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.
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, and always have been, a good girl. I don’t break the rules. I arrive prepared. I don’t make trouble. I earn everyone’s affection, including the Lord’s (at least I like to think I do).
When I imagine myself in the story of the prodigal son, I am the older brother – the brother who is glad when his good-for-nothing sibling leaves home because it makes him look so much better by comparison.
“I can’t clean up.”
I explain to my daughter that we must clean up before we move on to the next activity.
“It’s too hard,” she whines, looking at the array of evidence we’ve left scattered in our wake. This could be anything: colorful spills from watercolor painting, a mighty block tower crashed, pieces littering the floor, or a village of little people waiting to be returned to their proper home. Really, the stuff that makes up the mess isn’t important; if the mess is big enough, my daughter’s response is the same: “It’s too hard.”
“I’m sorry, Mommy!” My toddler said these words over and over again after having shattered a teacup she’d been playing with. She was so distraught. I wanted to comfort her and tell her it was alright, that we could fix it, and more importantly, that I wasn’t upset with her. I knew the teacup might break if she played with it, and I gave it to her anyway.
