The journey from the womb to Otherness

The journey from the womb to Otherness began the moment the pink line appeared on my pregnancy test.

Beloved, you were once like cells of my own body, so small and undifferentiated that I could not detect your presence. You were closer to being a part of me, and I a part of you, than any other being I have known.

You grew; my abdomen swelled and you kicked to make yourself known. You were in me but not entirely of me. Your presence dictated the sensations of my body, my emotions, the way I cared for myself. You gave me the gift of health because knowing you dwelled within my womb demanded that I respect my body.

It happened. The pushing, the chaotic but rhythmic surges of birth, and I was suddenly so vastly empty. What a strange space where you once were.

Now in my arms, you were outside but not far from my being. You still controlled my hormones – your skin against mine, sleeping for hours swaddled to my chest, drinking almost constantly from the fountain of life that my body made for you. I was your habitat, the environment that stabilized your temperature and your shocked senses as they knocked hard and fast against the raw, bright world. When I sweat I knew it was your doing, when I wept it was also you – you left me, but the signs of you were vivid on skin and soul. My stomach was loose, my breasts full, red lines had not yet faded to silver. I felt naked, incomplete, stepping outside without you because I was so accustomed to us being one body, moving and being seen together, inseparable in the world’s eyes. I rushed home.

Now faster, now further, you tumble from the microscopic unity. The first smile of delight that opened to me a personality and humor not my own. Emotion that, though deeply connected to my actions, belongs to you. The first roll, a scoot across the floor, the desire to face outward towards the world instead of curled with eyes shut against my chest. The movement from my bed into your own. And now this newfound mobility that takes you across the room and out my sight before I can blink. I turn and you are gone, exploring. You squirm in my arms to get down on the floor. You are Other. You are on a mission – a mission to find yourself slowly over the years of growing. You rear the startling head of your own strong will and I crash into it, bewildered and uncertain how to proceed when what was once a seedling in my body is now asking, insisting, taking stand as someone distinct.

Today surprised me with the return of the blood that marks my rhythm as a woman, my fertility, and the patterns of my body before you took root in my womb. Nineteen months of a body altered by the making of you, the giving forth, the tending, and now the chemical messages of your existence have let go of their reign. The evidence of you in me is fading back into the pale seams of my single body. We are two.

I could bemoan the speed at which this is all taking place. But perhaps that would not be fair to you. Instead I say Welcome. Welcome Other. I am here as a haven of security. To nurse you when you crawl back into my lap, to rock you off to dreams, to hold you close when strangers laugh too loudly. But I am also here as a springboard off which you can fly forth into the unending process of discovery and growth. I fear, as all mothers do, with the urge sometimes to quiet you again into my body, envelope you back into the certain walls of my womb. But for your sake I must believe in the goodness of the slow emergence of Other. I must put out my hand each day to shake yours and say, “Hello, so good to meet you, so good to know you, so good to find this new human, bursting with potential, this fresh start on the earth. Welcome.”

You are cherished. You are loved. You are you. As you change each day, may I always respect the Otherness that springs up from your soul even as we are, and I pray always will be, deeply and richly connected.

Reflections on not being Super Woman (or even Super Mom) and being ok with that

I had this co-worker who I think it's safe to say is Super Woman. She was sought after for her knowledge on our floor, held a special educating role, ran the journal club, and somehow still had time to be an excellent mother of two adorable young children. She was fit, pulled together, and beautiful. And of course there is always my sister who is presently in the thick of a PhD, writing a chapter for a book, publishing articles, teaching socially insightful classes, and investing in a tight knit community of friends and family. These women are undeniably inspirational.

Then there are the super stay-at-home moms (many of which I stumble across in the blogging world). Somehow they manage to not only raise intelligent, wise, creative children in whom they are deeply invested, but also to garden all their own organic produce, write their own super healthy recipes, decorate their clean homes with ingenious thrift items, volunteer, have unbelievably deep conversations with their 4 year olds, keep up a hobby, dream up amazing play activities and vacations, and take care of all the needy (sick, pregnant, whatever) people that cross their path. Oh, and I forgot to mention that they do all this while appearing jovial and well rested. They must have a harness with which they can bind down time in order to achieve all that they do without becoming utterly exhausted. I have yet to find such a harness in my life.

But I am not writing this to complain about how I wish I were a Super Woman or a Super Mom, nor am I going to relate the steps I plan to take to achieve this goal. There are times I wonder what is wrong with me that I cannot boast these achievements or question why I can only seem to focus on one role while some can balance many. And of course I, too, want to raise intelligent, wise, and creative children and strive to make a rich environment for my family. Despite these goals, I do not seem to have a Super Mom style. Instead I am beginning to realize that I live in a simple, laid-back manner and that I have made a certain amount of peace with that. Some examples:

I reward myself for little things. For example, I am happy when I am able to wash and dry a complete load of dishes while Sharlotte is awake.

I spend time sitting on my daughter's floor just watching her play when she would be perfectly content without me present. She's occupied, I'm not saying a word, but I drink it in.

I weekly indulge in 'nursing naps,' snoozing an hour or two away peacefully with my little one hooked to my breast. I wouldn't trade this intimacy for the good books I could have read, the cleaner house, or the hobby that could have flourished.

My daughter's staples are healthy, fresh foods that are simple and don't require all the hoopla of puree, do this, do that and I've never whipped up impressive, large batches of baby food.

I deliberate over things. I could do things a lot faster if I weren't a triple checker and a second guesser. But because I am this way I feel confident when I finally make a decision. This was evident in my nursing practice also, hence the perpetually problem of getting out late.

I don’t have a formal exercise program. Instead, Sharlotte and I take leisurely walks and dance to Lady Gaga.

My nursery is not themed. In fact, my daughter sleeps in a pack and play and nearly everything in that room is a mismatched hand-me-down.

Phil's days off could mean accomplishing much. But usually they mean we all stroll slowly around town, sit quietly in the rays of the sun, and discuss what we should do for several hours until we realize the day is half gone. And it feels good that way.

I can't wear many hats like others can. For heaven's sake, I can't even balance two hats right now (career woman and mom). Why not? Because I like to put on this big, roomy hat I've chosen and feel out all the corners, colors and textures. It's enough for me. Maybe tomorrow I'll need something else, I'll push myself a little harder. But today I'll confess I have not figured out the magic equation that gives me more hours in a day, nor how to make my hours most visibly full, and yet I will peacefully invest in every moment in my own quiet way.

Shar eats zucchini while Phil naps during January picnic