Meditations on Posterior Birth

My mom in her wisdom always told me, when I'd fret or compete or ask who was her favorite, that she loved each of her children exactly the same.

I don’t know if I'll be able to say that. I imagine myself, looking into Sam's eyes, remembering our wild meeting and the horrible battle to follow, and I feel in my gut that I’d tell him I will never love anyone the way I love him.

Sam. Your name was so foreign. I said it first, looking at your wide, disgruntled eyes in that pointed, Yoda-like face, your little beak-ed mouth. They said it would be love at first sight, but you gave me more. You gave me love through a thousand battles.

In Scandanavia, they call babies like you Star-Gazers. It’s a pretty name to put on the way you fought and rolled to come into the world facing upwards. Your head wasn’t made for that. My Muttermund wasn’t made for it. You can eat and be strong and not tear downwards towards the perineum or upwards towards the pearl, but a star-gazer shatters outwards and makes a new shape, shears off a part of you in a bursting moment. I used to feel broken that my mind broke, in that moment. Wasn’t I supposed to look into your eyes and know you better than myself, pull you to my chest and leave all pain and blood behind? I was supposed to bring you, sleepy and darling, to my breast, and the love of you would expel everything I didn’t need anymore. But that didn’t happen. The world was pain, my mind was pain, and there was no insta-love. I thought it was my fault, that my birth had been like everyone else’s but I wasn’t good enough to feel painless. But that was just what it took to have you. That was the birth of my star-gazer.

It was also the birth of me, as a mother. It was the birth of us. And I grieved the postpartum I thought we were supposed to have, grieved it deep and long, but at the bottom of that grief, I found our joy.

Sam. Will you ask me if you’re my favorite? Will you ask me if I love someone more? I pray I can love the next little someone as much as I love you. You re-made me. You’re a part of me, now.

There are cells from you in my liver, and my brain, growing, replicating, giving me more strength, more life. The story of you is alive in me forever.

You changed my brain structure, too. My amygdala reformed to meet you. The same process that made our early weeks so nightmarish and super-hero-origin-y is what makes me wake up at the whisper of your arm moving at midnight, that makes meeting your need the most intense thing in my world. Other people can laugh, tell me you’re fine, babies cry, but your pain or fear or hunger or desire for touch is as urgent to me as the waves of pain that gave you to me. I heard people say they’d do anything for their child, and it sounded like a statement of determination. It’s not. It’s a primal, raw, savage intensity of being. When something threatens a baby on television, I know immediately as fearless, calm adrenaline roars through my fingertips that I could kill without thought or remorse if something threatened you.

You changed my body. I was not always the curvy bombshell you’ll come to know. Nor was I star-shaped. I can never say anything like angry mothers do on TV, could never shout or whisper the idea that you ruined me. I am the most beautiful I’ve ever been. I am the bravest I’ve ever been. I’d never liked all of me before you. You made me a creature of raw power and fierce delight, and my soul only thanks you, little unthinking one.

When you grew in the deepest part of me, you didn’t know you would re-make the first person you’d ever know. When you twisted inside me, you just wanted out. But your first action coming into the world shaped both of us. And I wouldn’t trade our battles for a sweet entrance, ever.

My Sam, every day, every battle, I love you more. If it’s true what they tell me, and every brother and sister you have I will grow for, perhaps, as my own mother said, I will love you each exactly the same…amount. But, my little wolf, my star-gazer, I will never love anyone the same as I love you.

What Do you Do with Mom-Hazing?

Mom's can be mean.

I learned that before the ink on my mom-card had dried, before I could walk straight or get a cup of water on my own. I reached out with a question and was still exhausted. Of course I was exhausted. I'd just given birth.

Their diagnosis on me was visibly wrong, so I didn't rush to a hospital like they said.

And then I couldn't take every advice- because there was one of EVERY advice. When in doubt, trust your own mom, right?

And then I didn't update fast enough. I didn't realize they wanted an hourly play by play of a life I was just trying to live.

And then suddenly

Ow. Owwwwww.

