Love letter to my sons

Little one, you are sleeping upstairs, swaddled in the bassinet you will soon outgrow, your chest softly moving up and down. Only babies breath so deeply. You are having a really good nap and my heart pitter patters, for truly, sleep is a gift. What occupies your dreaming mind? Do you swim in a sea as blue as your eyes? When I look into them, I am struck each time by the intense personhood of the you looking back at me. You were two cells and now you are you, sitting in your bumbo chair, sucking on your tiny perfect fingers, smirking at your big brother throwing chickpeas everywhere. I am grateful for your need of me, though the responsibility can be a heavy load, grateful that so much peace and sustenance and holiness can come from my body. I know it can be hard on Mummy that she can’t feed you from her own. I know when she squeezes you and showers you with kisses, when she wears you, walking and rocking your sad, sweet self to sleep, that she is feeding your spirit. Where did you come from baby D? I watch my family’ history flow through your genes, as your body grows, as your temperament unfolds. People ask me what’s different, being your bio -mom. Mostly I just feel so lucky to have made you, to have carried you, to have birthed you. I am happier in this family, like I belong more, like things are balanced. You make me happy by just existing.

And oh my big boy Ben, you have so much to tell us! How the world has opened up now that we know what you’ve been thinking all this time. It is endlessly interesting to talk with you about what kind of pajamas tractors wear, what neighborhood kids are getting on your toy bus, how the little shih tzu at daycare was sniffing your best friend Elliott. It is such a pleasure to roll with you on the bed as you shriek with laughter at the peek-a-boo-tickle game you invented, to roll snakes out of playdoh and feed them from tiny bowls with even tinier spoons, a precious treat to say goodnight with you snuggled in my arms to all the animals in the tree mural on your wall. We have had our differences, like any two people in relationship, and you know I can be tough. I think though that we have each others’ respect. Please know that you have mine. I really appreciate how well we share space, in a really peaceful, present way. You have a sensitive, gentle self my sweet boy, and that can be a burden to carry in this hard world. But mostly it is a gift, quiet watcher, becoming an ever braver adventurer. You bring so much tenderness and thoughtfulness to your living. Your small hand on Daniel’s smaller cheek is so precious. You made me a mother and a parent, and you changed my life forever. I endeavor to forever deserve you.

I love you both more than words can say. Thank you.

E

Waking open

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Something new is happening to me. It feels somewhere between waking up and breaking open. Something between being newborn and fresh in the morning, and feeling a warmth spilling out of a cracked open casing.  It is a pleasant, tingly sensation that I can feel everywhere, like a dam is continuously and gently bursting, sending rivulets around my core and limbs. It’s not entirely comfortable though, since with it comes the light of truth. I think I have been sleep walking through these last two years as a parent and have missed irreplaceable treasures. Not the sleep walking of the new parent rocking their infant incessantly, nor the existential trip of new identities and lifestyles. Those have been true too of course. It’s something deeper, like I wasn't entirely there. My heart breaks to think of it, of what I have missed. I know I was partially there, and that it’s not 100% true. But A has said more than once that she has noticed a subtle energetic absence from me, a holding back, especially the first year of Ben's life. It is partially based in the embarrassing admittance of resenting her physical relationship with Ben, the pregnancy, everything I couldn't have or do. It is also sadly based on occasionally resenting having a child and the immense giving of self needed to which A dutifully engaged immediately and without question. It's like I was a robot, changing diapers, going through the motions. I may just be having a mood these days, being 29 weeks pregnant, and be seeing things askew. But I know in my gut that it’s partially true because I know how different it feels in my body now to love Ben, and to love A as a co-parent.

So what happened? I can’t say for sure. But A and Ben went on a big trip for over a week without me and I had a lot of space to reflect and sleep in. Although I also had fun while they were away, when they left I wept miserably and lived to see Ben’s face each day on Skype. I made his year two baby album and edited together the home videos of his life up until now. Listening to his baby gurgles each day that week, something about the innocence, his beauty, they wormed their way through some barrier. I was also highly attuned to A’s daily traumatic sleep stories of our not-so-great-wee-traveler. I also received a very intense osteopathic treatment (which deserves its whole own post, apparently I am an osteopathic anomaly, darn red heads!) which focused in part on some energetic damage in my rib cage and back around my heart. When they got home, I held and held Ben. I looked him in the eyes. I feel like we met again, silently agreed on something. Like I made a hushed promise even I couldn't hear to be fully present from now on to his humanity, to his astounding self.

