Dear Grayson,
Your mama is having a hard time fathoming this one year old stuff. Your becoming a big boy before my eyes and I can no longer find clothes in pastel colors (albeit only pastel greens and blues even then) for you. You're entering "Boy World" whereby we dress you in solid prints and dark hues. I whimper occasionally when doing shopping for you. I sneer at the clothing manufacturers which insist little boys like monster trucks and footballs. I would like to dress you in little ducks and puppies and bunnies for a few more months now. Do you have to adhere to our cultural obsession with masculinity so soon?
You have been such a busy boy lately. You've perfected your duck quack to an art-form. In fact, I'm a little worried that after being helped along by Grandma and Grandpa's stuffed Easter duck gift which when pressed quacks loudly at your own twelve-month-old command, your own personal quacking might initiate a duck migration the likes of which have been unimagined in a small nameless neighborhood outside Fort Wayne. You quack. You quack loudly. And often spontaneously. And I laugh. And then you quack all the more animatedly. What this means for your future has yet to be determined. A future as the Chick-Filet spokesperson? God, help us. Your father and I have considered entering you in local duck call contests to raise a little money for your college tuition. I think you've got a good shot in the tri-state area.
Your life continues to revolve around family...your grandparents, your sisters, your parents. But, what hasn't been mentioned in this blog is your relationship with your Greek grandparents, your Yaya and Papou. Our neighbors, Helen and Kosmas, have welcomed you since learning of your conception and consider to adore you beyond words. Sweet Kosmas is declining into the abyss of Alzheimer's, but when you arrive to visit, he quickly perks up and chatters happily to you (mostly in Greek, and mostly insisting that you are a girl...but these are small details, yes?). Helen smothers you with kisses, and sends us home laden with Greek pastry which she made by hand. You have no idea now how blessed you are to be bathed in their affections, but in time you'll know. You'll run across the street (after carefully looking both ways) and come home, your pockets full of Helen's cookies, and tell us how much you love your Yaya and Papou.
But they aren't the only ones...there's Grammy and Papi, who watch you each and every Wednesday rain or shine and offer their abundant grace and love. There's Grandpa and Gramma B. who shower you with affection and fly you high in airplane rides. There's Miss B. who reads you Sandra Boynton books (because they were her favorites) and takes her role as big sister so very seriously (despite being so reluctant when she heard of your arrival). There's Miss T., who even in the thralls of teenaged Facebook Obsession hears and comforts you when you fuss and allows you to contentedly sit in her lap and bang on the computer keyboard as if you were writing your own Facebook Likes and Dislikes. There's your Texas kin and Connie, and Lynn, and Cheri, and Erin, and Lili, and Abby, and Beck, and Mia, and Uncle Bryan and Aunt Kimberly and all your aunties, and your extended family and pretty much the entire staff of the Hospice where Mommy works, and too many more to name and What I'm saying, Boy-Boy (and there's a reason Mommy capitalized this last bit, because I wanted to say it with EMPHASIS, is that you have a village that surrounds you and loves you and marvels at the very being of you.) Don't ever forget that. Even when plagued by acne and voice change and other woes of adolescence.
Happy Birthday, Wonder Boy. The most amazing gift I received in the world was delivered at 4:36 p.m. on March 28, 2007. And I will never be the same.
I love you, love you (and that can be translated in Duck-Speak to "Quack, quack, quack.")
Mama
After work I stopped at Kroger and bought two Healthy Choice frozen dinners.
R. and I came home from work around the same time and retired to our private sanctuaries (in front of our respective computers) whilst Grayson slept.
Around 7ish Grayson awoke, R. came downstairs, I finished typing.
R. got a frozen dinner out to defrost and said, "Thanks so much for making dinner tonight."
And meant it.
Buying a frozen dinner now constitutes "making dinner."
I am so incompetent as a housewife.
(This was actually composed somewhere between 2:17 and 3:03 a.m. while I lie awake but was too lazy to walk downstairs. I just have superior memory skills and can tell you now...)
C: (Looking Oprahesque and coming into a crowded room giving high fives and handshakes). Welcome to our show tonight. It's good to have a familiar friend with us. Insomnia, or can I just call you, In? In, I'm glad you're here, it's been a few years...I think the last time you were here was when I was in about her seventh month of pregnancy and couldn't actually get comfortable.
Insomnia (heretofore known as I): Yes, C., I think you're right...those were good times...
C: (Smiling gratefully) Well, we have an important issue to address tonight, an important topic that many people are overlooking in life, the question of why women in their 30s don't sleep.
I: (Nodding approvingly) I'm so glad you brought me here.
C: Tell me, In, how is it that you keep going year after year.
