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“You can make anything by writing.” ― C.S. Lewis

Posts for Life Category

Sehnsucht.

[sehnsucht]

I am going on a journey.

I’m taking a trip back in time. I am packing for me, my husband, and our toddler. We are loading up the car, and we are traveling back to a time and place when things were simpler – or at least seemed that way. I am thirty years old, and in a week, I will be thirty-one; but for this one trip, I get to go back and live in the past – be myself at 8 and 11 and 14 and 21. The past whispers to me, as we settle in the car and get on the road, following the lane markers up the interstate on this drive I have made a thousand times before. I feel all those memories, all the laughter and the mistakes and and the misunderstandings, brushing against me like the wind. Our history can be such a palpable place, just stepping foot in a building can bring back this oppressive feeling of presence, of a time gone by, of people who were once here, once important to us, and now are gone.

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Talking about family is difficult for me.

When I was younger, I thought my family was perfect. Spunky and a little loud and a little odd, but in all the best ways. When I was older, teenage years, early twenties, I thought my family was unconventional, maybe dysfunctional; but all the better for it.

In my mid-twenties, I thought the very existence of my family would crack me apart, from the inside, a great splintering, a great shattering. I wasn’t supposed to talk about it much, then, and I’m not really supposed to talk about it much now, for convention’s sake, for manners’ sake. So I don’t.

At thirty, I have decided family are the people we choose to be close to us, the people who may not always be related by blood, but have proven they will cherish us, and protect us. My chosen family is no less holy and divine simply because we are all friends who grew up in complicated families, with loss, with disappointment, with hurt and battered feelings. We are closer for it, because we know what it means to lose the familial ties, those traditional roles. We know what it is to be envious of a family whole, with two parents and siblings who get along, and grandparents and aunties and uncles who treasure your precious self, just as you are. We try to be that, for each other.

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The Stomach Flu.

Just held her sleeping a while today, and it was nice.

The stomach flu is the great equalizer. It sends shivers of fear into the hearts of even the strongest among us. It doesn’t matter if you’re a college student with midterms looming or a mom of two under two or a marketing manager at a big firm – if you hear someone’s got the stomach bug, it’s an instant retreat. Hide away. Get out the Lysol, blast the Thieves oil in the diffuser. Breathe artificial air until the stomach bug has run its course and the germs are far, far away from you.

No one wants the stomach flu. You hear someone you know has the stomach flu, and suddenly, you’re calculating how many days it’s been since you last had contact with that person, or their household. Did you hug? Did you take a sip of their latte? Did you exchange big, sloppy kisses with their two-year old? Every interaction is cataloging and weighed for likelihood that you, poor fool, will be next to feel your gut bubbling and simmering in that horrible, pre-puke way.

I don’t remember the last time I personally had the stomach flu, and that’s just fine with me. I am completely, 100% aware that writing this down is inviting the Universe to shower the stomach flu on me personally, as I have just mentioned how I  am probably overdue to kneel before the porcelin throne and puke my guts up. I’ll keep you posted.

But my sweet baby girl had the stomach flu last night, and Lord, the only thing worse than having the stomach yourself is seeing your child have it. Spouse with stomach flu? Regrettable, sure. Shaun had the stomach flu back in late February, and I felt bad for him – bought him saltines and Gatorade and told him how sorry I was over and over again – but I also put him in quarantine at the other end of the house, entered and exited the room he was in with a cloud of Lysol before and after me, to make sure no one else got it.

But my Ari, sick? That was bleak. We didn’t know what was up, we didn’t suspect – Shaun headed off for his weekly lithography time at Brokenstone, I had decided Ari and I would stay home that night to try and prevent her from dipping her hands into ink and mineral spirits like she’s tried to do the last few times we went to the studio. And thank God we stayed home. I put some music on the computer, Ari wanted to snuggle up in my lap, not wholly unusual for the first hour after I’m home from work. She’s so clingy in that first hour, since I’ve been gone all day and she wants to make sure I stay within her grasp once I’m home, so I don’t disappear again. But then – she laid her little head on my chest, and we just relaxed for a few, long moments. This is nice, I thought, I never get cuddles like this anymore. Gonna soak it up.

Then – her little head reared back – I heard her make a choking noise – she’s had a runny nose for weeks now, all part of the allergies-turned croup-turned tonsillitis-turned ear infection-turned eye infection she’s been battling for weeks – I thought she was working through some snot – but no – the vomit. Ohhh, boy, the vomit.

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Birthing Ariadne, Part Six: Reflection

PART SIX: REFLECTION

There were so many parts of this birth story that were hard to write — and this final section has become one of the hardest. The truth is my feelings on my birth change, sometimes from day to day — depending on how I feel, my general mental health, what kind of comment someone has made lately. Every other post in this series has been 90% ready to go for weeks — but I keep coming back to this one. I keep feeling like I haven’t said enough, or I haven’t said what I meant clearly, or that there’s another message or lesson I need to explore.

Months have passed since I gave birth to Ariadne. Although I began writing her birth story the first week we came home, as I am finishing it, her first birthday is on the horizon. Before I had my own baby, I wondered why mothers waited so long to share their birth stories. Weren’t they burning to share their experiences, their joys and pain? Now, I understand. Now, I realize what a transformative, life-changing experience birth is, whether it happens perfectly as desired, or is massively derailed. It’s not so easily tossed out for the world to digest – sharing your birth story is incredibly overpowering, intensely vulnerable.

