, when mud bogs one down. One is a mother in order to love without beginning or end."
These words were written by Bâ, a woman whose "uneventful" life included bringing nine children into the world. At least these were the words used to describe her in the description on the jacket insert of her one, "her only", novel.
She is speaking of a mother's relationship with a flesh-and-blood child, but isn't this how we are mothers of our work as well? Don't we lighten the darkness with our work? Don't we shield and heal, and don't we love without beginning or end? Isn't the one act of creation akin to the other? Don't they both come out of love and toil, and don't they both leave a trace of ourselves in the world?
My mother lived this struggle between the work being something done outside of the house and the long list of duties waiting for her when she returned home at the end of the day. She could not stop the demands of the raising of children, much less daughters, anymore than she could stop the call of her own professional ambitions. She lived in a world that told her she could be a professional, aiming for the elusive glass ceiling always just within reach if she would only compromise more and more of what she had been biologically created to do: mother.
Somehow, most days, she found grace in this. She is a mother of fierce will, drive, and intuition. She is one of those women who walks into a room and everyone notices; she has a certain appeal. From the stories I know of her childhood, raised by a mother who was recovering from Polio during her pregnancy, the youngest of a Mennonite farm family, bitter in ways rivaling the winters they endured in rural North Dakota, it is a miracle her ambition survived. I believe that on those lonely, they could only have been lonely, days she vowed to do all she needed to do to break the chains as she saw them limiting her own mother, sister, and friends.
I believe all my mother would need to do to know she achieved this goal long ago is to look into the eyes of her actualized daughters. There she will find intelligence, compassion, humor, will, ambition, and indeed, in one of us as of today, the desire to mother, as well.
The first few months of motherhood for me I found myself repeating a new mantra: be a good mother, be a good mother. I found myself saying things to people who'd inquired about the days events as I saw them, "Nothing much, just mothering". I thought to myself how I needed to be "working more" as my paying job beckoned when all day I fed, changed, engaged, washed, and cooed.
Virginia Woolf, in the struggle she finally lost knew all to well that, "...we think back through our mothers if we are women." I believe that as a mother who wanted, needed, to write, to work, she felt a failure in her ability to mother. This burden that she tried so courageously to balance was the same one that took her down, and stole her not only from us, but from her children. I hope for us, for women, that the world is more bendable now that it was for her, allowing for more grace in each of us if and when we break.
I too feel required to "work", or as society has put it, to do something other than mother. Yet just a few short days ago I chose to resign from the present parenting required of my first born, forged also in my loins and birthed by my sweat and tears: my work. In doing so my vision is to give my second born, my flesh and blood son, what I was giving to, in some ways, myself, in some ways, to others, through my paid work. My decision was based on a simple and humbling desire: to give this sweet son of mine more of me while I can.
For six months he consumed me, only me, and grew to a huge, fat little being. He is now needing me less and less everyday and in this freedom I am able to let go of other things and enjoy him. enjoy this, mothering, as a job. My job.
I know I cannot do this, full time all the time staying at home, mothering for the rest of my days. But I want to try, for both of us. I will now submit to the daily meditations of feedings, diapers, play dates, crafts, cooking, cleaning, and sit with the feelings and thoughts found there. I will give to him all that I am while I can, so that when the time is right for me to return to a day split in two between what I love and what I do, I can.
Knowing that I am able to make a choice my mother was not, and in truth, would not have chosen if it was available. afforded by my marriage and my station in life. This compounds my decision to "stay at home" and to take a break from what many future employers will denounce as my professional development (as if multi-tasking and running a household does make us better professionals!). I hope that my mother understands that this choice is as much a refelction of my commitment to women as my role as a mentor, boss, and manager. I have to do this to be good at what I do elswhere in my life. I know this now.
And so I come to the simple truth that I knew all along but did not have the words to say: In order to be his mother -- fully, completely -- I must also be a mother to m work, but most importantly right now, to myself. And I am. With these words, I am.
Happy Mother's Day,
Sera, Naz's Mom
Connie's daughter
Viola's grand-daughter
"One is a mother in order to understand the inexplicable. One is a mother to lighten the darkness. One is a mother to shield when lightning streaks the night, when thunder shakes the earth, when mud bogs one down. One is a mother in order to love without beginning or end."
