How have challenges and hardship shaped the women in your family? In what ways have trials formed characters?
My mom didn't tell us much about her growing up life--I mean we knew she was a good student and had good friends. She was more athletic than I ever was, but my sister shared that interest. I knew she was a hard worker and everything she was able to do or have was pretty much because she worked for it. Her family growing up was poor and transitory--they moved a LOT when she was in school. Her mother had mental illness from the time she was just starting to understand the bigger world. She was forced to deal with some pretty grown-up and heavy issues early in her life. Her dad drank and was absentee in their home life a lot. Her parents argued a lot. She was anxious to make her own way in the world and it wasn't long after she graduated from high school that she moved out and soon moved away.
Her character reflects all of that. She did her best to protect us from the transitory nature of her growing up by living in the same place while we were in school. I graduated from high school with kids I had been in first grade with--in some cases. I have solid roots in my hometown. She taught us to work hard and be productive. We were strongly discouraged from wasting time and becoming undependable. She and my dad still are in love--it was even embarrassing sometimes as a teenager--but I am so grateful for that stability in my family of origin. They showed us what a good family life was like.
My dad's mother, my Gram, lived with us from the time I was about 7 or 8. I saw in her a woman who was a survivor--sometimes against her will. She survived a tough life as a young mother and wife. My gramps wasn't a happy man when he drank, and according to my dad, that was much of the time when their family was young. Bu tthey discovered the Gospel of Jesus Christ and joined the church and some of those things changed. But Gramps still had unkind thing to say to her at times. I recall him being quite sharp with her in his tone and his words when she was hurting--which became more and more often as her MS developed. But she sure tried to put on a good face for my sister and me. I know she tried hard to show her love for us and her family. She loasted longer than any of my grandparents and she had been sick a lot longer than any of them.
My maternal grandmother lived far away, but I knew doubted she loved me. She seemed like a happy person, and at least happy to see us when we were there. as a little girl I didn't understand why she did some things some times, but as I grew up I understood it was not who she was. She was ill too. But hers was in her mind. After my own experience with The Boy's delivery and my battle with post partum depression, I think I had a lot more in common with Grandma than I knew at the time. I am convinced that she had that same disorder--brought on by having 5 babies in fairly short order in a lonely small isolated place with a partner who had to be away to earn a living. My situation wasn't that dire, but I think even with differing specifics, the results were similar--but they didn't identify the illness and certainly didn't treat it the same way I was able to. I feel very badly for her now. I look forward to getting to know her without the illness someday in the next life. I admire her musicality and sociality. I admire her bright outlook--but maybe that was a providential blessing for her as a coping mechanism. I physically resemble the women on my maternal side, so I feel for them and with them, even if I don't completely understand them all the time.
Finally, I'd like to mention my sister here. We didn't seem to have much in common as we grew up. We thought differently, we enjoyed different things. We had different friends and enjoyed/tolerated different relationships with our parents a lot of the time. But as we were adults raising our own children, I came to admire her personal grit and individual strength. I watched her endure and survive an incredibly painful divorce, and the subsequent fall out with her children; her personal growth and resiliency has been amazing to observe. I'm not sure I could have done as well as she has in the years since that event. But she shows the best of both sides of the women in our family. And while I may not say it enough, I am indeed proud of her and I love her. We still do't have a lot in common, and we might even still have different goals for ourselves, but I feel stronger with her in my corner--even theoretically. And I still admire her.
Showing posts with label motherhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label motherhood. Show all posts
Sunday, May 20, 2018
Sunday, May 13, 2018
#52 Stories--Story # 31
How old were you when you finally appreciated your mother as an individual with her own separate history--that pre-existed your birth--and desires and needs of her own?
I am sure that time came either while I was pregnant and had questions about how her pregnancies went, or shortly after the birth of the The Girl. I do know that while I was raising two very independent preschoolers I would call her a lot and ask her how she did it? I was amazed that she never killed one of us--if we were anything like my two. I was adamant that one of the three of us would be dead before they both made it to full time elementary school. But we all made it and life moved along FAST after that point.