I found, the deeper I got into my birth story, the more confusion I felt. Even in the first weeks home, I was moved to tears – sobbing tears, neither wholly of pain nor of joy – when looking at pictures from our days at the birth center, when trying to put into words the huge wealth of emotions I felt that week. My birth struck me as a many-layered experience. Parts of it were painful in the extreme, both physically and emotionally. Parts of it were beautiful, spiritual, and empowering, despite the frustrations. I struggled – do struggle still – how to make peace with this juxtaposition, this dichotomy of the two very different sides to my birth that somehow inhabit the same space of my heart.

Even just writing my birth story forced me to face the parts of my birth that I found painful, disappointing – even traumatic. Writing this has been a form of therapy, certainly – but there were times I did not feel up to the task of working through the disappointment, doubt, and guilt that I felt during that week, and have felt from time to time since. The idea of sharing my birth story makes me feel intensely vulnerable. Giving birth is both the most vulnerable and empowering time of a mother’s life, and sharing our weakest and strongest moments takes a lot of guts, and a lot of strength.

I confess that I delayed writing and sharing this post, because at times, I feared people would judge me. Directly after my birth, I did not feel much doubt about the decisions I’d made. At that point – the aftermath was still very evident, from the huge bruises on my arms to my hideous feet still grotesquely swollen from the magnesium to the follow-up doctor’s appointments to make sure my blood pressure came down and stayed down, and that I remained out of danger for a stroke or seizure. It was easier to take the danger of my ill health seriously, in the first weeks after I gave birth. The scariest moments, the biggest risks and dangers had left their mark on me, physically, and they were not easy to forget, at first. For a few weeks, I continued to feel justified in every decision I had made, because the evidence of their necessity was printed on my skin.

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Birthing Ariadne, Part Four: Birth

[part three]

PART FOUR: BIRTH

I still couldn’t believe those words – I believe I need a C-section – had left my mouth, and then I had to say them again, about 45 minutes later, to the doctor when she returned. In the time in between, I felt a curious sense of relief, this lightness like a huge weight had been taken off of my chest. I felt that I had made the right decision – that voice that had been shouting at me louder and louder to listen to my instincts quieted for a while.

Telling the doctor what I wanted and why was difficult, again. While she and I had our differences then, and have had differences again since, I do firmly believe she had me and my best interests at heart. I believe she was listening to my midwife when she said I really wanted a natural birth, and that’s probably honestly why she let me go as long as she did – under different circumstances, without my midwife’s warning, she might have called for a C-section earlier, but she wanted me to have the chance to birth the way I wanted, even if that wasn’t her way. Even on that day, I understand we had a sort of impasse of worlds, different outlooks and lifestyle, and I didn’t waste a lot of time trying to explain too much to her. I told her the basics of my decision, and after some discussion, she agreed we would do it.

I had thought maybe things would move very quickly at that point, but this wasn’t an emergency caesarian. They had to get the staff, wait for an open OR, to prep me – we had a bit of time, still, before the moment would finally arrive and I would have my baby in my arms.

That time in between ended up being a really beautiful, loving time, and I’m so glad we had it. Lauren arrived back from the dance studio, and just sat by my side and held my hand for a while. She told me she loved me and was proud of me. I felt safer and stronger, having her back with us, having her hold my hand and not say much, but look me in the eyes and tell me silently that she believed in me.

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All of us – Shaun, Lauren, Emi, Jeannie, Kristin and Mama – sat and just – talked. Processed. We discussed everything we had just talked about, all over again, and the more we talked, the more I felt convinced this was the right decision. I was able to calm myself, and gather my strength again – because what was about to come was almost scarier to me than giving birth vaginally might have been. I remember feeling very peaceful during this time, and very grateful for everyone there.

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A Six Month Letter to My Daughter

[previously in this series…]

Dear Ariadne,

Time flies by in the blink of an eye.

We know this. We are told this, from the instant we announce we are pregnant. We are told this even more frequently once our babies arrive, as the days slip into weeks, and the weeks into months, years. We are told this as if we didn’t notice, as if this first year of our babies’ lives didn’t already feel like it slips through our fingers like grains of sand.

You are six months old. Six months, half a year. I find myself wondering where the last six months have gone, where the entire month of January has gone. I was there for it, I know I was, I lived it – but now we’re coming to the end of January, we’ve hit that six month, half-year milestone, and I feel like I have no idea how we got here.

The words I picked as my guiding meditations for this new year, 2017, were stillness and cherish, and both of them were inspired by you, my darling. Parenthood – being working parents – slams you into hyper-drive. Every moment requires an action or a task from us, we are constantly preparing or anticipating or reacting or recovering. It’s easy to buckle down and really just barrel through the days, to just get our blinders on and do what we have to do without thinking about it.

And yet here we are, our baby is six months old, half a year old – it has been six months since the day you were pulled from my belly and placed on my chest, and I cannot believe it. I see you growing and becoming this sweet, funny little girl, and I don’t want to miss a moment. I want to snapshot every second with you and store it away forever, because you are six months today, and soon you will be a year, six years, sixteen years. I will always look at you and think of that little fairy baby laid fresh and screaming on my chest.

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