Caring about a person enough to reach out when you're worried is a kind of caring. Caring enough to be vicious because they couldn't explain something proficiently while recovering from a mild hemorrhage is not caring. You don't get to keep using the "care" card when your care is stabbing them when they're at their weakest and making sure they never ask for help again.

You don't get to say you care when you don't care whether your advice is right, you just want it obeyed when it will hurt everyone.

I wrote down later that week that the only thing I regretted about our birth was asking for advice afterwards. That's not true, though. I regretted letting people far away from me speak into my life and tell me I was too stupid to be a mom, when the people close to me said I was smart enough. I regretted letting people be aware of my weakness and my struggle, when they could use that to shake their heads and say I was inadequate and immature. I regretted trusting people in aggregate instead of holding to the tiny circle of people I knew in person, when in aggregate, people couldn't be satisfied and all I could do was hurt them.

I regretted letting people in.

Now every time someone tells me I should join a group of moms, I shrink. I stop. My smile freezes, and I say, "That sounds great," or"Good for you!" But what I'm thinking is, "I'm not right for them. I'm right for a cave alone."

Because maybe there will always be someone who takes offense instead of holding space, who attacks first instead of reading twice. Maybe the response to, "Do you know anything about this? Because I'm scared and hurting," will always be "Don't come back; you bother people."

I've learned to find my own information. I've learned to trust my own gut and keep my own counsel and be fearless in my decisions. I've learned not to need them.

Maybe I'm ready to make more friends, with the part of my heart that was so hurt cauterized closed. I don't know.

"Are you in love yet?"

My first day holding Sam, when the full difficulty of getting back my strength hadn't been realized, and it was just a daze and I felt like we'd found a free baby in our hotel, a friend asked me, "Aren't you in love?"

I avoided the question, because, no. I wasn't in love. I was dedicated to this little creature with my life. I would die for him, as a matter of course. But I wasn't in love. That bizarre disconnect that hit the moment he tore out of me and the world when numb, when I picked up the little body and he screamed and my brain that had held it together through all the hours quit like a switch, that was still there. I couldn't even connect the angry little creature in my arms with the one who'd bumped around during D&D games and kicked at Collin's voice. Nothing seemed real.

And then everything was hellish.  I was alone and the infant didn't know how to feed.

He shoved me away and screamed. He punched and bit and kicked and I wasn't strong enough to hold back his tiny limbs from hurting me. He glared into my eyes with a desperation I understood and demanded things I didn't know how to give him. The first bonding moment we shared was when I let myself cry like a deserted thing with him, when I clutched him and sobbed for both of us. We were trapped in Hades together.

Then, we learned. We adapted. We fought. I fought for him.

Pain was our life. There were hot needles in my chest, and sitting up was horrible because the world perched on blades. But I fought to get tiny jaws clamping down while I yelled in agony, left him and staggered across the house falling against walls to get a clean eye-dropper and cup to bruise myself till I could make him scream just a little less. And moment by moment, you felt real, Sam. Nothing about you, nothing about us, felt free anymore.

You weren't pushing me away and screaming because you were mad at me. Little arms don't work like that. You pushed and then screamed because I was away, and you didn't understand.

There was that moment, holding you, when I finally understood that you were the one who twisted inside me before you entered the world. There was that moment when you woke yourself up with a scream that immediately cut off when you looked at up me, and your face went calm. And there was that moment, leaning on the couch with you cradled close, your tiny mouth finally eating, when your eyes looked sideways at me, and you finally smiled.

That's when I fell in love. That's when we won us, Sam.

It's somewhat like they said it was. I don't know about my heart being bigger than I imagined, but when you cuddle someone for hours to help them poop and you cheer when they fart, it's a bond you don't get anywhere else. And I bet it's going to be that cliche, where I'm softer on you than other people are and I ask you a million questions when you're out and grown because I still really care. When Collin was avoiding saying he liked me, what seems like a million years ago, he told me he'd invested a lot in me.

All of me is invested in you. So grow strong, Sam. Feel safe. I'll be here.

And I'm so proud of you for farting.

Last Shift

February 9^th, 2017.

I wasn't ready to share this before. And then I wasn't able to type much for a long time. But here.