These words were written by Bâ, a woman whose "uneventful" life included bringing nine children into the world. At least these were the words used to describe her in the description on the jacket insert of her one, "her only", novel.
She is speaking of a mother's relationship with a flesh-and-blood child, but isn't this how we are mothers of our work as well? Don't we lighten the darkness with our work? Don't we shield and heal, and don't we love without beginning or end? Isn't the one act of creation akin to the other? Don't they both come out of love and toil, and don't they both leave a trace of ourselves in the world?
My mother lived this struggle between the work being something done outside of the house and the long list of duties waiting for her when she returned home at the end of the day. She could not stop the demands of the raising of children, much less daughters, anymore than she could stop the call of her own professional ambitions. She lived in a world that told her she could be a professional, aiming for the elusive glass ceiling always just within reach if she would only compromise more and more of what she had been biologically created to do: mother.
Somehow, most days, she found grace in this. She is a mother of fierce will, drive, and intuition. She is one of those women who walks into a room and everyone notices; she has a certain appeal. From the stories I know of her childhood, raised by a mother who was recovering from Polio during her pregnancy, the youngest of a Mennonite farm family, bitter in ways rivaling the winters they endured in rural North Dakota, it is a miracle her ambition survived. I believe that on those lonely, they could only have been lonely, days she vowed to do all she needed to do to break the chains as she saw them limiting her own mother, sister, and friends.
I believe all my mother would need to do to know she achieved this goal long ago is to look into the eyes of her actualized daughters. There she will find intelligence, compassion, humor, will, ambition, and indeed, in one of us as of today, the desire to mother, as well.
The first few months of motherhood for me I found myself repeating a new mantra: be a good mother, be a good mother. I found myself saying things to people who'd inquired about the days events as I saw them, "Nothing much, just mothering". I thought to myself how I needed to be "working more" as my paying job beckoned when all day I fed, changed, engaged, washed, and cooed.
Virginia Woolf, in the struggle she finally lost knew all to well that, "...we think back through our mothers if we are women." I believe that as a mother who wanted, needed, to write, to work, she felt a failure in her ability to mother. This burden that she tried so courageously to balance was the same one that took her down, and stole her not only from us, but from her children. I hope for us, for women, that the world is more bendable now that it was for her, allowing for more grace in each of us if and when we break.
I too feel required to "work", or as society has put it, to do something other than mother. Yet just a few short days ago I chose to resign from the present parenting required of my first born, forged also in my loins and birthed by my sweat and tears: my work. In doing so my vision is to give my second born, my flesh and blood son, what I was giving to, in some ways, myself, in some ways, to others, through my paid work. My decision was based on a simple and humbling desire: to give this sweet son of mine more of me while I can.
For six months he consumed me, only me, and grew to a huge, fat little being. He is now needing me less and less everyday and in this freedom I am able to let go of other things and enjoy him. enjoy this, mothering, as a job. My job.
I know I cannot do this, full time all the time staying at home, mothering for the rest of my days. But I want to try, for both of us. I will now submit to the daily meditations of feedings, diapers, play dates, crafts, cooking, cleaning, and sit with the feelings and thoughts found there. I will give to him all that I am while I can, so that when the time is right for me to return to a day split in two between what I love and what I do, I can.
Knowing that I am able to make a choice my mother was not, and in truth, would not have chosen if it was available. afforded by my marriage and my station in life. This compounds my decision to "stay at home" and to take a break from what many future employers will denounce as my professional development (as if multi-tasking and running a household does make us better professionals!). I hope that my mother understands that this choice is as much a refelction of my commitment to women as my role as a mentor, boss, and manager. I have to do this to be good at what I do elswhere in my life. I know this now.
And so I come to the simple truth that I knew all along but did not have the words to say: In order to be his mother -- fully, completely -- I must also be a mother to m work, but most importantly right now, to myself. And I am. With these words, I am.
Happy Mother's Day,
Sera, Naz's Mom
Connie's daughter
Viola's grand-daughter
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Love is like falling, and falling is like this
you give me that look that's like laughing
with liquid in your mouth
like you're choosing between choking
and spitting it all out
like you're trying to fight gravity
on a planet that insists
that love is like falling
and falling is like this
My love for my husband continues to expand exponentially when I see them together playing, laughing, taking time to explain something new. Sometimes in the last seven months things are harder in ways they were not before the young one came to join us. However, we are learning new ways of communicating old complaints and finding that some of them no longer serve us; we need to shed them as our arms can only carry so much. I look at him and sigh, deeply, with such pride knowing that he will be the primary model for Naz of how to be a man. A man's man, indeed, expressing his joy through hugs, his frustration through words, and his anger through mindful pauses, quiet deliberation, and calm responses.