However, I had no idea that those difficult, physically draining, emotionally exhausting, mentally challenging days raising preschoolers would look like a care walk compared to raising young adults. I still don't completely understand how she didn't kill one or both of us in that stage. But she told me grandkids are the payoff for not doing that--so I guess I have that to look forward to. Maybe.
I'm sure glad to have her and that my kids have her as a grandma. They are the luckiest kids ever to have her. And she sure loves them. No wonder I love her so much now.
I am sure that time came either while I was pregnant and had questions about how her pregnancies went, or shortly after the birth of the The Girl. I do know that while I was raising two very independent preschoolers I would call her a lot and ask her how she did it? I was amazed that she never killed one of us--if we were anything like my two. I was adamant that one of the three of us would be dead before they both made it to full time elementary school. But we all made it and life moved along FAST after that point.
However, I had no idea that those difficult, physically draining, emotionally exhausting, mentally challenging days raising preschoolers would look like a care walk compared to raising young adults. I still don't completely understand how she didn't kill one or both of us in that stage. But she told me grandkids are the payoff for not doing that--so I guess I have that to look forward to. Maybe.
I'm sure glad to have her and that my kids have her as a grandma. They are the luckiest kids ever to have her. And she sure loves them. No wonder I love her so much now.
Sunday, May 6, 2018
#52 Stories--Story # 30
Which parts of your mother's parenting style did you adopt?
I wish I could say I did everything like my mom. I think she was--an continues to be--a brilliant parent. I hope I did enough things for my kids like she did for me and my sister.
I think I tried to teach some personal discipline early--I used any method that worked with each kid. Spanking had little to no affect on my daughter--in fact she would glare at me and tell me "didn't hurt". To avoid beating her little sweet bum within a n inch of her life at time, I took to removal of privileges with her. Not that that worked all the great either. She was a "strong willed" child, I later learned the classification from a parenting /child psychology book I finally bought and read before one of us was locked up.
Meanwhile, my son, was a much more tender-hearted guy and even a cross look to him was the end of the world. He really didn't want to displease me--at least when he was young. He grew more and more macho as he got older, but deep down he is still a tender-hearted, very compassionate, caring young man. I couldn't understand HOW I got two kids that were not a single bit alike to raise.
Then I remembered that I needed to be the one learning--as much as I was teaching them. I am not sure if that was a pearl of wisdom my mom finally shared or if I had to figure it out myself, but I still have to purposely stop and understand what I need to learn from them when ever they do something that I don't understand. this is a lifelong goal--the understanding--but I am making baby steps, all the while realizing that I just really need to love them and make sure they know I do.
I know my mom told me that she would talk to us as infants as though we were understanding everything. I recall very specifically having The Girl in her car seat in the family room, while I was ironing Genius Golfer's dress shirt for work, and I was telling The Girl in great detail what I was doing: "This is a sleeve. It goes on daddy's arm. There are two sleeves in a shirt. You have a shirt on too, but you have only short sleeves. This is a long sleeve shirt. See how the sleeve will reach all the way to daddy's hands?"
Now, I don't know if that helped me to be more verbal or not as a baby--my mom told me when I did start talking I was talking in sentences like a I was a teenager. Well, I saw the same things in The Girl. She was VERY verbal, right from the start. The Boy didn't have as much chance--though I did still try to do the same for him. The Girl spoke for him a lot of the time. Also, I had a very difficult post partum period with his birth--depression that took two years or so to combat and overcome. Consequently I don't remember things much from when he was very small--at least on my own. Luckily I wrote things on his baby calendar and tried to write a journal, but I wasn't very good because of my disconnect with life in the depression.
I also followed my mom's example by letting the kids try things they wanted to do. I didn't like big messes--I think she was the same way--but sometimes those things had to happen for them to experience things. Messy things were not my favorites. I think back now and wish I'd have let so much more go when the kids were little--like housekeeping stuff. I should have played with them more. GG was always VERY good about that. And they loved him for it even more. I think my mo has similar sentiments.
I have always said that if I could be even half the mother mom my was, I would be a success. I'm not there yet, but I am a mother of two pretty wonderful kids. Maybe I just didn't screw them up too badly. If that is true, I guess I am like my mom.