I think every parent mourns the passing of time, even when times are tough. Pictures and videos help, and are precious. Thank you technology. But we can never get our babies back, their firsts, the moments slipping by unnoticed amidst the meal planning and sleep training (yet another bout of which I managed post-trip, but with a gentleness, ease and sense of faith unlike any I've felt before). The best we can do is to be as fully present as possible in each moment, to really pay attention to our kids. Especially in the face of all that threatens to hurt them, our family, or our time together.

I am waking up, and breaking open. I am waking open, and the bitter sweetness that threatens to overwhelm me is also my salvation as Ben’s and this next baby boy’s loving Maman. 

E

Are you there God? It's me, E.

July 16, 2012

Several people, including some very close to me, claim they have lost faith. Not so much in a god, although that’s part of it. It’s like the news played another story of children drowning and it broke the camel’s back.  No joy or pleasure seems to make up for their ultimate premise that life sucks, people suffer and then die. Please don’t misunderstand me, God, I don’t feel this way. I don’t really know who or what you are, or whether you are just a figment of my rife imagination. I don’t care either. I am certainly not going to fight any wars on your behalf, except perhaps internal ones against doubt, fear and worst of all to me, loss of faith.

There was a long string of months a few years back when I was trying to get pregnant where I came close to losing faith. Faith in myself, my body, the “plan”, the Earth, everything. I had an idea of my relationship with you, with the Mystery, the Goddess, where you pulsed through me and lit me up, where I was a medium for your creative powers. I thought I could manifest anything I put my mind to, and that in the end, sperm meets egg and voila! Luckily, thought a little cell-splitting, mini-baby didn’t start in me back then, I somehow managed to keep my then threadbare sense of faith intact. I think meeting Ben made all the difference. Instead of becoming suddenly aware of all the dangers of life, and how I could lose him, I just marveled at the magic of two cells making such a perfect being. Despite it being a tough year, I learned a whole new kind of love, became more resilient, and decided that for Ben to be Ben, he needed to be born exactly when he was, exactly how he was, through my partner A. I don’t make the rules. I certainly don’t think anyone is sitting up there keeping tabs on things or mapping our fates (no offense). It is my chosen belief that Ben came the right way for us, and that belief makes all the difference. As they say to pregnant women in Hebrew, besha'ah tovah - all in the right time.

I remember sitting around on the ground with some cool Unitarian teens talking about Life, and asking them what was important to them. When it was my turn, in addition to those I love, it really came down to my faith. I don’t think I could live without it. I don’t know how people do. I know there is suffering and death. It’s everywhere, including in our homes and hearts. I know there are genocides and pedophiles. I know I live a blessed life compared to so many, so who am I to talk? Despite these things, I hope to take it to the grave that life is still wonderful and worth living, whatever the circumstances. I know it’s an imperfect logic, with pockmarks marring its shine. I know it’s rare for people like Viktor Frankl to survive horrific things like holocausts with their sense of self, their feelings of love and hope still alive. But I know people are happy in all kinds of situations in the world, even if only in moments. The smile of their child, the kind offer from a neighbour, the ladybug making a funny pattern as it walks across their hand. It’s a matter of our lens, what we notice. I think people are also mostly good, even without laws making us civilized. Everyday you see it, if you’re looking for it. Someone offering their seat to the 8 month pregnant woman, the old grumpy neighbour giving out chocolate on Halloween, the bus driver who stops his bus full of people and walks the very elderly woman not only off the bus, but across the street (true story). Most people don’t really want to hurt anyone.