Sadly, I wish I could say that my relationship with myself had reached new empathetic highs, but I feel perhaps the opposite is true. I find myself still caught up in internal dialogues harboring around disappointment, judgment, and inadequacy when I should be doing something good for myself in those few fleeting moments, like sleeping. My body has changed and while I feel strong in ways I haven't felt before, lets call it like it is: I am flabby in a way I never have been before. My legs and arms now carry, lift, shift the weight of the boy I bare almost all of the time, but this waist of mine, well, it is still showing the results of the chocolate and ice cream of pregnancy excused. This makes for an uncomfortable Sera most of the time, as I plan to run, walk, yoga, crunch my way to the body I want, yet almost never do. I find that when those few moments offer themselves, I want to sit, sleep, or (heaven forbid) bathe!
Each day, now that I can see the difference between these states of mind and with more and more sleep blessing me, I have the energy and focus to hope that I will do more for myself reclaiming a bit of my life and independence. But as laundry, cooking, diapers, nursing sessions, time with Adam, and time with Naz move into my day, I find it is again night, I am tired, and just want to sleep before it all begins again.
At the times when sleep and solitude beckon like the first sunny day of spring after a long winter I wish the child, the husband, the job, and the rest would just go away. Just for a short time so I can catch up, find my breath, and tune into this glorious boy growing before my very eyes.
In my more rested moments, I do breathe all of this in. Slowly. This simplicity of what is directly in front of me, needing my full attention, now. Naz. Adam. Life simply as it is today. So may new things happening for all of us and I don't want to miss any of it.
I tell Naz that love can be anything we want it to be, can look a myriad of different ways. What matters about it is that is is pure, for love's own sake, and is about giving, not receiving.
And with that, I fall.
Fall, deeply.
Loving, all the way down.
with liquid in your mouth
like you're choosing between choking
and spitting it all out
like you're trying to fight gravity
on a planet that insists
that love is like falling
and falling is like this
Now that I am catching up on my sleep I am able more and more to moveMothering continues to push me to new limits. The most telling one I didn't see coming was my capacity to love. And not just my son, but I feel my heart expanding to understand and embrace others, as well. I find that when I look at women who are obviously mothers now I smile differently at them, feeling a part of a secret club. And pregnant women, too. I look at them and try to convey with my eyes, "Enjoy it, friend, soon you will be one of us".
out of survival mode and into a space enabling me to enjoy this phase of
my life. I experience such deep satisfaction from watching my young boy
learn to do things on his own: finding his voice in his devilish squeal,
becoming more and more self sufficient by reaching for the things he
wants, and discovering the literal ups and downs of mobility as he tries
time and time again to crawl. I mean its not like he is going away to travel
the world on his own tomorrow or anything, but he is growing into his own
person and its a wonder to see.
My love for my husband continues to expand exponentially when I see them together playing, laughing, taking time to explain something new. Sometimes in the last seven months things are harder in ways they were not before the young one came to join us. However, we are learning new ways of communicating old complaints and finding that some of them no longer serve us; we need to shed them as our arms can only carry so much. I look at him and sigh, deeply, with such pride knowing that he will be the primary model for Naz of how to be a man. A man's man, indeed, expressing his joy through hugs, his frustration through words, and his anger through mindful pauses, quiet deliberation, and calm responses.
Sadly, I wish I could say that my relationship with myself had reached new empathetic highs, but I feel perhaps the opposite is true. I find myself still caught up in internal dialogues harboring around disappointment, judgment, and inadequacy when I should be doing something good for myself in those few fleeting moments, like sleeping. My body has changed and while I feel strong in ways I haven't felt before, lets call it like it is: I am flabby in a way I never have been before. My legs and arms now carry, lift, shift the weight of the boy I bare almost all of the time, but this waist of mine, well, it is still showing the results of the chocolate and ice cream of pregnancy excused. This makes for an uncomfortable Sera most of the time, as I plan to run, walk, yoga, crunch my way to the body I want, yet almost never do. I find that when those few moments offer themselves, I want to sit, sleep, or (heaven forbid) bathe!