I: Well, C., I did take a hit after you discovered AMBien. There were some tough nights. But, I believed in my strength and will and lived through the pain.
C: Did you write a book about that?
I: I did not...I was afraid that there were too many books that were putting people to sleep at night, and I wasn't a joiner, you know, I didn't want to play the game.
C: (Nodding empathetically) Yes, I do know. I'm a chaplain. I don't play the game either.
I: But, you notice how good I have become at posing additional questions and issues to you to keep you awake at night? How I have added topics like "autism" and "feline pattern baldness" and "c-section scars" and "will my college students like me-itis" to your evening repertoire?
C: Yes, yes I have. Qudos to you, In. You are the master.
I: (Steepling fingers) Thank you. I try.
C: How has daylight savings time effected your work?
I: (Suddenly animated, gets up and jumps on the couch) I LOVE IT, CONTEMPLATIVE CHAPLAIN! I REALLY, REALLY LOVE IT! (Long, thoughtful pause as Insomnia rearranges the pillows on the settee and the audience titters with the recognition of young love) I'm sorry, C., I just get carried away. I cannot thank Mitch Daniels and the Indiana government enough to allow me to do my job. I find that subtracting that additional hour from people's lives is a real God-send in my line of work.
C: And with babies, it's especially helpful.
I: (Smiling slyly) It is. It truly is.
C: Well, I think that's all we have time for tonight. I want to thank our special guest, Insomnia. Tomorrow we'll be working with our other long-lost foe, Anxiety. Until then, get some sleep.
...and I say, "I can't help it...these are my elders." Now, come here and pull my finger.
Dear Grayson,
It's been quite a month. It went incredibly quickly.
The most formative event of the month may have been your ability to stand while holding on to various pieces of furniture. You stand carefully, always gripping the object of stability with both hands. And then cry when you're tired, but don't want to fall down, as you haven't figured out yet how to gently drop or sit. God love you, you're becoming the obsessively neurotic child I always knew you'd become (having been raised by the queen of obsessively neurotic behaviors). It's okay, Grammy and Grandpa report that I was also "cautious" and have turned out not so bad. Except for the excessive desire to document words looked up in dictionaries, which actually gains merit in the "English Major Awards."
We do, though, need to talk about your lack of ambition in certain areas. Mostly when it comes to eating. You excel in loving each and every food we offer. You have given up your squash and sweet pea aversion and seem content to munch on Del Monte turkey and green beans, or Beech prunes. Last night I fed you bits of bacon, followed by pieces of kidney bean, a few fingerful's of wild rice and topped it off with a nice apple-cherry medley courtesy of Gerber. You didn't blink an eye. The foods, you embrace. The ways of eating the foods, you fall a little short. Not a lot short, just a little. I don't want to be an overly critical parent here, but, well, I'm just looking forward to the day that you express interest in being a little more independent here.
I realize that most young men attending Harvard don't have their parents there spooning foods or placing cheerios in their mouths. I know this, intellectually, and yet I worry. Because, as bright as I know you must be, as certain as I am of your future with a Masters in Divinity degree from Harvard Divinity School (your father's alma mater and your mother's degree would be nice, wouldn't it?). You have no inclination to do much on your own. For example...you don't crawl (although you roll in some amazing ways and end up jettisoned on pillows and trapped under harmless coffeetables), you don't place food in your own mouth (although food placed on your bottom lip and tongue is greatly appreciated and immediately devoured). Again, we would never want to attach the word "lazy" to your life, but, well, let's be honest...there is one parent whose baby book specifically uses that word (not that I've mentioned that in previous posts or anything).
Your father is convinced that this lack of desire in feeding and propelling oneself is perfect indication of your inherent intelligence. He believes that you have already learned that there are few years to bask in the limelight, to allow others to carry you everywhere you want to go, to have Mommy and Daddy available to spoon food into your mouth or hold a bottle to your lips, and that you are simply taking advantage of those moments, as they will never come again.
And, he may be right. After all, you've already learned how to push yourself in the swing when you want to go faster. You know the times to use the system and the times to get your own needs met. My little pistol, who has already learned that those who can work can figure out loopholes to allow others to work for them. Almost makes me wish we were Republicans so we could celebrate. Instead, we'll continue to teach you the word "Marxism," and dress you in "My Momma's for Obama" onesies.
Time is going so very fast. I think of where we were a year ago...you safely ensconced in my womb. Me growing big and grumpy. The days we spent in the hospital in the end of March 2007 were probably the sweetest of my life so far. I marvel at how far we've come in this year. And can't wait to celebrate the birthday of my big boy next month.
I love you, boy-boy. I love you more than you could imagine.