I wish I could say I did everything like my mom. I think she was--an continues to be--a brilliant parent. I hope I did enough things for my kids like she did for me and my sister.
I think I tried to teach some personal discipline early--I used any method that worked with each kid. Spanking had little to no affect on my daughter--in fact she would glare at me and tell me "didn't hurt". To avoid beating her little sweet bum within a n inch of her life at time, I took to removal of privileges with her. Not that that worked all the great either. She was a "strong willed" child, I later learned the classification from a parenting /child psychology book I finally bought and read before one of us was locked up.
Meanwhile, my son, was a much more tender-hearted guy and even a cross look to him was the end of the world. He really didn't want to displease me--at least when he was young. He grew more and more macho as he got older, but deep down he is still a tender-hearted, very compassionate, caring young man. I couldn't understand HOW I got two kids that were not a single bit alike to raise.
Then I remembered that I needed to be the one learning--as much as I was teaching them. I am not sure if that was a pearl of wisdom my mom finally shared or if I had to figure it out myself, but I still have to purposely stop and understand what I need to learn from them when ever they do something that I don't understand. this is a lifelong goal--the understanding--but I am making baby steps, all the while realizing that I just really need to love them and make sure they know I do.
I know my mom told me that she would talk to us as infants as though we were understanding everything. I recall very specifically having The Girl in her car seat in the family room, while I was ironing Genius Golfer's dress shirt for work, and I was telling The Girl in great detail what I was doing: "This is a sleeve. It goes on daddy's arm. There are two sleeves in a shirt. You have a shirt on too, but you have only short sleeves. This is a long sleeve shirt. See how the sleeve will reach all the way to daddy's hands?"
Now, I don't know if that helped me to be more verbal or not as a baby--my mom told me when I did start talking I was talking in sentences like a I was a teenager. Well, I saw the same things in The Girl. She was VERY verbal, right from the start. The Boy didn't have as much chance--though I did still try to do the same for him. The Girl spoke for him a lot of the time. Also, I had a very difficult post partum period with his birth--depression that took two years or so to combat and overcome. Consequently I don't remember things much from when he was very small--at least on my own. Luckily I wrote things on his baby calendar and tried to write a journal, but I wasn't very good because of my disconnect with life in the depression.
I also followed my mom's example by letting the kids try things they wanted to do. I didn't like big messes--I think she was the same way--but sometimes those things had to happen for them to experience things. Messy things were not my favorites. I think back now and wish I'd have let so much more go when the kids were little--like housekeeping stuff. I should have played with them more. GG was always VERY good about that. And they loved him for it even more. I think my mo has similar sentiments.
I have always said that if I could be even half the mother mom my was, I would be a success. I'm not there yet, but I am a mother of two pretty wonderful kids. Maybe I just didn't screw them up too badly. If that is true, I guess I am like my mom.
Thursday, August 1, 2013
Nodding In Agreement, Through The Tears
I was suggested this article by a friend. And boy, did I need to hear it. as I read it I feel the tears roll down my face. It's true for this wonderful mom who wrote exactly how I have felt now for 18 years, and it is still true for me. See if it sounds familiar to you:
It's about the baby not the belly
I thought it was all-too-sweet the way she pulled up my shirt to hug and kiss my bare belly and was just devastated if she couldn't kiss "bee-bee" goodnight. I'd pull her close and tell her all about this miraculous thing happening to my body (and to our family!) while we snuggled. They were sweet and tender moments I will always treasure.
Obviously, her fascination with my belly didn't end when we brought her baby brother home. So I don't know why it surprised me when one of the first things she wanted to do was touch my belly.
Oh, I laughed, delighted by her curiosity, the baby came out! No more baby in mama's belly. He came out and he's right over there!
I don't think she had the slightest idea what I was talking about.
A dozen times a day she came over to look at my belly, but I tugged my shirt down as fast as I could and tried my best to chirp happily and with a shrug No more baby - just belly! I knew this was part of her trying to process this whole crazy thing so I tried to be patient. She eventually got the message (or so I thought) and transferred her curiosity to the new little baby in our midst (she had so much poking to do!)