Each day, now that I can see the difference between these states of mind and with more and more sleep blessing me, I have the energy and focus to hope that I will do more for myself reclaiming a bit of my life and independence. But as laundry, cooking, diapers, nursing sessions, time with Adam, and time with Naz move into my day, I find it is again night, I am tired, and just want to sleep before it all begins again.
At the times when sleep and solitude beckon like the first sunny day of spring after a long winter I wish the child, the husband, the job, and the rest would just go away. Just for a short time so I can catch up, find my breath, and tune into this glorious boy growing before my very eyes.
In my more rested moments, I do breathe all of this in. Slowly. This simplicity of what is directly in front of me, needing my full attention, now. Naz. Adam. Life simply as it is today. So may new things happening for all of us and I don't want to miss any of it.
I tell Naz that love can be anything we want it to be, can look a myriad of different ways. What matters about it is that is is pure, for love's own sake, and is about giving, not receiving.
And with that, I fall.
Fall, deeply.
Loving, all the way down.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
External reviews
It happened, my first public melt down as a new Mom. Here is its retelling, in full technicolor!
I was accosted today by a woman who felt I was a bad mother. The scene isn't all that relevant except to say that it took place in a country where I don't speak the language and where the general tone of communication borders on agitated. It didn't rock me so much while it was happening, but I later yelled at my dog for something this very good and smart animal does all of the time, and proceeded to break down into tears in the street.
Why do any of us feel the right, obligation, or duty to judge others behavior? I wonder if this woman really thought I was hurting my three month old generally happy, healthy son by letting him cry in the stroller. Does she know that he sleeps on top of me all night so he won't have to cry when he is hungry? Does she know that I stare at him all day with a love that fills my soul to bursting? Does she know that when he sleeps I secretly wish for him to wake because I miss him? No, she knows none of these things. Yet she felt it was her place, her prerogative to publicly scold me for letting my child cry warmly, safely nestled into his stroller while I walked around the track chasing my sanity.
Now that the fierce anger has left me I am sorely disappointed with myself for responding with anything other than gratitude. This woman was giving me a chance to smile, be gracious, and appreciate that a stranger cared about us. But that wasn't what I felt. I felt judged, wronged. I could've opened my heart to this woman, thanked her for concern with a smile and body language conveying this, but that is not what I did. I met her concern with anger, annoyance, and hurt. At moments like this I am sad for myself, and for others, as I know I am not alone in such feeble attempts to find grace in times of trouble.
I share this with you, gentle readers, to offer a kind, gentle mediation for us all today on minding our own business. Of course, when does one draw the line? I mean, if I were to see an act of physical violence on the street I hope that I would arm myself with courage and intervene. But really, a crying baby in a stroller? Anyway, I am straying from my point. Cast not stones.....that is all I am saying. Mostly for myself, as I am gently reminded each day, this is the only behavior I have any control over and that, my friends, is a scary thought!
I was accosted today by a woman who felt I was a bad mother. The scene isn't all that relevant except to say that it took place in a country where I don't speak the language and where the general tone of communication borders on agitated. It didn't rock me so much while it was happening, but I later yelled at my dog for something this very good and smart animal does all of the time, and proceeded to break down into tears in the street.
Why do any of us feel the right, obligation, or duty to judge others behavior? I wonder if this woman really thought I was hurting my three month old generally happy, healthy son by letting him cry in the stroller. Does she know that he sleeps on top of me all night so he won't have to cry when he is hungry? Does she know that I stare at him all day with a love that fills my soul to bursting? Does she know that when he sleeps I secretly wish for him to wake because I miss him? No, she knows none of these things. Yet she felt it was her place, her prerogative to publicly scold me for letting my child cry warmly, safely nestled into his stroller while I walked around the track chasing my sanity.
Now that the fierce anger has left me I am sorely disappointed with myself for responding with anything other than gratitude. This woman was giving me a chance to smile, be gracious, and appreciate that a stranger cared about us. But that wasn't what I felt. I felt judged, wronged. I could've opened my heart to this woman, thanked her for concern with a smile and body language conveying this, but that is not what I did. I met her concern with anger, annoyance, and hurt. At moments like this I am sad for myself, and for others, as I know I am not alone in such feeble attempts to find grace in times of trouble.