Mama
Sunday night. 9:38 p.m. (R. and C. are lying in bed watching an episode of "The L Word.")
C: (Turning to reposition herself). Ouch.
R: ... (saying nothing because in the middle of television shows you say nothing...not until a commercial break, and when it's a premium channel there aren't breaks).
C: I think I pushed it too hard running today. I'm really sore.
R: ... (says nothing again, but gives brief sympathetic glance, followed by look which says, "I hear you, and I care, but wait until the show is over, okay, my sweet beloved?" before returning to watch television).
Sunday night. 9:59 p.m. (R. and C. still lying in bed, credits just finished rolling.)
R: How are you feeling?
C: Bad.
R: What's going on?
C: I think I caught "it." ("It" being the creeping crud which both girls had been struggling with in previous days. "It" being the nebulous monster which causes high fevers and even higher anxieties).
R: Oh no.
C: I know. Now, get ready cowboy, it's gonna be a long ride. (Okay, I didn't really say this but added it for dramatic effect...it's sort of ominous in a playful way).
Monday morning. 6:50 a.m. (C. takes the first trip out of bed to slowly, oh-s0-very-slowly walk to the bathroom where she finds a thermometer in the drawer and notes that, oh, it's 102.9. She then tries to sit on the toilet which is so cold she practically faints. She puts on a sweatshirt, and bed jacket, and another pair of socks, and adds a blanket to the bed and crawls back under the covers.) She does not emerge until the following Friday evening. When she has some soup.
The Great Influenza of 2008 reminded me of several things. My life, on the whole is pretty blessed. After five days of being unable to lift my child, to even lift my head, I marvel at what it means to walk up and down the stairs in one's own home. I have a husband who is tender in his own quiet way and who has borne my savage grumpiness. Furthermore, he experienced my "high fever squirrelies" (throughout my life I've been prone to hallucinations and delusions when my temperature tops 103 or so. For example, I'm still horrified at the sight of Peeps marshmallow cream bunnies and chicks after they chased me in a fever-induced state when I was eight). Robert calmly listened to my concerns about Carol Burnett stealing the havarti cheese from one of my Hospice patients by patting my hand as if he understood exactly what I meant.
I had to miss yet another session of the class I'm teaching at the college, which I think makes me the worst professor in the history of the institution. And, I fear Grayson may be forever scarred by the "week when Mommy was attacked by blankets."
But, it's over now. It's blessedly done.
And the not eating for a week, and then not being able to taste for the week afterward, well...it did propel me back into the world of pre-pregnancy weight, which was sort of the only bonus to a lost week.
Spring is just around the corner. And, oh, but we are so ready this year.
...because I thought you could go for a three-and-a-half mile run with no repercussions after not having run for a month at the ripe old age of thirty-six.
I remember the good old days when I could run thirty-six miles uphill both ways in a snow storm.
Shit. This aging thing, it sucks.
Her: (After reading the morning paper). You know what? I have a brilliant idea.
Him: (Looking over his reading glasses now that she has interrupted his ritual of Sunday newspaper editorial reading). Yes?
Her: (With a faraway look in her eyes). You know how expensive girdles are?
Him: (Puzzled) Um...no.
Her: Well, they are. They're really, really overpriced. And you know what? You could just take control top panty hose that cost 3.99 and cut the legs out and use them for girdles and it would be a lot cheaper. Especially in summer when you didn't want to wear hose...
Him: ... (Attentive, but puzzled)...
Her: And that would save a lot of money...and you could have a ton of them. You'd just cut the legs off as soon as they got a run in them. Do you know how often they get runs in them? 'Course you'd still want to wear underwear with them, cause the crotches would rip out pretty quickly, but they'd still work...someone could actually make a business out of it...buy a bunch of 'em, cut the legs out, turn a profit real quick... Actually, I think I'm gonna write to Helpful Hints for Heloise.
Him: And be sure to include your full name and hometown on that one.
Her: Of course... I'll just sign it Mrs. R.B.P, Ph.D.
