|
|
When someone says they were “floored” by something, I know what they mean.
It’s being upright mentally and physically one moment. The next, you are a part of the cool ceramic tile on your bathroom floor, complete with the grids, the stray hair, the errant bandaid wrapper nobody bothered to pick up. I was floored when I saw two lines on the pregnancy test. I was also gobsmacked, blindsided, stunned.
And not happy.
Teddy was supposed to be our last baby. I had abdominal surgery in December. Two mesh panels were installed in my lower abdomen because of a ventral hernia related to my last c-section. I had just been diagnosed with atrial fibrillation. Being pregnant was the last thing I needed and the last thing I thought would happen. It never occured to me I was pregnant.
The only reason I tested was because my thighs were hurting the night before at the ballet. I noted, as dancers took the stage in the third act, the only time my thighs ached that way was when I am pregnant. I started doing math. Counting. Disbelieving. I pushed the possibility out of my mind until nearly 24 hours later when a short walk made me so miserably exhausted that I had to know the truth. Home, I went upstairs and dug a pregnancy test out of the back of the cupboard under the sink. I took it and became part grout, part ceramic, part shaggy IKEA bathroom rug.
I barely talked for the next four days. It had to be some sort of weird conspiracy: A faulty test joining forces with wonky middle-aged woman hormones. Where was the laugh track? My husband noticed. He asked what was wrong. I couldn’t talk to him, my best friend. I felt totally alone in my wait for everything to clear up. I took another test. Probably wonky too? What was with all these defective pregnancy tests, anyway? Quality control, people.
Finally, I had to tell my husband. It was a weekday. He came home for lunch and I couldn’t form my mouth into the proper shapes to make the words. I wanted him to read my mind, like countless foolish times before. He was clearly worried. We stood in the kitchen, both of us leaning on counters opposite each other. It was almost time for him to return to work and I sensed the time had come. I admitted, to more than just him, I was pregnant.
He was visibly relieved, laughing he thought it was something much worse, much more awful than a baby. A baby! He hugged me and told me it was going to be okay, we’d get through whatever was coming. I wept, ticking off my concerns and fears. Pregnancy loss! Hernia! Heart! Age! Nine kids! Never before had I started a pregnancy with so many strikes against me and our baby—if there was actually a baby.
It was February.
 ...photo chosen because I took it the day I found out... As winter turned to spring, our little secret grew. Few people knew and we preferred it that way. There’s something about keeping a pregnancy hushed that I like. It’s good news, worthy of being shouted from rooftops. But it’s also something to treasure in a heart. My silence was motivated by fear and doubt in the beginning, but it changed into something different as time passed. I found the heartbeat. I saw our baby with churning arms and legs, seemingly clapping, moving so much the ultrasound tech had trouble chasing him or her down.
That busy babe was in the bathroom when my jaw was on the floor, when words caught in my throat, when I leaned on our kitchen counter. Baby was on board even when I wasn’t. Thanks, baby.
Becoming a mother in the late 90s was a different experience than becoming a mother now. It was less managed back then and a whole lot uglier.
I wrote about how the minute details of preparing for motherhood train our senses in more ways than one:
Motherhood owns minutia. It’s noticing that your son’s fine baby hair is just brushing the top of his ears. It’s seeing a slightly crooked tooth in a five-year-old’s mouth and realizing it means, without even wiggling it, that it is loose. It’s seeing the way your boy exits school with his eyes cast down. It’s knowing there’s a fever without a thermometer, the strawberries are responsible for the contents of the diaper, the zit on the forehead means to stock up on embarrassing things with wings.
More over at Mile High Mamas, where you don’t have to be a mile high to read. We won’t check your ID.
I took a late afternoon shower yesterday, mostly to wipe the toddler poo off my shin but also because if I didn’t ensconce myself in a small box, alone, I was going to scream.
The scream started welling up in my little toes early in the morning. Most of my kids had the day off from school and I thought it would be nice to go somewhere. Do something. Get out and away from screens and Mario and his brother. When I suggested we head to the zoo for a day of browsing through the animals and enjoying a picnic lunch, my older boys howled it would be boring. We bickered over plans. Everyone dressed slowly. Shoes were missing.
Then, I remembered my 6th-graders shoes. He had been on a class trip to California all last week. He wore his shoes in a tide pool (a rule) but instead of letting them air dry, he put them in a plastic Target bag, along with his balled-up socks. There they stayed until he came home, unpacked, and put them with the rest of the household shoes, still bagged. I found them before we were going out. They smelled like dead fish, salt, Southern California, mold, plastic, mildew, and boy foot sweat. If they hadn’t been in excellent structural shape, I would have thrown them out.
I ended up soaking them in a bucket of rubbing alcohol and water, as recommended by my husband who did a web search at work. I put the bucket in the backyard, which no doubt smelled like a moonshine distillery to anyone walking by on the greenbelt. That family with all those kids? THEY MAKE ALCOHOL IN THEIR BACKYARD. They probably need it.
(He used a hair dryer on his shoes last night. They were stiff and smell like a gin and tonic. Good luck at school today, kid.)
The day wore on. It wore me like a diaper, it did.
Our oldest daughter performed in “Romeo and Juliet” last night at her high school. Her Honors English class updated the play into modern teenagerese and set it in Verona High. Juliet was a popular cheerleader. Romeo was a nerd. My lovely daughter was Fr. Laurence, who was updated to be Counselor Laura. I sat in the dark auditorium and watched her play the worst high school counselor in the history of the universe. She gave Juliet poison, failed to email Romeo the warning of what he’d find in her parents’ basement. She got Paris’ blood on her new shoes and loudly complained.