I share this with you, gentle readers, to offer a kind, gentle mediation for us all today on minding our own business. Of course, when does one draw the line? I mean, if I were to see an act of physical violence on the street I hope that I would arm myself with courage and intervene. But really, a crying baby in a stroller? Anyway, I am straying from my point. Cast not stones.....that is all I am saying. Mostly for myself, as I am gently reminded each day, this is the only behavior I have any control over and that, my friends, is a scary thought!
Sunday, December 7, 2008
My breasts are his breasts
After years of wearing my breasts comfortably as identifiers of my sex, lures for affection, I am thrilled to see them now as utilitarian tools to feed my family. I've watched with longing as some of the mothers I know lovingly make their bodies available to their children in this way. I had no idea how exhausting, stressful, and tense it would be in those first weeks as we, Naz and I, found our grace in this process of feeding together.
I remember very clearly the moments Adam brought him to me in the recovery room after the cesarean section. For my wee babe two precious hours in his life had passed and I was not there to protect, welcome, and nurture this young soul into the world as I'd always planned to be. Thankfully, his Dad went with him directly from the operating theater to the nursery, held him close, and whispered to him as they fell in love.
Adam stood vigilantly in the nursery as the well intended nurses attempted to feed our new son formula as his first meal on the outside. Adam, in his calm, easy going way, simply didn't let it happen. They were adamant, and this man's first act of fatherhood was strong, defiant, and courageous as he closed his ears to the pleas of "but the baby is hungry" from the nurses and held out so that my first act of motherhood, face to face with my son, would be the way we envisioned.
When I held him, Naz, for the first time, we looked in each others eyes, and I offered myself to him. At this moment in time I again joined the ranks of the millions of mothers who went before me as we began this new mediation of intimacy, breast to breast, as it were. He immediately wrapped his tiny, new mouth around my nipple and in those moments a wave of relief washed over us both rinsing away the previous hours of labor, fear, discomfort, and pain. In those moments we found one another, and we'd need this love to carry us. The journey of breastfeeding for us was just beginning and full of another set of challenges Id never have imagined.
My milk was "slow" to come in. That is to say, that Naz lost too much weight in those first few days for him to fall comfortably into a spreadsheet or chart. The first time he tasted that sugary water in a plastic nipple was late in the night, the first night he really cried. I had no idea what to do. Adam was not allowed to room in with us as this was a private Arab hospital and men were not allowed in the ward during the night time hours. I was exhausted, scared, and felt failure stealing this most recent act of motherhood from me.
The doctors did not want to release him from the hospital and so we committed yet another act of defiance in those days at the hospital (there were so many: no bath, no vaccines, cloth diapers, etc) and pumped him up on formula. We grinned at each other as they reluctantly signed the release papers and we heisted him out of there, back to the safety of the birth center where we'd left, him comfortably inside of me, three days previous. Felt a lifetime had passed in those short days.
In the next few days I spoke with anyone and everyone about nursing. Some people advised he needed his tongue clipped, others said he had a funny chin and so that was the reason he wasn't finding his way. I knew my milk wasn't coming, not in the supply that he needed, and this just intensified the feelings of defeat engulfing me. I cried often and easily those days, so afraid that this new body and old soul were suffering because of my ego and attachment to breastfeeding my baby.
We heard of a "witch lady" who provided cranial-sacral treatments for newborns and so we made an appointment. Upon entering her home, I felt warmth, calm, and a sense of surrender take over us both. Naz laid on her table, quiet and still. He looked directly at her as she touched him, gently activating the points he'd not felt being denied the tight squeeze down the birth canal. When she pressed a point close to his sacrum, he smiled, and for the first time since exiting my body seemed to really be awake. Welcome, my son. We've missed you.
I adore the feeling of Naz latching on, him suckling a few times, pausing for what he knows is the result of his hard work, and then the flush of the precious nectar as he begins to drink. I feel unbelievably blessed to have a husband who said all of the right things, went out of his way to get a breast pump those first days to help things along, and who always looked at me without judgment as we, Naz and I, struggled to find our footing those first days.
My small son took his first bites of food that was not me a few days ago, and a sadness found me later that day. Our time in this intimate bubble of newborn bliss is fleeting, and I will miss it terribly. I remind myself of this at 1 am, 3 am, 5 am and all the times of the day and night when I am weary. This is the most intimate dance I will ever do with another human, and I want to drink every moment of it in. Deep.