Winston Churchill referred to that sense of doom and sadness and ennui as the "black dog of depression." It was what haunted him in the dark nights and loomed menacingly at various times in his life.I know this presence, but Churchill's metaphor falls apart for me, because when I imagine a black dog, I see a frolicking labrador retriever with one of those doggie bandanas around its neck, beckoning me instead to propel myself out of the world of my dark thoughts and make some time to feel a soft dog tongue lapping at my fingertips as I nuzzle his wet nose. And besides, "Black Labrador Retriever of Depression" just doesn't have the same flow. My sense of looming is more like a large black bird which circles me ominously, the kind that feeds on carrion and waste and invites its friends, melancholy and self-aborption, to join him in the onslaught. There are mornings when I wake up and the trees of my mind are black with their nesting. It has been a hard winter. I finally flew the white flag of surrender last week and named the circling looming for what it was. Depression. Burn out. Emotional exhaustion. Speaking the truth of the matter to colleagues, and R., and a therapist. I have a good life. A richly satisfying life. And I am immensely grateful.But, the bird still circles. And as often as I shoo him away, as often as I turn my head and pretend I don't see him mocking me, as often as I try to overtalk his cawing, he still sits. And waits.This weekend has been better. The sun has been shining for two blessed days. I exercised for a good sixty minutes one day. I listened to a prophetic African American preacher at a beautiful memorial service for a client. I closed my eyes and let the music of a gospel choir take me to a different atmosphere as I rocked a sleepy Grayson in my arms. I finally wept.There are changes that I need to make in my life to take better care of myself, because I don't want to have to leave work I feel called to do because I am too weary. There are changes that I need to make to take better care of my body, because I don't want to have to feel too tired to care for my family. There are changes I need to make to find deliberate Sabbath time, because I don't want to forever be hopelessly uncreative.
But most of all, this: there are changes that I need to make to take better care of my soul, because I don't want to avoid hearing the voice of the Spirit as She soothes me back to serenity.
I'm waiting for Her voice.
Dear Grayson,
I am a few days behind in posting. Mama's been a busy girl. This weekend I had every intention of writing and then realized I was way behind on working on the first lecture for my Feminist and Womanist Theologies class and so spent four hours at the downtown library while you and Dada hung out at home watching football or some such nonsense. I exaggerate? Well, yes, okay, maybe instead you and Dada watched an edition of Religion and Ethics Newsweekly on PBS.
Tonight, after so many hours working, working...sending you to church with Dada so I could work while you were gone, I had to cancel the class due to some nasty fog in the area. And with a free night, and lecture prepared for next week (which I was really, really passionate about, actually), Mama finds an opening to write you this little love note while you bounce wildly in your Jumperoo next to me whilst listening to the Big Band and Swing channel on cable.
You are growing like a weed...like those out of control nettles which Mama pulls every eight seconds in her garden. But, unlike the nettles your soft and cuddly and don't make Mama's fingers itch. Last night we went to an Un-Superbowl Party and a friend of a friend who is an MD said, "And he's how old?" I mentioned that you were average for height and weight but that, um, yes, your head was a bit large. It is after all in the 95th percentile, so why not boast? "That's what we go by," he said. "He's a big boy. He's got a big head." Someone overheard the conversation and said, "Probably because he has so much to think about." With that I will concur. Your native American name will not be "Bald-Headed-Boy-with-Big-Head" but will instead be, "He-Who-Thinks-Much."
You're venturing into new worlds as you explore the wild world of culinary delights. You're a fan of the purplish-blue variety of fruits now. Your grandpa is still mourning the fact they don't make Blueberry Buckle dessert to feed to babies and has had to suffice with given you the reduced sugar Apple-Blueberry dessert. Thankfully, for both of you, it's been a hit.
We do need to mention the Cheerios though, Mister. Apparently you didn't get the Memo that all kids love Cheerios, for you, you have no interest. I bought the Honey Nut variety (and then panicked after feeding you one and had to call the pediatrician to make sure I hadn't just lethally dosed you since babies aren't allowed to have honey...[note to all hypochondriacal mothers: Honey Nut Cheerios are Fine]), the Apple Cinnamon Variety, but you care not at all. For the Cheerios you have no love. Actually, for feeding yourself at all there is no love. However, if someone were to feed you off their finger some orange sesame flavored rice that would be superb. It isn't the taste as much for you as it seems to be the mode of transport.
This morning you delighted me beyond words. In the car on the way to our beloved Shannon's house you chirped and squawked and talked. I was interested in this and when I got you out of the car I said, "Grayson, what does the Mama Duck say?" Since we repeat the Mama Duck litany in the bathtub nightly (the counting game where we repeat about the "Five little ducks who went out one day, over the hills and far away..."), I wondered if it might have "stuck."
"What does the Mama Duck say?" I asked you of the wide-eyed stare, once again. You paused, searched your brain and then said quietly, "Quack, quack, quack." I was dumbfounded. To be certain, I waited until we got into Shannon's and asked again, "And what's the Mama Duck say, boy?" "Quack, quack, quack" you said, more tentatively this time. I almost scooped you up and devoured you whole.
I love you, little duck. I love you, I love you, I love you.
And this separation anxiety stuff? Stop your panicky looks. Mama always comes back.
But, Grayson, promise me in days to come when you're out wandering the world that anytime Mama Duck calls to her baby, "Quack, Quack, Quack!" that you'll somehow find your way back. I have a hunch your migration is going to come much sooner than this duck would like.