But then, seemingly out of nowhere, it started up again. She was suddenly consumed with my belly (and boobs! but that's another matter entirely) and my glib little answer wasn't working. She knew all about the baby. She wanted to know what happened to my belly.
Can I be honest with you? I didn't want to talk about it. I didn't even want to think about it.
I was exhausted and emotional and unspeakably overwhelmed by the unceasing demands of a newborn and his (understandably) freaked out big sister. The last thing I had the energy for was to explain why my belly still looked pretty pregnant even though I wasn't. Or why none of my clothes fit. Or why my belly - which was once a cause for such sweet and curious bonding - had suddenly become The Thing Which Shall Not Be Named. Addressing any of that would force me to accept that my body was different now - I was different now - and that was kind of a lot to process when I was deep in the throes of just keeping a helpless little person ALIVE.
The persistence of that belly (and so many other vestiges of a rough pregnancy) made me feel like a total failure.
Shouldn't I be more ... together?
I wasn't asking to be posing in a bikini on the cover of a magazine two weeks postpartum (because that's 12 ways to Crazytown) and even though I've done this before and should know better I was STILL HOPING that by 6 weeks postpartum (and now 12, oy) I would at least look like ME. Not, as someone so politely told me when I was pregnant -- me "in a fat suit."
I did not want to face the fact that the lumpy woman in the mirror could in reality be...ME.
So when Ruby innocently tugged on my shirt to check out the state of things in my midsection, I was in no mood:
No no Ruby. No more baby in Mama's belly. Just fat. No baby. FAT. Mama's FAT.
I don't know what it was -- something about the way she looked at me ... almost through me ... that
s l o w e d everything down so that the two, unblinking seconds we stood staring at each other felt like a lifetime --
but I knew she understood.
Not the nuance of my insecurity, of course (all those cultural expectations so much heavier than the baby weight)
But the two things that really mattered: After a belly comes a baby. After the baby comes the shame.
When I saw the look on her face I wanted nothing more than to swallow those words I had so thoughtlessly spit out. The only thing I had to be ashamed of was feeling ashamed of my body.
I thought I was keeping a safe distance from all this "post baby bod" crap but it must have snuck in the back door. Honestly, its pretty hard to escape these days. Not just because it's splashed all over magazines - but because it's alive and well on my own little street corner too. I ran into a neighbor last week who is currently pregnant with her second child and as we were talking about the fears and challenges that accompany an expanding family ... including her constant worry that her body will never be the same again... she gestured to my stomach and said, "Is it weird to still look pregnant after three months?" Of course, I wanted to die right there on the spot but I laughed and did my best impression of The Person I Want To Be and said, "Well I did just have a baby three months ago"
Because I DID.
I'm not sure when it became the highest compliment you can pay a woman to say, "You look like you never even had a baby!"
...Because I'm supposed to ... pretend this never happened? Is my body supposed to pretend it didn't rearrange all my organs and open my rib cage and my hips and grow a new human person who has never existed before and then proceed to feed and nourish that person from the very same body that delivered him, whole and perfect, into the world?
After experiencing something so miraculous that the only real way to describe it is "godlike" ... I'm supposed to want to go BACK?
To what? Being fifteen?
Even if you somehow manage to look fifteen again (which, why would you want to?) you will never BE fifteen again (thank heavens). (Matthew Perry movies notwithstanding).
Once you cross the threshold into motherhood there is no going back. You might feel instantly and with acuity "Help! What did I DO? I'm not ready for this! Get me offa this thing! I don't know what I'm doing!" but it's too late. The curtain is up on the most important role you will ever play and it's ok that you and your body have shifted so that it fits. More: it is right and good. You're not supposed to zip up your old jeans and slip back into your old life.
Babies change us.
It's designed that way.
If our bodies tell the story of who we are - this is a story I don't want to forget.
And that's what I want my Ruby to know.