I just worked my last ever shift as a cashier. I laughed with people, I ran for people, I circled things on receipts for them. When the people were gone, and I wiped down the surfaces again, I kept hearing myself whisper, “Goodbye.”

Goodbye, metal counter. Goodbye, ray-gun. Goodbye, red laser well. Goodbye, ugly phone.

My Collin told me, when I cried quitting our first teaching job, that you can lose a place, but you never lose the person you became for it. I can lose my store, but I can’t lose me.

I was never cut out for this.

I never got “mentally tough.” 

I never learned to read 100% which people wanted me to not be a person that day. I never stopped being a person.

I never got where I didn’t make mistakes. My speed and efficacy were directly dependent on how much caffeine was in my system, and I wondered frequently if I’d handed back a check or a coupon or someone’s $20 and whether I’d have a job in two weeks.

I was never good enough, but that was okay. Because every interaction, every glob of change, I was reaching out for help. I was thanking Him for every chance I had to be here, praying for the things I couldn’t fix, asking for help fixing what I had. It got to be where every moment became worship, and every hour fed my battered soul.

I was never cut out for this job, but I gave my all, and it was good enough.

It matters, because I know what’s next, and I'm not cut out for it either. I get scared. I’ve watched me fall like a house of cards.

The thing is, maybe I'm never going to be enough. And maybe that's okay.

Maybe I can go on without being enough. 

When to Buy Black Lipstick

When I was a teenager, we had a crazy youth pastor. Not “he has green hair” crazy but “he is vilifying that particular, already marginalized kid” crazy. The kind of guy who has one emo kid in his youth group of maybe seven, so he does a presentation to the entire church about the evils of goth…in which he mostly shows pictures of punk bands with no relevant scripture.

I wasn’t the rebellious kid. I was the kid trying so hard it hurt. That’s the thing I’m ashamed of: that I wanted so badly for Crazy Youth Pastor to be right. I wanted him to give me the excuse I needed to believe that I was okay, and that kid- the kid who made trouble, the kid who made people angry, the kid who probably clung for comfort to his black leather and chains the way I compulsively layered and denim-hoarded- to be evil.

We all knew Crazy Pastor was wrong, on pretty much everything. When he left the room, we admitted he was wrong. But we did nothing. We were respectful. And we just sat there.

I’ve sat quietly while someone slandered me out of my job. I’ve held my tongue, terrified, and let things happen that still give me flashbacks and anxiety attacks. But if I could live through my entire, hellish adolescence again, I wouldn’t do it to scream and fight the people who attacked my body or humiliate the people who lied to my face. I would to go back, and buy black lipstick.

It’s one thing to be silent while people hurt you. It’s another thing to let them hurt people you’re supposed to love. Leaders do deserve respect, but they shouldn’t be allowed to hound and attack and vilify the people who need us.

It would have embarrassed my mum. It would have enraged my dad. But maybe it would have made a difference.

Teens? Don’t be younger me, so eager to be good that you miss what good is. Don’t think that the opinion of the people around you is going to matter- you can do your best and get ostracized with no explanation, anyway. (I did- maybe my denim shrouds were too sensual.) But be the kind of person that 25-year-old you can look back on and be glad to have been. 

There’s a time for teenage “rebellion,” for honest resistance. There’s a time for refusing to let the ideals of evil people define you. There’s a time for standing up and telling people they’re wrong when they will only hate you for it.

That’s when to buy black lipstick.

The Surprising Thing about Being in Love

I thought I’d remember your freckles. That’s what I thought love would be like; I’d become a GPS of the little marks of you, a homing pigeon navigating by birthmarks like stars. I thought the warm, brown shapes on your skin would be familiar to me like the tree I’d climbed every day, or the kitten I’d raised.

But I can’t remember them. I shut my eyes when you’re not here, and I can’t find them anymore. So I navigate by scars.

Leaving the airport, I trace that mark on your hand from when you were a baby, touch the score in your dimple from the dog you forgave for biting your face. In the drivers’ seat of your car, I trace the line on your collar bone from when you helped someone move, the web of scarring on your lower back from carrying too much too far.