XOXO,
Mommy
R.: What does it mean for someone to be two and three times a lady? I mean, I get that you can be a lady once, but who is a lady two or three times?
Me: ...
Miss T.: It doesn't matter, Dad, he loves her.
The last week of January is always a hard one for me. In addition to the frigid weather, and the cabin fever which often accompanies it, the dark nights which come on so early, and the predictable inability to get out and run the route I have often trudged through our neighborhood due to the ice on the streets, the last week of January also presents an anniversary which is always accompanied by complex emotional baggage. It's a place I don't like going in my memory.
January 25th is the anniversary of my parent's separation. It is the anniversary of the day when I was in 5th grade and was met at the door on an unseasonably warm and damp January day by my parents, still dressed in their work clothes, who sat me down in the orange shag-carpeted and wood-paneled family room and told me that my father would be moving out. It is the anniversary of the day when I ran upstairs to my room with my trusted Shetland sheepdog, Misty, and locked the door. It is the anniversary of the day that despite my mother's begging me to open the door, and my father's sobs, a sound I had never heard before and hope to never hear with such force again, I curled up in a ball with one hand covering my ears and one hand clutching the ruff of Misty's neck as I sobbed my own angry tears. And refused to allow anyone in to comfort me.
When you are an only child of parents who have divorced, even when the divorce was a good divorce, a healthy divorce, even when the divorce presented new life possibilities which allowed wonderful step-parents into your life who nurtured you far more than you ever could have hoped, there is still a strange anniversary which you seem to mourn alone. There is no one to share the grief that comes with being the sole survivor of the shipwreck of your parents marriage. No one I can call today and remember the details of the story, no one to confirm whether my memories are accurate, no one to ponder over the nuances of the what-ifs.
I don't usually share this anniversary with my parents, because it isn't really their story to tell, and it simply is what it is, and there is no going back, no change that can be made. My mom and dad have their own stories to tell of that time in our lives--stories of what led them to make the decision to dissolve a union, a decision which must have been wracked with questions and guilts and sadnesses all their own. They both must have wrestled with how to do what was best for me, with what this meant for me, with how they could accompany me in my grief while maintaining their own sanity in an insane time. I remain committed in my belief that remembering this anniversary is not about placing blame or desiring that they feel remorse. It is a day when I need to sort through my own reflections, when I need to scour the insides of my own heart again to create a fresh perspective.
This is a day when I stand alone without siblings, without even the presence of that Shetland sheepdog who has long been gone, and reflect on how this pivotal event has shaped and changed me, for the better, and occasionally, rarely, for the worse. I am the sole survivor of this particular and common family tragedy.
But while it is a day of solemn remembrance for me, it is not a day without hope, for the relationships I have with each of my parents is richer, I believe, than it may have been had they stayed married. And the step-families that entered my life have made me a more whole person, I believe, than I would have been without each of their unique imprints on my being. And now there is a little person who has two extra grandparents, and a host of extra family, who love him.
And he will not know what it means to be alone. Not if I can help it.
...that I have a blog, contrary to popular belief.
Entries soon and very soon.
My very favorite elves ever. All three of them.
Were I a medical type person, the type to understand biochemistry and thyroid function, the type who knew the difference between tarsals and metatarsals and could explain why one's pee gets, well, funky when one eats asparagus, I'd have a brilliant idea. Were I that type of person, the smart kind with all sorts of initials after my name, the type who understands why when one looks at a white wall sometimes globs of floaty things seem to pass in front of one's eyes, the type who could explain the difference between the cold medicines sold in front of the counter and those behind, I would have a great research project, a doctoral dissertation.
And here is my brilliant query, the answer I would like solved and presented to me on a silver platter, along with the proper medications to actually correct the problem. My question is this, "Is there a medical reason to explain the phenomenon of feeling as if one has actually lost brain functioning, lost the ability to reason, to follow a train of thought, to write coherently, to think of common words when needed (the other day I couldn't remember the words baking soda when explaining a recipe and had to refer to it as the "risey stuff"), to multi-task after giving birth to a child (heck, maybe it happens with adoption too...I didn't think of that, since I can't think too coherently myself)?" Were I this wise, I would make it my life's work, for I would love to convince women that there is indeed a medical explanation for the way in which one's brain simply seems to explode, and reassure mothers everywhere that we are not crazy, that the truth is that actually the brain does explode and what is left in its place are little fluffs of brain clouds floating randomly in between the right and left hemispheres. Little fluffs which allow you to remember the phone number of the boy you had a crush on in sixth grade (448-3243, actually but don't tell Peter Fratellini I gave it to you, and don't you dare call him and tell him it's just "Avon Calling" 'cause he's figured that one out by now), or the words to the rap song Funky Cold Medina, or the atomic mass of Carbon. Really useful stuff, stuff which comes in handy daily as one struggles to parent, as you can imagine.