I dream of a world where a new mother can leave the house in the morning ---- in ill fitting maternity clothes because nothing else fits her large and slowly deflating belly, with greasy hair and puffy eyes from thehours days
weeks she's been functioning without sleep, with a leaking shirt from
her breasts that are constantly churning and adjusting to make just the
right amount of milk for the tiny young babe who depends on her for
every last thing ---- a world where this woman can leave the house with
her babies in tow (up and out in the world because her toddler's need for playtime trumped her need for a blowdry. Or a nap)
-- And this woman TURNS OUR HEADS (not out of pity "oh bless her heart") and TAKES OUR BREATH AWAY (not because we think she looks like the "before" picture of an ambush makeover) but because she is LITERALLY The Most Beautiful Thing We've Ever Seen.
She is a superhero
She is a goddess
She is a Mother
Drop dead gorgeous - not in spite of the things that make her so - but because of them.
This is the woman I want my daughter to see when she touches my belly. This is the woman I want to see when I look in the mirror. Not the ugly truth. But the beautiful reality.
It's a thing I'm really struggling with at the moment.
Pregnancy is not easy for me. I'm pretty sure I'm allergic to it because my whole mind and body just kinda freaks out. This last one was brutal and and my body is still shouting that story from the rooftops. Six months of bed rest and 60lbs, agonizing hormone shots, early labor, depression, migraines, insomnia, stretch marks (just to name a few). I will probably never look or feel quite the same again and that's exactly as it should be. I'm not the same. Bearing children has brought me a wealth of insight and experience I wouldn't trade for the skinniest pair of jeans.
Maybe some mamas can do all this in a size 2 right out the gate and good on ya. But I'd like to stop pretending that's the normal or even ideal thing. For me, there is so much more to mothering than how my pants fit. As a new mom - it shouldn't even CRACK THE LIST- but it does because people stop you on the street and say dumb things motivated out of fear they'll end up looking like you at 12 weeks postpartum.
Well, I'll tell ya something friend. This is what motherhood looks like at 12 weeks postpartum.
I caught myself in the mirror this morning ... and just about burst into tears when I saw that rumpled, lumpy, saggy woman staring back at me. This is not what I'm supposed to look like!
But now that my eyes are dry, I'm ready for a second look. Sure, I can see a What Not To Wear episode waiting to happen. OR I can see a body - and a person - who is neither a shabby "Before" picture or a sleek "After" one but is every inch a walking advertisement for "Just Doing It." I see a woman who knows that makeup is great but making a baby laugh is even better. That a chic haircut will make you feel like a million bucks but rocking a baby to sleep is priceless. That working out feels good but not half as good as the look in your child's eyes when you drop everything to read a book or play kitchen or just be together. That every time you have to choose between worrying about yourself and caring for your children it isn't a choice at all. I see a mother who knows how to dig deep and do the work and carry on when it is almost too heavy to bear.
On my best days, I can see myself. And in those moments I see the two things that really matter: I can do hard things and doing them in the service of something greater than myself is what makes me beautiful.
Now I'm ready to welcome my babies onto my lap.
Come, my loves. Let me tell you a story. Mama's belly is different because I had a baby. I had you! This is where I stretched and stretched so you could fit inside! See how even my legs and my knees stretched! Everything moved around to make room for you! I got these dimply thighs and these little purple veins and these roomy hips when I got you! Aren't they beautiful?
It's a miracle and it's the greatest story of my life.
Thursday, July 25, 2013
The Mom In the Mirror from her blog joy de vivre
This post is also appearing here as the featured blog on Huffington Post Parents
It's about the baby not the belly
Ruby
was pretty obsessed with my belly while I was pregnant. Who can blame
her? It is utterly amazing to watch a body shape shift into a human
incubator. Even if you're still a baby yourself and don't fully
understand what's happening -- you know the two things that really
matter: Something's Up and It's Amazing.
I thought it was all-too-sweet the way she pulled up my shirt to hug and kiss my bare belly and was just devastated if she couldn't kiss "bee-bee" goodnight. I'd pull her close and tell her all about this miraculous thing happening to my body (and to our family!) while we snuggled. They were sweet and tender moments I will always treasure.