So with that, I will turn off the computer, drink my "milk making tea" (full of the things they feed dairy cows, no kidding!) and wait for the ache I know we both feel after too much time away from another. And then, we will find each other, sigh, and settle in for what, for us, is nothing short of the sweetest time we know.
My breasts are your breasts, my son, enjoy.
I remember very clearly the moments Adam brought him to me in the recovery room after the cesarean section. For my wee babe two precious hours in his life had passed and I was not there to protect, welcome, and nurture this young soul into the world as I'd always planned to be. Thankfully, his Dad went with him directly from the operating theater to the nursery, held him close, and whispered to him as they fell in love.
Adam stood vigilantly in the nursery as the well intended nurses attempted to feed our new son formula as his first meal on the outside. Adam, in his calm, easy going way, simply didn't let it happen. They were adamant, and this man's first act of fatherhood was strong, defiant, and courageous as he closed his ears to the pleas of "but the baby is hungry" from the nurses and held out so that my first act of motherhood, face to face with my son, would be the way we envisioned.
When I held him, Naz, for the first time, we looked in each others eyes, and I offered myself to him. At this moment in time I again joined the ranks of the millions of mothers who went before me as we began this new mediation of intimacy, breast to breast, as it were. He immediately wrapped his tiny, new mouth around my nipple and in those moments a wave of relief washed over us both rinsing away the previous hours of labor, fear, discomfort, and pain. In those moments we found one another, and we'd need this love to carry us. The journey of breastfeeding for us was just beginning and full of another set of challenges Id never have imagined.
My milk was "slow" to come in. That is to say, that Naz lost too much weight in those first few days for him to fall comfortably into a spreadsheet or chart. The first time he tasted that sugary water in a plastic nipple was late in the night, the first night he really cried. I had no idea what to do. Adam was not allowed to room in with us as this was a private Arab hospital and men were not allowed in the ward during the night time hours. I was exhausted, scared, and felt failure stealing this most recent act of motherhood from me.
The doctors did not want to release him from the hospital and so we committed yet another act of defiance in those days at the hospital (there were so many: no bath, no vaccines, cloth diapers, etc) and pumped him up on formula. We grinned at each other as they reluctantly signed the release papers and we heisted him out of there, back to the safety of the birth center where we'd left, him comfortably inside of me, three days previous. Felt a lifetime had passed in those short days.
In the next few days I spoke with anyone and everyone about nursing. Some people advised he needed his tongue clipped, others said he had a funny chin and so that was the reason he wasn't finding his way. I knew my milk wasn't coming, not in the supply that he needed, and this just intensified the feelings of defeat engulfing me. I cried often and easily those days, so afraid that this new body and old soul were suffering because of my ego and attachment to breastfeeding my baby.
We heard of a "witch lady" who provided cranial-sacral treatments for newborns and so we made an appointment. Upon entering her home, I felt warmth, calm, and a sense of surrender take over us both. Naz laid on her table, quiet and still. He looked directly at her as she touched him, gently activating the points he'd not felt being denied the tight squeeze down the birth canal. When she pressed a point close to his sacrum, he smiled, and for the first time since exiting my body seemed to really be awake. Welcome, my son. We've missed you.
I adore the feeling of Naz latching on, him suckling a few times, pausing for what he knows is the result of his hard work, and then the flush of the precious nectar as he begins to drink. I feel unbelievably blessed to have a husband who said all of the right things, went out of his way to get a breast pump those first days to help things along, and who always looked at me without judgment as we, Naz and I, struggled to find our footing those first days.
My small son took his first bites of food that was not me a few days ago, and a sadness found me later that day. Our time in this intimate bubble of newborn bliss is fleeting, and I will miss it terribly. I remind myself of this at 1 am, 3 am, 5 am and all the times of the day and night when I am weary. This is the most intimate dance I will ever do with another human, and I want to drink every moment of it in. Deep.
So with that, I will turn off the computer, drink my "milk making tea" (full of the things they feed dairy cows, no kidding!) and wait for the ache I know we both feel after too much time away from another. And then, we will find each other, sigh, and settle in for what, for us, is nothing short of the sweetest time we know.