I am not sure if it is sleep deprivation, or the fact that I constantly am thinking of Grayson's needs, or the fact that I've taken too many cold medications in the past several months, or that I have lost all sense of what it means to be alone, or contemplative, or grounded. But, I've talked to my other "Mom Friends" who echo my sentiments, so I suspect there's something in the water that the medical community better start taking seriously, sort of like whatever gets dumped in the water when a ton of women get pregnant at the same time in a certain workplace.
Now, I'm off to drum up some support for my cause, as this is only my first rallying cry. But first I need to change Grayson's diaper and clean the dog's poop off the floor, and prepare the syllabus for that course I'm teaching at the college in just a few short weeks, and finish the last chapter of my book for book group and help R. take down the Christmas tree...
Get ready, medical-type smart people (what's that word again, oh yeah, doctors), I'm coming at you with the tough questions, and I expect some answers, dammit.
Dear Grayson,
It has been quite a month for you. You have asserted your independence by refusing to sit up unless your grandpa keeps his hands firmly held on your hips, spitting your squash out at your father until he stopped feeding you and you realized that lunch would be delayed, and refusing to say "mama" more than a few times (which is truly a cardinal sin and I must warn you will be on your record when you meet Jesus and the pope and Bruce Springsteen and Gloria Steinem in heaven someday and they ask what you were doing when you weren't saying "mama.").
Your mama has washed so many of your Christmas outfits (the candy-cane striped sleeper and the red thing covered in gingerbread men, and that 'Pooh's First Christmas' onesie) ad nauseum. While the practical part of me says that we should just keep letting you wear them throughout the post-Christmas months, the anal-retentive part of this woman keeps cringing internally when I think of you wearing the aforementioned festive finery in February (when God and the world know one should be wearing heart-themed apparel, dammit).
I should not be surprised that the first word you've uttered after the ubiquitous "Dada" and fleeting "Mama," is "Caaaaatttttt." I am actually secretly thrilled that you love Cooper and Moses so dearly that they have become your first "official" word. Caaaaaatttt. You are so definitive in the "t" sound. You want so very much to finish the sound. Ahh...sweet melody.
You celebrated your first Christmas last week, and true to prototypical baby form, appreciated the wrappings and boxes and ribbons much more than any of the gifts. Thankfully your parents had compensated for this and gone heavy on the wrappings (extra tissue paper, loads of ribbons), and light on the content. Books were received from Santa. Some sleepers and such. It was mostly your grandparents who surrounded you with the Christmas spirit this year.
Tonight you were fussy. I held you on my lap as I sipped at my (non weight-watcher's approved) glass of chardonay, and caught up on blogs while nuzzling your ear occasionally. You were very sleepy, sleepy enough that I considered lying you down to rest before supper, and then I clicked the link to a blog which mentioned how to entertain children during the holidays. And, lo, it was a you-tube of farting Christmas elves. And as it began to play, you laughed a deep belly laugh. And after the elves passed gas the reindeers commenced the melody and you could barely contain yourself. For over three minutes you remained transfixed. And somewhere in the universe your Great-Grandma Miller laughed and said, "He'll be a Miller by and by just like his great-grandpa." And that reunion you had with your second cousin Jack, the boy who shares a deep connection through his papa with your mama, became all the more tangible (bodily function jokes and all).
I marvel at the wonder that is you. You are growing so fast.
I love you, love you, love you. More than the stars.
Mommy
Occasionally I feel the need to apologize for what this blog was supposed to be, and what it is right now. Originally, I wrote because I needed an outlet for what sermon writing and journaling once had been for me while I was in pastoral ministry. Originally, I spent more time in contemplation, more time alone, more time in self-reflection. I could afford to put my energy there.
And then, this cataclysmic shift happened and I had a child who consumed my thoughts. All that time spent in contemplation, that time spent trying to discover who I was as a child of God became time spent feeding a baby, and time spent caring for the needs of another, and time spent word-finding after the mind-numbing sleeplessness took over. And I have been so consumed, so overwhelmed that I would turn to a blank screen in front of me and say, "Nope. I've got nothing."
And yet, this parenting, this discovery of Grayson, is another form of contemplation I'm learning. When I spend a good ten minutes marveling at the way Grayson uses his hands, or ponder how it is that he's learned that the word "cat" can be applied to all four-legged creatures (we try not to discriminate against dogs in this house), and not just one particular cat (namely Cooper as Moses runs like hell to hide from the boy's ever stretching grasp), I find myself scratching my head in wonder. And I find myself re-imaging God. I love my child so much. If God is my parent, than how much must God love me? I'm still learning how to take that in.