Obviously, her fascination with my belly didn't end when we brought her baby brother home. So I don't know why it surprised me when one of the first things she wanted to do was touch my belly.
Oh, I laughed, delighted by her curiosity, the baby came out! No more baby in mama's belly. He came out and he's right over there!
I don't think she had the slightest idea what I was talking about.
A dozen times a day she came over to look at my belly, but I tugged my shirt down as fast as I could and tried my best to chirp happily and with a shrug No more baby - just belly! I knew this was part of her trying to process this whole crazy thing so I tried to be patient. She eventually got the message (or so I thought) and transferred her curiosity to the new little baby in our midst (she had so much poking to do!)
But then, seemingly out of nowhere, it started up again. She was suddenly consumed with my belly (and boobs! but that's another matter entirely) and my glib little answer wasn't working. She knew all about the baby. She wanted to know what happened to my belly.
Can I be honest with you? I didn't want to talk about it. I didn't even want to think about it.
I was exhausted and emotional and unspeakably overwhelmed by the unceasing demands of a newborn and his (understandably) freaked out big sister. The last thing I had the energy for was to explain why my belly still looked pretty pregnant even though I wasn't. Or why none of my clothes fit. Or why my belly - which was once a cause for such sweet and curious bonding - had suddenly become The Thing Which Shall Not Be Named. Addressing any of that would force me to accept that my body was different now - I was different now - and that was kind of a lot to process when I was deep in the throes of just keeping a helpless little person ALIVE.
The persistence of that belly (and so many other vestiges of a rough pregnancy) made me feel like a total failure.
Shouldn't I be more ... together?
I wasn't asking to be posing in a bikini on the cover of a magazine two weeks postpartum (because that's 12 ways to Crazytown) and even though I've done this before and should know better I was STILL HOPING that by 6 weeks postpartum (and now 12, oy) I would at least look like ME. Not, as someone so politely told me when I was pregnant -- me "in a fat suit."
I did not want to face the fact that the lumpy woman in the mirror could in reality be...ME.
So when Ruby innocently tugged on my shirt to check out the state of things in my midsection, I was in no mood:
No no Ruby. No more baby in Mama's belly. Just fat. No baby. FAT. Mama's FAT.
I don't know what it was -- something about the way she looked at me ... almost through me ... that
s l o w e d everything down so that the two, unblinking seconds we stood staring at each other felt like a lifetime --
but I knew she understood.
Not the nuance of my insecurity, of course (all those cultural expectations so much heavier than the baby weight)
But the two things that really mattered: After a belly comes a baby. After the baby comes the shame.
When I saw the look on her face I wanted nothing more than to swallow those words I had so thoughtlessly spit out. The only thing I had to be ashamed of was feeling ashamed of my body.
I thought I was keeping a safe distance from all this "post baby bod" crap but it must have snuck in the back door. Honestly, its pretty hard to escape these days. Not just because it's splashed all over magazines - but because it's alive and well on my own little street corner too. I ran into a neighbor last week who is currently pregnant with her second child and as we were talking about the fears and challenges that accompany an expanding family ... including her constant worry that her body will never be the same again... she gestured to my stomach and said, "Is it weird to still look pregnant after three months?" Of course, I wanted to die right there on the spot but I laughed and did my best impression of The Person I Want To Be and said, "Well I did just have a baby three months ago"
Because I DID.
I'm not sure when it became the highest compliment you can pay a woman to say, "You look like you never even had a baby!"
...Because I'm supposed to ... pretend this never happened? Is my body supposed to pretend it didn't rearrange all my organs and open my rib cage and my hips and grow a new human person who has never existed before and then proceed to feed and nourish that person from the very same body that delivered him, whole and perfect, into the world?
After experiencing something so miraculous that the only real way to describe it is "godlike" ... I'm supposed to want to go BACK?
To what? Being fifteen?
Even if you somehow manage to look fifteen again (which, why would you want to?) you will never BE fifteen again (thank heavens). (Matthew Perry movies notwithstanding).