The dumb day spun away in that dark room. Two of my older boys tagged along and loudly cheered for their sister. My shin was clean. At home, I later learned, the kids who stayed behind made sack lunches for the kids who attended the play. On the way home, I bought The Worst High School Counselor Ever a giant cheeseburger from Sonic and stole some of her tater tots. Home, I cuddled the little dude who got poo on my shin. I watched an 11-year-old sit on a bathroom floor and aim my hair dryer at his shoes like a gun. I kissed my kindergarten daughter nighty-night. I learned a day can be redeemed in the last moments before my eyes closed.
(I wrote this as part of The Extraordinary Ordinary’s Just Write, a Tuesday institution.)
WE HAVE TWO WINNERS:
There were 39 comments. 2 commentors, Stephanie and Amy, asked to not be in the running, so that left 37 possibilities. I used Random.Org generators and came up with these two numbers:
and
Congratulations to #32, Sarah, who wrote:
Congratulations to #30, Sylvia Sittner, who wrote:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Update: 12:00 pm mdt: COMMENTS ARE NOW CLOSED FOR ENTRIES! I will used random # generator to choose TWO winners! TWO! Check back to see who won. I will contact winners via email.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 If I had a time machine, I’d set the dial for the summer of 1997.
I’d pilot through worm holes and psychedelic spirals with my stomach in knots. My plan: To confront myself as a first-time mom of a newborn. I’d do it with love, compassion, and a copy of Spirit-Led Parenting: From Fear to Freedom in Baby’s First Year. It’s written by my good friend, Megan Tietz—who many Lifenut pals know from Sorta Crunchy—and her friend and writing partner, Laura Oyer, who blogs at In The Backyard.
Landing in that old, dear apartment with a shudder, I’d know precisely where to find myself. Young Mom Gretchen would be slouching on our mid-century crushed white velvet sofa, 87% asleep, with one hand on the swing crank so our newborn daughter, Aidan, would sleep. It was the only place she would sleep for months. I was deeply ashamed of this because everyone knows babies sleep in cribs. But Aidan had different ideas. She loved motion. She craved motion. She was happiest when the swing was at full-tilt, freshly-cranked (it was the dark ages of swing technology). The click click click click filled our nights and I wondered, often, what kind of horrible sleeper we were creating? How spoiled she was!
And then there was breastfeeding. When she was about a week old, I called my mother one evening crying hysterically because I was in deep, throbbing, burning pain from engorgement. Aidan could latch on any more than she could latch on to the Goodyear Blimp. The whole nursing thing was much more fraught with terror and anxiety than I realized. I really had no clue what the whole mothering thing entailed—even though I read BOOKS.
Bookity-book-book-bookish book reader that I was turned to them for parenting advice. Much to my horror, our lives didn’t align with what the books said to do and think and feel. Our tiny daughter didn’t read the books, so there’s problem #1. Our book club was populated by a little 8-pound slacker and two weary parents who had only been married for 10 months and were still bewildered about the positive pregnancy test taken the autumn before. Heck. I’m still surprised.
Exiting my time machine, I’d tiptoe up to myself and resist the urge to paint my own toenails. I’d slide Spirit-Led Parenting onto my lap and sneak back to the time machine after giving the swing a mercy crank. Bye-bye, me.
It would have changed the way I mothered Aidan. There’s no way it could change how much I loved her or how devoted I was and still am to her. That was set in motion already. But Tietz and Oyer’s words would have flowed over me like a calming melody, giving me permission—and freedom—to parent in a whole new way. I’ve been a Christian since early childhood, so the fact I have a Father, a Son, and a Spirit in my corner is a given. I have no doubts. But I fall into the trap of thinking that the minutia of my mothering is of little concern to them, especially when it comes to basic things like food and sleep. I’m the adult. I should be able to figure those things out on behalf of as person who thinks a ceiling fan is fascinating entertainment.
Spirit-Led Parenting: From Fear to Freedom in Baby’s First Year lovingly explores topics like sleep, feeding, marriage, baby wearing, and even post-partum depression. Relatable personal anecdotes from Tietz and Oyer mixed with Biblical truths, scientific facts, and a hefty dose of grace conspire to uplift and equip the greenest shoots of mamas and dadas. They contend the first year of a baby’s life isn’t about training a baby in God’s way or anyone else’s way. It’s about sacrificial servanthood and it’s about recognizing you cannot do it alone. Rather than something to slog through with fingers crossed, baby’s first year is a time of revolutionary growth for everyone in a family. They write:
The first year should be less about training our babies and more about God developing us as parents and human beings.
Do you know how freeing this outlook could have been to me? To you? Tietz and Oyer aren’t advocating for all parents to abandon schedules or structured living. Rather, they deftly make a case for discerning what makes your baby thrive. Try serving your child and your spouse (wives and husbands) as you’ve been served by a loving brother, Jesus. Your baby wasn’t born a bucking bronco who must be tamed or a circus seal who must honk horns in a certain order to play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.
Spirit Led Parenting is a quick, fun read which is perfect for a soon-to-be mom or a mom of a little one who must snatch reading time in between blinking and the next diaper change. It made me laugh and feel less alone, even nearly 15 years later. The lessons in the book are easily adapted to parenting bigger kids with giant feet who smell of Axe body spray and corn chips. The Spirit doesn’t pack his bags on the baby’s first birthday. He’ll stay and continue teaching, leading, guiding, whispering throughout every stage. This book can be a great resource for parents at any point on this often-rocky, always worth it road.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Win a copy of Spirit-Led Parenting: From Fear to Freedom in Baby’s First Year! Simply leave a comment before April 20th, 2012 at noon, MDT. For additional entries and to read other reviews, hop on over to these other blogs for their perspective:
(please note, if this is your first time leaving a comment at Lifenut, it will go to the moderation queue)
|
|
You Shared