There were people who told me that a baby could change your life. And I had the audacity not to believe them, even after being a step-mother.
But being a mother is not the all of who I am, and in time I intend on refocusing on the other roles that Christen plays. But, it seems near impossible to do that when I have little sleep. I can barely remember to change the boy's diaper sometimes, let alone wonder at the mystery that is our Creator.
This is not meant to be simply a "Mommy Blog;" I am not comfortable dwelling only in that world. But, for now, it is where my creative energies lie. And I trust that there is a "more" which will also emerge.
So, in my blog writing, perhaps you came initially for the contemplation, for the hospicey stuff, for the ministry speak, but perhaps you'd consider staying for awhile because the boy, he's got stuff to teach this old lady too. I'd I sure like to share that with you as well.
And shortly after this picture was taken his Mama devoured him whole, for he was so sweet.
Dear Grayson,
Normally Mommy isn't a slacker. Really. And, normally she wouldn't post something twelve days late. But, then, well, you were born. And, while Mommy didn't become a slacker, she did find other things a bit more absorbing than typing (which, incidentally, Mommy both loves and finds a bit troublesome). And so, now, twelve days after you officially turned eight months old, you'll have an update (and so will this blog).
Today when I dropped you off at the babysitter's home (and I mean, really, "babysitter" is really such a lackluster term for what S. does for you, which is to love you and cuddle you and feed you and rearrange her family's life for you at times), she said, "Grayson, you've changed! I don't know how...but you just look...different." Daddy mentioned the other night that the only thing that was keeping you from looking like a little boy as opposed to a baby, was the lack of hair (in which case you also might look like your grandfathers). I have packed numerous boxes full of "little baby boy" clothes to hand off to friends and marvel at how long you are now. And, man, you are a LONG kid ("95th percentile", your mother remarks proudly, as if my 5'2" would foretell the future Michael Jordan that you would become [the Michael Jordan minus the basketball, as your papa and I aren't big sports fanatics...unless you want to do it...and then we'll comply...maybe...and only after your piano lessons...and chess club meetings...and Math trivia bowl challenges...and figure skating competitions...and stamp collecting exhibitions...after which you'll take the slide ruler out of your pocket and inform us that you're not going to be the nerd we're raising you to be any more, because you have your own life, dammit. And you'll march right out to the garage in your Milli-Vanilli T-shirt and work on the engine of your 1983 Chevy for the demolition derby]).
You are an incredibly versatile little creature now. You have practically demolished your Rainforest Jumperoo (which is a gift from the gods [and your grandparents]). You set your feet in motion and jump to heights yet unseen in this house, or unseen at least since Cooper fell off that bookshelf in the library and practically fractured his bad hip. Your motion in the jumperoo, the back and forthing of it all reminds me of Grandpa Herman's docked fishing boats as they rock in the waves on Chapman Lake and slam into the used tires he hangs over the seawall as cushions, and somehow in the Miller world of poetry that thought is actually deeply sentimental and not at all like the start of a bad Ernest Hemmingway novel and makes me a little weepy. You'll never know Great-Grandpa hauling you around in one of his fishing boats while you wear a life preserver three sizes too big. To you, he will be the gentle man who holds you closely and, occasionally confuses you with one of your other second cousins. But, perhaps, someone else could someday repeat his deeds in an old green rowboat in the shallows of Chapman Lake in years to come.
You've finally come to your senses and uttered the magical words, "Ma Ma." You said it for the first time on the way home from your babysitter's one day (actually it was on December 4th at nearly 5:07 p.m. but who's counting?). You punctuated the syllables loudly and when I turned around in astonishment, barely missing swerving into the SUV next to us, you laughed. It was as if you were just waiting for the right moment, for the cinematic effect. Now you regale me daily with those delightful words. And maybe 12% of the time you're actually referring to me.
Crawling? Not such a big deal to you. Everytime we put you on your tummy, you happily roll back over onto your back and giggle. Sitting up? You can. Do you want to? Not so much. Mostly, you like to sit up for 8.2 seconds and then throw yourself dramatically backward (usually onto pillows or my lap) and laugh. You prefer that the world comes to you as you recline on your back, just as Cooper comes to you whenever you yelp for his furry love. I don't want to throw the word "lazy" about, or surmise where this trait comes from, but there was one parent who's baby book used that word in reference to him. The other parent's baby book was abundantly laden with various incarnations of the sentence, "she is very careful." Hmmmm...