I think life is complicated and interesting, and that everything carries light and dark within. Sometimes things are great, sometimes they aren’t. Yin, yang, the wheel turns. It’s not a bad wheel, it just is. We chose to see what we see, and act how we act. Without turning a blind eye to what we can do to alleviate others’ suffering, I am in favor of us choosing to focus on what’s still good in life and take action accordingly. When we’re on top, share. When we aren’t, take comfort in the little things like the miracle of our breath, the one person who smiled at us walking by, the warm night on the street. No matter how bad it gets, like Viktor wrote, the one thing people can’t take from us is our attitude. It’s our choice. Make lemonade and all that.

I don’t know if prayers do anything but focus my own mind. But God, if you’re listening (and by “you” I mean the cosmic mystery, not an anthropomorphic entity), here is my prayer: May those I love, and anyone else who is suffering from loss of faith, find a thread to hold onto and follow that thread all the way back to the Source. May they find a blanket that comforts but does not smother nor hide away. May they sense love suffuse their bodies, the one thing that keeps most of us going, and may it gently carry away grief and fear of loss and dark thoughts. May they wake up tomorrow and see the beauty peppered throughout this imperfect, perfect life. As Coach Taylor says, “Clear eyes, full hearts, can’t lose.”

E

Lovesick

I’ve got it bad for a man. I wouldn’t have said the tall, dark and handsome cliché was my type, but I am making an exception. He has the softest, fullest lips and stares into your eyes like he’s trying to read your soul. Swoooon… The age difference is a little bit of a hurdle, seeing as he is one month old today, but my heart doesn’t seem to realize it. Am I in love? I feel like a teenage girl. I have all the standard symptoms: a fluttery feeling in my chest when he looks my way or grabs my hand, a deep warmth when I hold him that radiates out in all directions, an inability to be apart from him for long, lack of sleep from staring at him, a runny nose, inability to think clearly, appetite swings, chocolate cravings, the sad list goes on. Doctor, I know I’m lovesick. In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s spreading.

E

The truth about love

The truth about love is that sometimes it can catch us unawares, creep in slowly and take root deeply without our knowledge. Last night, we gave our elderly dog Grey the long sleep. I feel heartbroken, and in truth, I am surprised. I was very fond of the fella whom we rescued indirectly from the Humane Society 2 years ago. Compassionate friends had picked him up when they went for a different dog, thinking a big old guy like him would never get adopted. But they had two other dogs already, 5 cats and 2 young foster children. I offered to give Grey a home to please A, who had wanted a dog for years. I liked him because of his quiet dignity, his grace, long legs, big soft ears and quiet, unassuming presence. I thought he's be rug-like, which he was, and make A happy, which he did. For 2 years we walked him many times a day, vacuumed incredible amounts of hair, took him on road trips (his fave) and spent lots of money on the vet, meds and a winter coat since he was prone to shivering. I was stoic throughout our growing awareness that it was soon his time to go, as he used the home more and more as his bathroom, as he couldn't get up well anymore, and as he panted with pain. I thought about how no one would look after him anymore, and I admit I thought about how much space and money we'd save with a baby coming. I prepared picture-gifts for his good friends the dog walkers and vet. I started to clean up his things. I emotionally carried A through bringing Grey for his last vet visit, cats in tow (so they could see him and grieve, and they did grieve in their way). I invented last rites for him, wet clay across his forehead and heart, and said a prayer 108 times throughout the day and at the last. I did cry at the vet's. Back home, we made a candle with special objects in it, and his hair at the bottom. We went to bed, and I gave A reiki to help her sleep (it had been a while, from the grief of knowing it was coming). Then, this morning, I got half-way to work, started crying and realized I couldn't stop. A wellspring deep within me started flowing out, images of me and Grey walking, of his sweet face, of the daily nothings. It would seem that I had to go back home and grieve like a Greek crone, waves of sound and tears coming forth from the realization that I really loved him. He was the best dog I could ask for. I miss him keenly. He introduced us to the neighborhood, taught us we could deal with substantial indoor poop with grace (which bodes well for parenting), and filled our hearts. Grey, you are such a gift to us, we have been so lucky. Rest In Peace, dear one.

E