Dear Mama,
I can see it in your eyes and hear it in your voice: you are tired. Not just the daily grind of motherhood tired. Not even the loopy, delirious kind of tired that comes with having a newborn. You are exhausted. You are running on a treadmill that is set one speed too fast and you don’t know when the workout will end.
Twenty years ago, I curled up in the backseat of my parent’s Nissan Quest and spent an eight-hour road trip with only one book: Little Women. By the time we returned home from visiting my grandparents in North Carolina, I loved the four March sisters as if they were my own.
Over time, the exact details of the plot faded, but the deep satisfaction I felt after finishing the novel never left me. When I heard that Greta Gerwig was remaking a film version of the story, I knew I had to re-read the beloved book before heading to the theater.
All of my shoes have been removed from my closet. They now sit in a pile at the foot of bed. My toddler, shoe relocation engineer, beams up at me with pride, handing me the last remaining shoe.
And I’m surprised by what I feel. Not frustration about the mess, or preoccupation with the burden of bending my 7-months-pregnant self over to put them all back again. No, this morning grace whispers in my ear…
One of the hazards of bearing a baby bump is the avalanche of advice on how best to raise your children. Friends and strangers suddenly feel the impulse to touch you without warning and share harrowing stories of traumatic birth experiences. And they always want to know, “Are you going back to work?”
For some mothers, this choice is easy, and their circumstances and desires align. For others, “choice” is dictated by circumstance. For many, this question is not simple, the answer is not apparent, their desires conflict, and the matter is never fully settled.
Any woman who’s ever been visibly pregnant knows that her baby bump is an invitation. Whether she likes it or not, friends and strangers alike regard the bump as a signal. It alters the laws of social interaction, eliminating the concept of personal space surrounding the protruding area. The bump also elicits a flood of commentary on one’s personal appearance, amount of weight gain, parenting preferences, and – my personal favorite – unsolicited delivery horror stories.
It was the middle of the night when I drove myself to the emergency room. My lungs were burning and I had coughed up a bit of blood. I tried to keep myself calm, to avoid panicking prematurely. If it was what I thought it was, there was a very good chance that I could die.
I don’t want to leave this all behind, I prayed, but if tonight is the end, please bring me home.
My life is a little slice of paradise. Sitting in my chair for morning prayer, I look out the big picture window at our backyard. The primary colors of a big plastic slide bright are bright against the green of the grass. Hummingbirds, squirrels, and rabbits visit. Birdsong fills the air. My vegetables are finally starting to produce, and the butterfly garden is flowering. My prayer is one of peace and gratitude, but also of disquiet.
Is what I do enough? I ask myself.
I’m always perplexed when I see people at concerts trying to film the experience. What we can capture on our phones won’t look or sound all that great – certainly not as great as the recorded version or professional photos we could look up later. Really, the purpose of being at a concert is just that: being there. Feeling the music vibrate through you, being among the crowd of fans, enjoying proximity to someone whose talent you admire. None of what is great about a concert can be captured by our devices. In fact, trying to do so actually places distance between us and the experience we seek to capture.
“This is my body, given up for you.”
Morning sickness. Heartburn. Backache. Sciatica. Weight gain. Labor. Stretch marks. Nursing. Everything I am, given for you. Sleepless nights, given for you. Anxiety, worry, arms holding you all night in illness. Every waking moment, given for you.
My thoughts are not my own any more. My time is not my own. And my body is beyond the recognition of my childless self. Then again, so am I.
Pay attention. Soon, these days will be no more.
It’s easy to fall into the trap of surveying all that is left undone, and think: failure. Dirty dishes, laundry wrinkling in the dryer, emails to be answered. It’s easy to fall prey to the lure of the checklist: each checkmark, validation. The more checkmarks, the better – the better job I’m doing, the better mother I am. The better I am.
I am not a person who waits. I take my time to think, to research, to plan and to pray. But once I reach a decision, I do not like to delay execution. When I made the decision to enter the Catholic Church, I did not want to wait. The image I have of my excitement is Harry’s line at the end of When Harry Met Sally: “Once you realize that you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.” I wanted to receive Jesus in the Eucharist as soon as possible.