You are the most amazing creature I've ever encountered. I love to watch you learn and unfold and grow. I love to be your mama. I love to have you for a son.
Mama
There is something incredibly humbling about viewing yourself in a full-length mirror eight months post-partum for the first time. Deeply humbling. And a little upsetting. Or a lot.
Last weekend we celebrated the wedding of one of the sisters (the spiritual sisters, those who know me the most intimately, although not biblically). And we stayed in a fancy-dan hotel. Where there was, alas, a full-length mirror.
We don't have a full-length mirror in our home (no, wait, on further reflection I forgot that we DO have one in Miss B.'s room, but apparently I have not been in her bedroom whilst naked, silly me). To get to my dress hanging in the closet at the hotel I had to walk, had to walk without clothes, past the full-length mirror. Had I known it would be such a shocking experience, I might have braced myself with a double shot of scotch first, or maybe some Valium.
The scales had been telling me, very gently, that I still had a good ten pounds to go before I would weigh what I weighed before Grayson was born. My work clothes were fitting, but a little too tight for my puritan tastes. But there was something about seeing myself head to toe which was, well, alarming.
And that alarm quickly turned to depression and incredible self-loathing.
In my late teens and early 20s I would not say that I had an eating disorder, but I would say that I was, and have been at other times throughout my life, eating disordered. Throughout college I fell into fits of deep sadness if my weight soared even a half pound above 125 pounds. To hide what I believed to be a flawed body, I draped myself in oversized men's extra-large shirts and sweaters. I liked clothes that hung rather than clung.
In those years I ran often; my drug of choice being country roads late at night and even in the dead of winter. I was not a marathoner, but if I didn't run five days a week, if I didn't run at least 4.5 miles on those days, the jungle drums of self-loathing would begin to beat. For years I didn't run for the joy of it, I ran because I believed that I needed to. I ran even after slipping on the ice and cracking an arm. I ran through a stress-fractured tibia. I ran in sub-zero weather and in 90+ degree heat. I prided myself on my discipline.
I was not classically anorexic. I wasn't bulimic. I never threw up after a meal. I never counted calories excessively. I never appeared gaunt and starved. But I knew what I weighed at all times. And I could tell you the length of every running route in North Manchester to the tenth of a mile. I skittered along the border of the eating disordered, but I was careful to never fall too far in.
It was a slow journey to become more comfortable in my skin. A journey aided by women who I believed were utterly beautiful no matter their size. A journey aided by men who loved me regardless of my weight. A journey discovering the sacred within which reminded me that I was made in God's image, and made good.
I cannot say that in the past ten years I have made complete peace with my body. But I can say that it's better. Gradually. Slowly. It's become better.
I can say that in the past ten years somewhere my running became a release and a delight, rather than an obsession and a chore. I can say that in the past ten years I started buying clothes in the Misses department with labels tagged with an "M" rather than a Men's "XL." I can say in the past ten years that I realized that weighing upwards or around 135 pounds was a healthy weight for me. I can say that in the past ten years I was beginning to see in myself the beauty I've always found in other women, regardless of their size or shape. I began to soothe my roundnesses rather than shun them.
And then I walked by that mirror. That full-length mirror that held nothing back. And I felt like I was nineteen years old again with a mountain of self-loathing and the desire to circle the hotel parking lot in my Nike running shoes until I was winded and exhausted, until my steps pounded the body hatred into the ground for at least a few hours.
And the truth hurt.
I have come to believe that I will be fighting the demons of radical self-acceptance for years to come. There are no easy answers here.
I birthed a baby boy and my body is not the same. It will probably never be the same. And I need to make peace with that, even as I change what I can.
To that end I joined Weight Watchers this week. My own personal A.A. meeting, as my friend Erin calls it. A place where I have learned a new vocabulary of "points" and "flex plans" and "core foods."
This is good for me. But I think what would be even better would be to slay the dragon of self-loathing who, with his fire-breathing threats, has shattered my fragile truce with my body and knocked me into the warped world of sneering in the mirror and poking at my flabby, C-section scarred belly with an accusing pointer finger.
I am not sure how to fight this battle again, how to know if it's time to lose weight or if it's time to make peace. But I'm also unsure of how to accept myself in a body I don't recognize.
I am a feminist. I am a hospice chaplain who often watches her clients struggle for their next breath. Fat, body image, worrying about the size of one's thighs in this larger picture seems trivial in comparison. It embarrasses me that I care. I am ashamed of my petty concerns when I have been blessed with a strong body and healthy child.
But I'm still avoiding full-length mirrors these days.
I don't like the hateful look of the woman with my face and eyes who stares back when she sees my poor, sagging belly. And it's just easier if I don't have to look.