Once you cross the threshold into motherhood there is no going back. You might feel instantly and with acuity "Help! What did I DO? I'm not ready for this! Get me offa this thing! I don't know what I'm doing!" but it's too late. The curtain is up on the most important role you will ever play and it's ok that you and your body have shifted so that it fits. More: it is right and good. You're not supposed to zip up your old jeans and slip back into your old life.
Babies change us.
It's designed that way.
If our bodies tell the story of who we are - this is a story I don't want to forget.
And that's what I want my Ruby to know.
I dream of a world where a new mother can leave the house in the morning ---- in ill fitting maternity clothes because nothing else fits her large and slowly deflating belly, with greasy hair and puffy eyes from the
-- And this woman TURNS OUR HEADS (not out of pity "oh bless her heart") and TAKES OUR BREATH AWAY (not because we think she looks like the "before" picture of an ambush makeover) but because she is LITERALLY The Most Beautiful Thing We've Ever Seen.
She is a superhero
She is a goddess
She is a Mother
Drop dead gorgeous - not in spite of the things that make her so - but because of them.
This is the woman I want my daughter to see when she touches my belly. This is the woman I want to see when I look in the mirror. Not the ugly truth. But the beautiful reality.
It's a thing I'm really struggling with at the moment.
Pregnancy is not easy for me. I'm pretty sure I'm allergic to it because my whole mind and body just kinda freaks out. This last one was brutal and and my body is still shouting that story from the rooftops. Six months of bed rest and 60lbs, agonizing hormone shots, early labor, depression, migraines, insomnia, stretch marks (just to name a few). I will probably never look or feel quite the same again and that's exactly as it should be. I'm not the same. Bearing children has brought me a wealth of insight and experience I wouldn't trade for the skinniest pair of jeans.
Maybe some mamas can do all this in a size 2 right out the gate and good on ya. But I'd like to stop pretending that's the normal or even ideal thing. For me, there is so much more to mothering than how my pants fit. As a new mom - it shouldn't even CRACK THE LIST- but it does because people stop you on the street and say dumb things motivated out of fear they'll end up looking like you at 12 weeks postpartum.
Well, I'll tell ya something friend. This is what motherhood looks like at 12 weeks postpartum.
I caught myself in the mirror this morning ... and just about burst into tears when I saw that rumpled, lumpy, saggy woman staring back at me. This is not what I'm supposed to look like!
But now that my eyes are dry, I'm ready for a second look. Sure, I can see a What Not To Wear episode waiting to happen. OR I can see a body - and a person - who is neither a shabby "Before" picture or a sleek "After" one but is every inch a walking advertisement for "Just Doing It." I see a woman who knows that makeup is great but making a baby laugh is even better. That a chic haircut will make you feel like a million bucks but rocking a baby to sleep is priceless. That working out feels good but not half as good as the look in your child's eyes when you drop everything to read a book or play kitchen or just be together. That every time you have to choose between worrying about yourself and caring for your children it isn't a choice at all. I see a mother who knows how to dig deep and do the work and carry on when it is almost too heavy to bear.
On my best days, I can see myself. And in those moments I see the two things that really matter: I can do hard things and doing them in the service of something greater than myself is what makes me beautiful.
Now I'm ready to welcome my babies onto my lap.
Come, my loves. Let me tell you a story. Mama's belly is different because I had a baby. I had you! This is where I stretched and stretched so you could fit inside! See how even my legs and my knees stretched! Everything moved around to make room for you! I got these dimply thighs and these little purple veins and these roomy hips when I got you! Aren't they beautiful?
Saturday, May 11, 2013
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
I Sound Like My Mother, Again
This morning I had an errand at the local Walgreen's to pick u a prescription (this is attempt number 2) for a remedy for The Girl's bothersome acne. It is back, but because our lame insurance is really just for catastrophic medical issues, it covers nothing of the day-in-day-out kind of stuff. So the great solution she used a year ago is out of the question, as it required monthly check ups (and ridiculous pregnancy tests) because of the potential side effects it has.
Anyway, that was a long version of: I went to Walgreen's.
I gathered the other sundry things I needed to pick up there and brought the whole hot mess to the check out. As I was laying out my pile, I asked the gentleman behind the counter "So, I understand that I can't just come in here and get the sale prices anymore unless I have card. Is that right?" Yep, he told me, that is the new deal. And that kind of chaps my hide today.