I find myself at cash registers touching the mark on the back of your heel from that awful pair of boots, or the cut on your shoulder from a box of rifles. I go over your shoulders, your abdomen, the bottom of your foot; like it’s a prayer I go over you. And when your face seems like something I made up, when even my photographs seem blurry and there’s no way you could exist for real and love me, I reach out and find your scars.

When you step off the plane with new white nicks on your knuckles, another mark on your back and the same smile in your eyes, I hold your arm and wait for my heart to come back from apart. And when you’re away again, for a day, for an hour, I close my eyes and trace our journey in your scars.

So You Lost All Your Money- an exercise in self-talk

Okay. So things kind of suck for you right now.

You'd just saved up the money for the thing- the really big thing- and then it happened. It happened and it is taking all the money away. And you are a responsible adult who should be happy to have this money saved so it can fly through your fingers, but you're not. It's not fun to have money fly away. You are not a rapper, and throwing money at car mechanics or medical agencies is not fun. It feels like throwing all the time you spent working away.

This is, what? the fourth time this has happened. The fourth time you got close to The Big Thing. You were kind of wondering if maybe you should spend the money on something other than The Big Thing, something more adult, when something more adult came smashing through the window.

Last time you were angry. Last time you felt like maybe God had it in for you. Now you just feel a little hollow.

It's okay to cry. You worked really hard. You were just working on something different than you thought. You thought it was The Big Thing, and instead it was this needed thing. You feel a little cheated, huh? Maybe if you stopped making plans and hoping and wanting, this couldn't happen anymore. You could just work and pay the disaster, work and pay the disaster. But when you stop dreaming it gets really heavy to work hard.

Maybe you could dream smaller. Maybe you don't need The Big Thing.

Crap, did your heart just break? It just broke a little. Crap, come here. Just...hug and rock for a second. No, it's not permanent; your heart's broken lots of times. It'll heal up, just...eat right, okay? Eat right and rest a second. Breathe.

What's hurting you isn't having to wait again for The Big Thing. You've had that disappointment so many times it's almost a phantom ache, like hope is an amputated limb you don't remember reaching with. What hurts is the feeling that you're not getting anywhere. What hurts is the idea that all the hours and days and weeks you've poured in were...

Whoa, don't break on me. When you veer off course, I- you're right.

What hurts isn't the idea that those hours were wasted. It's not even the idea that you haven't made any progress. You know that's not true. You know you made a difference in people's lives. You know you're learning and getting stronger. You can look down at your body, your soul, and see the difference. You are becoming more the person you want to be, and I'm grateful for you.

What hurts is the idea that somehow wanting was wrong, hoping was wrong, and the punishment for wanting something is having all the money ripped out of your grasp. Have you been evil squirreling money away? Have you been foolish to avoid spending money on sodas, to pick up pennies on the sidewalks and cry out "For the house!" Was God displeased that you wanted something? That you hoped?

Did you somehow get away from God's plan by trying hard?

I don't have the answers. I'm you, and my heart's breaking.

Scratch that; I do have answers.

Trying hard isn't wrong. Killing yourself trying hard is. God said not to chase after wealth, because it just flies away. It feels like that, doesn't it? But wanting to accomplish things isn't bad. Your wanting seemed so small and so right. Good tools to do good. A hidey-hole to make a home. You shouldn't have spent $8 on that shirt. It's that kind of wastefulness that gets us into these situations. ...Joy, we couldn't buy a transmission with $8. You only spent $8. You haven't bought clothes in like a year. You spent $8. You won't do it again. Crap, don't cry, that was supposed to be empowering. You won't do it again, and you'll have $8 instead of a shirt.

Wait, wait, finish that verse. God said not to exhaust yourself trying to get money, because while they slept He provided for those He loves.

You're someone He loves.

Right now it feels like everything is flying apart, but Joy? Your job isn't the money. Your job is serving the King who does supply your needs, even for Big Things, at just the right time.

I still believe in you. Even when you need the same blog post you wrote 7 months ago 7 months later. So perk up, cry when you need to, but start thanking the God who has this under control.

And when it happens again 7 months from now, because dreams are big and life is hard, you can read this blog again. I won't hold it against you.