My breasts are your breasts, my son, enjoy.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
In celebration of my husband's hands
I was alone in labor, as we are in life. There is no one else who can do this living, birthing, for us. Yet I had as a constant companion my husband's hands.
His hands are thick, like a trustworthy rope. You know you can put your weight into them and that they will hold you. His fingers are sturdy, round, and brown. His hands are soft as he has not knows fields or labor, but books and classrooms. He bites his nails. He wears our wedding band everyday without fail, and this too, makes me love his hands.
My husband nobly, quietly, sacrifices so much for me. He listens to me complain about copious, timeless banalities never making a verbal judgment just smiling, listening. He takes care of the aspects of life that escape me, namely details, ensuring that somehow my work continues somewhat unimpeded. He cooks casseroles without recipes, washes poopy diapers, esnures the loyal dog has her walk every every evening. He gets up to bare the thrashing of our newborn son's evening witching howls, and does so without complaining or resentment.
For thirty hours his hands held me through the rolls of thunder of childbirth. Giving me a place to find the solid ground I needed, and the courage to let it go when I needed to. These hands made room for the time when I would need to rise above it all to let the pain roll through me. They held steady when we decided that it would be the surgon's tools that birthed our son, not my bones, not his hands. His hands did not waiver once with doubt, fear, or trouble throughout enabling me to sit, rest, and trust that all was right with this, with us. When the waves of labor left us Adam held our son in his arms. I looked at his hands and wept. These hands are now our son's hands. They will teach him to walk, share, guide, and support. Our son's hands already look like his father's, strong and stable. Just like Adam.
Adam's hands have touched me in ways I didn't know men's hands were capable of. Softly, gently, without a rush or care in the world. Selflessly. Giving for the sake of giving, not with the hope of recieving. His hands provide me refuge from numerous storms, from myself when I need to be still. They have loved with with knowledge I doubted a man of his young years possessed. During the days when he is away, I miss these hands, and anxioulsy await thier return to our home, to our son, to me.
He now cares for others with these hands, healer in training that he is. His hands bring comfort to others and I am having to learn to share his hands. Not my strongest trait, yet I know that the world is a safer, kinder place because of Adam's hands. When I am most alone, sinking, spinning away, I think of Adam's hands and know I am safe. These hands bring me back to the shore and remind me that I am loved.
His hands are thick, like a trustworthy rope. You know you can put your weight into them and that they will hold you. His fingers are sturdy, round, and brown. His hands are soft as he has not knows fields or labor, but books and classrooms. He bites his nails. He wears our wedding band everyday without fail, and this too, makes me love his hands.
My husband nobly, quietly, sacrifices so much for me. He listens to me complain about copious, timeless banalities never making a verbal judgment just smiling, listening. He takes care of the aspects of life that escape me, namely details, ensuring that somehow my work continues somewhat unimpeded. He cooks casseroles without recipes, washes poopy diapers, esnures the loyal dog has her walk every every evening. He gets up to bare the thrashing of our newborn son's evening witching howls, and does so without complaining or resentment.
For thirty hours his hands held me through the rolls of thunder of childbirth. Giving me a place to find the solid ground I needed, and the courage to let it go when I needed to. These hands made room for the time when I would need to rise above it all to let the pain roll through me. They held steady when we decided that it would be the surgon's tools that birthed our son, not my bones, not his hands. His hands did not waiver once with doubt, fear, or trouble throughout enabling me to sit, rest, and trust that all was right with this, with us. When the waves of labor left us Adam held our son in his arms. I looked at his hands and wept. These hands are now our son's hands. They will teach him to walk, share, guide, and support. Our son's hands already look like his father's, strong and stable. Just like Adam.
Adam's hands have touched me in ways I didn't know men's hands were capable of. Softly, gently, without a rush or care in the world. Selflessly. Giving for the sake of giving, not with the hope of recieving. His hands provide me refuge from numerous storms, from myself when I need to be still. They have loved with with knowledge I doubted a man of his young years possessed. During the days when he is away, I miss these hands, and anxioulsy await thier return to our home, to our son, to me.
He now cares for others with these hands, healer in training that he is. His hands bring comfort to others and I am having to learn to share his hands. Not my strongest trait, yet I know that the world is a safer, kinder place because of Adam's hands. When I am most alone, sinking, spinning away, I think of Adam's hands and know I am safe. These hands bring me back to the shore and remind me that I am loved.
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