I know the reasons to the WHY questions--the store will track my purchases and customize deals to save me money. Yada Yada Yada.
You know what? I already shop the sales and clip coupons and have figured out long ago that any store with too much information on me isn't necessarily trying to help me out. Far from it. It just bugs me that just about every store now has their own "loyalty program" which is just another way of saying they all have my personal info. And I really don't like that.
When I came home from this infuriating errand, Genius Golfer was making himself some lunch in the kitchen and asked what was up. So I told him and I didn't hold back. He just looked at me and said, "You sound just like your mom."
Well, I was raised right, I suppose.
Anyway, that was a long version of: I went to Walgreen's.
I gathered the other sundry things I needed to pick up there and brought the whole hot mess to the check out. As I was laying out my pile, I asked the gentleman behind the counter "So, I understand that I can't just come in here and get the sale prices anymore unless I have card. Is that right?" Yep, he told me, that is the new deal. And that kind of chaps my hide today.
I know the reasons to the WHY questions--the store will track my purchases and customize deals to save me money. Yada Yada Yada.
You know what? I already shop the sales and clip coupons and have figured out long ago that any store with too much information on me isn't necessarily trying to help me out. Far from it. It just bugs me that just about every store now has their own "loyalty program" which is just another way of saying they all have my personal info. And I really don't like that.
When I came home from this infuriating errand, Genius Golfer was making himself some lunch in the kitchen and asked what was up. So I told him and I didn't hold back. He just looked at me and said, "You sound just like your mom."
Well, I was raised right, I suppose.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Superlative
Today on our local talk radio show, they were talking about the most stressful jobs out there. Callers were asked to call in with their opinions on this, or to share why their job is the most stressful.
There were calls from big rig truck drivers and highway construction workers. There were high powered CEOs and other executives who spoke of their "necks on the line" every day. Mail deliverers dealing with the constant, relentlessness of the mail and of dogs and of city dangers on their routes.
Then a woman called in and said "I don't know if this counts, 'cause I'm not paid for it, but I think being a mom is stressful."
The show's host graciously agreed with her. He mentioned that not only is that a stressful job, but it is never over. You are on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. You are on call from the time that infant is delivered until one of you passes away. (And I'd add, even after, as family relationships are eternal in nature.) He was quick to applaud this mother's work and all others who are caring for and raising and teaching children to be good, upright, honest, responsible citizens.
It was very refreshing to hear. Especially as I was folding football practice pants, once filthy-but now gleaming white socks and freshly laundered boxers, t-shirts, and jeans. It did me good to get a little pat on the back in the middle of my work day and hear someone I have never met personally give a shout out to all the other colleagues I have in the world.
Being a MOM is the best job, the most stressful job, the most rewarding job, the most worrisome job, the longest lasting job, and the superlative job title I could ever have. It's the toughest job I've ever loved.
There were calls from big rig truck drivers and highway construction workers. There were high powered CEOs and other executives who spoke of their "necks on the line" every day. Mail deliverers dealing with the constant, relentlessness of the mail and of dogs and of city dangers on their routes.
Then a woman called in and said "I don't know if this counts, 'cause I'm not paid for it, but I think being a mom is stressful."
The show's host graciously agreed with her. He mentioned that not only is that a stressful job, but it is never over. You are on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. You are on call from the time that infant is delivered until one of you passes away. (And I'd add, even after, as family relationships are eternal in nature.) He was quick to applaud this mother's work and all others who are caring for and raising and teaching children to be good, upright, honest, responsible citizens.
It was very refreshing to hear. Especially as I was folding football practice pants, once filthy-but now gleaming white socks and freshly laundered boxers, t-shirts, and jeans. It did me good to get a little pat on the back in the middle of my work day and hear someone I have never met personally give a shout out to all the other colleagues I have in the world.
Being a MOM is the best job, the most stressful job, the most rewarding job, the most worrisome job, the longest lasting job, and the superlative job title I could ever have. It's the toughest job I've ever loved.
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