My First Mother's Day

In After the Fall, Arthur Miller writes, "The word 'now' is like a bomb through the window, and it ticks." Isn't that true. How do I embrace and live fully in the now? My prayer this Mother's Day, and, really, every day, is "Oh, Lord, may these days go slowly and be full of joy."

While I look forward to knowing my Ella as a girl, a teenager, a woman, I feel the haunting ache of missing of her, of moving on, of being old.

I also ache because the relationship that I have with my own mom is so devoid of intimacy. I pray that this will also change, but I have to realize that it quite likely will not. I love my mom. But I am sad that, as I read others' 'Mother's Day blogs,' I see lists of "what I learned from my mom" or the like, I feel that while I do have a list of 'what I learned,' they aren't all great. In my journey, I have felt guilty for not 'respecting' or 'loving enough,' or 'insert guilt-induced-phrase here.' She did rock me, love me, stay up for hours with my nosebleeds, and was, in general, a wonderful mom, doing the best she could with the past she has. But that isn't any reason to lie to myself. So, please understand that while you may feel that this is a mean and ungrateful thing for me to be doing, that it really is necessary for me, and that I love and respect my mother perhaps more than ever before because of my honesty.

Things my mom taught me:

• To love learning.
• To love reading.
• To read to my own kids at bedtime. And read the same book again and again and again.
  
• That wearing makeup doesn't matter.
• That careless car mishaps are the reason we have car insurance, and aren't worth being too upset about.
  
• To never want anything in order to keep from being disappointed.
• To never share your feelings out of fear of making someone mad.
• To never be a student of yourself. It is too painful and you shouldn't want to actually change.
• To avoid confrontation.
• To sweep uncomfortable things under the rug.
• To insulate myself from friends--they are not to be trusted or confided in.
• That any man is going to be unfaithful, and we women are meant to endure it.
• That work is more important than family.
• That emotional intimacy is dangerous and will be used against you.
• That your husband isn't really on your team.
• That she doesn't really have an interest in knowing me, just an interest in assuming she knows me.
• That money is a mode of love.
  
• That I am incapable of doing anything without her help.

I pray that my children will always know that I am curious to know who they truly are. That they will never feel like there is a 'thing'--work, hobby, etc--that is worth more than they are. That they will know that my husband and I are co-captains, independent people, and in love. That they will know that honest communication sometimes means hurting others. That they will know that sharing yourself is dangerous, but necessary. That they will know what grace looks like. That they will know that being angry with someone does not mean there is any removal of love. Really, I suppose I pray that I can define family in a much different way that I knew.

I remember as a child, perhaps I was ten, saying to myself "I want to marry someone who is a good communicator." Of course I also wanted someone handsome, who would be a good father, creative, and, oh, and the list goes on. But I remember that one request above the rest. And, I only recently remembered this--all within the process of differentiation and growth in our marriage. I sat back to realize how blessed I am to have a man who is the one who made me a mother, the one who will cooperatively raise our children with me, who challenges me to be a strong, confident, independent woman, and who, regardless of the pain and frustration, has taught me how to communicate, to be a team player, and how to share myself.

So, basically, as I look back on my first Mother's Day, I am overwhelmed:

• Thankful that I have my mom, and that we have the opportunity to beautify our relationship.
• Thankful for a husband who has allowed, guided, and helped me to become the woman and mother that I am.
  
• And thankful for my precious Ella, a beautiful and fiery girl whom I am excited to get to know more every day.

A Mother's Tears

David Foster Wallace, in his short story, Incarnations of Burned Children, found in his collection, Oblivion: Stories, leaves the reader with a haunting image: "If you've never wept and want to, have a child."

Even in my love for heavy, some-would-say depressing literature, I personally find this specific story too disturbing to really enjoy. I read it many years ago, and was haunted for months--and, by this one quote, haunted for years--the memory of it has never left my psyche. Wallace's weeping most certainly refers to a suffering, sorrowful place; the cries of a parent when faced with the suffering of their child. But for me, this idea of weeping branches out in so many different directions.

In my first weeks at home, there were so many emotions. Once I began my 'better living through chemistry' regimen treating my postpartum depression, things were much better, and the emotions were real, raw, and amazing.

At night, I often would wake up in anticipation, anxious for Ella to wake up and nurse. I couldn't wait to feel her creeping little fingers, hear her gluttonous breaths, to gaze into her face. I would weep in anticipation. I would weep each evening, knowing that the day was done: loving and reliving every minute of it, and yet, melancholy that it was so quickly in the past. I wept as I realized that as I was anxious to see her smile, but that I didn't want to wish away one moment of the first six weeks. I weep knowing that I will miss her when she is grown, but am excited to know my daughter as a girl, a teenager, a woman. In my opinion, I would define my actions as weeping, but not a weeping from sorrow. It was and is a weeping from a depth that I would never know if I were not a mother.

I know I will have days to weep from sorrow. Weeping for my children, my friends, my family. And I pray for strength in advance. I rejoice that my weeping is based from a heart and life full of joy. I apologize to those of you who have had lifetimes of sorrowful weeping, my thoughts must seem so trite.

As I think about weeping in the bible, it almost always is opposite laughing: Luke 6:21, "Blessed are you who weep now, for you shall laugh;" Ecclesiastes 3:4, "A time to weep, and a time to laugh." How interesting that two antonyms can indwell my heart simultaneously. I laugh heartily at Ella's antics--and hidden in my heart is the melancholy weeping that these baby giggles will only last for a season, that this is a fleeting moment; a wonderful season and a heart-stopping moment, but none the less, one that will never be again. I think that is the weight and existence of both emotions that makes either worth feeling. My mother's tears, whether spilled or kept, are dammed in my mother's heart, full of strength and laughter.

Or maybe I just need to up my Zoloft dose.

A Mother's Joy

My little Ella is 9 months old. She's lived as long outside as she did inside. I've heard a comedic statistic: "90% of the population was unplanned." Ella is one of those 90%. My husband and I were in the crucible of life: differentiating ourselves from each other, moving through personal past pains and how they were affecting our married life. We had divorce pounding at all doors around us: my husband's brother as well as his mother were in the midst of divorce proceedings. The terror and guilt (yes, guilt) I felt at discovering I was pregnant still leaves me jealous of those moms from whom I hear jubilant and tear-filled excitement over their announcements. I look forward to the day when I am that expectant mother.

A close friend jokingly suggested that we name our daughter-to-be Phoenix, a beauty rising out of the ashes of life around us. We decided (not only do we live in Arizona, and felt that it would have just been too cliche) that it was a bit too 'out there' for our little one. While we chose a more traditional name, I still see the image of the mythical Phoenix as a picture of her. She is strong, independent, fiery, full of life and of a spirit that absolutely amazes me. As she moves into life--which is destined to be full of her own pains and struggles--she will come to a place where she will build her own pyre, step into it, and emerge reborn, stronger, more beautiful, and more determined than she ever imagined she was capable of being. She is my hero.

Although the anticipation was full of fear, stepping into the roll of mother was just perfect. Having Ella has changed me in so many ways--ways that I didn't even know I needed to change, needed to discover, or had the capacity to do. For many years I have hung onto Psalm 27:13 as a life promise: "I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living." Years ago I found this and wondered what it actually might look like for me. And with Ella, every moment of my days is that promise, fulfilled to the fullest extent that I couldn't have even imagined. She is the goodness of the Lord in this land of the living, and at times I can't even bear the joy that fills my heart. She is the beauty grown from the ashes of my life.

My Phoenix, my Goodness, my Ella.