This is the time of reckoning, when your 44-year-old husband tells you he doesn't want to try again. This is the time when your step-son says maybe you can't have babies because your stomach is too strong, too small, too hard. This is the time when a fellow teacher says that you dress as if you are 40, "like an old lady" she says, and you look at her frowning, really frowning, and just think, not yet, not yet.
Your baby hasn't come. Every movie you watch is about babies, born, dying, and every time your husband looks over at your stoney face, your wet face, your laughing face, your incredulous face and checks to make sure there isn't the threat of the strong undertow of sadness he thinks might take you down.
It's that time.
It's also the time that you fall into yourself, your sexy woman-human body, your own skin and your step-moming skin and just celebrate the love you have. The beast of loss haunts your back step, sniffs the night stars, lurks in the shadows of the garden of your mind, but you choose not to feed it. You refuse the why? Refuse to look for a pattern that explains the things you have had to let go of. Why? Because God isn't in those patterns, don't call it God, call it Joy--Joy isn't in those patterns. The equation that explains your loss doesn't exist. The only thing that exists is your choice to move on and to take it all in: the beauty, the sorrow, the cycles of the seasons, calling it all your home.
Saturday, February 15, 2014
When He is Sick He Wants Mom
Suffering from a fever for several days, what does a boy want but the comfort of his mother? I take his temperature, try to get him to eat, to take his medicine, but it is the wrong kind and he won't swallow it. I cannot comfort him and I think if I were his mother I would know how. Is this how all mothers feel? I wonder if I would know intuitively how to make him feel better if I were his mother. There are moments when I feel distinctly that I am Not Mom. Not Mom is no authority on how to make a boy feel better. Not Mom forgets things like water and snacks in the car. Not Mom is strict. Not Mom is not strict enough, offering treats at the wrong time, gifts the child does not need or want. Not mom is out of step, faltering and continually guessing and second-guessing.
Not Mom days are my least favorite days. I feel useful but not essential, peripheral not central. I feel flawed and inexperienced and these days I am hard on myself for swearing, for accidentally running a red light, for taking him to the movies when he is sick and watching him throw-up popcorn later that day.
Learning to be a mom is hard. Most moms have the first 5 years to get in sync with the needs of a child, to learn the language of the child's body, to find a pace that makes sense. A Mom has the luxury of those first, admittedly taxing, years to train herself about snacks, bedtimes and the symptoms of sickness. She becomes attuned to the growth and development of her child while the rest of us, the childless tribe, the step-mothers, at 30-years-old, still sometimes forget to feed ourselves, have never had to remind a small person to shower, to make a bed, to eat something, or to save his appetite. We have been on autopilot and are dropped into lives in which we are suddenly responsible for the care of another person. If you are like me then the child is at an age when he can remember everything we say and do, an age when the he can observe us struggling to juggle work, guitar lessons, lunch preparation, meal-planning, and school-drop offs.
Through feverish eyes my step-son accepts the cool washcloth I offer him, and directs me to make a mixture of castor oil and eucalyptus oil (5 drops).
The odor blows open Not Mom's senses. She is all alert at her duty, following the child's instructions to rub the mix on his chest and neck. She does so slowly in circles, trying to be someone who can ease the child's suffering, hoping that Not Mom or not, the act of trying counts for something. When it doesn't work to reduce his fever, Not mom and Dad call Mom, and she drives over and cuddles her boy, takes his temperature, instructs the two parents standing sentry at the door the proper use of the tinctures she has brought--syrup, echinacea, elderberry. She holds him until he falls asleep. She stands up and you see how it breaks her heart a little too. She goes back over the instructions, squeezes your Not Mom arm and looks at you kindly. In that moment you realize how strange it is that your best hope is to follow the lead of the woman whose job might just be harder than yours, the woman whose job it is to entrust her child to the care of another woman, to entrust it to you. In that moment you make a silent vow to take good care of this other woman's boy, who now is yours in a way and it terrifies you and fills you with love.
Not Mom days are my least favorite days. I feel useful but not essential, peripheral not central. I feel flawed and inexperienced and these days I am hard on myself for swearing, for accidentally running a red light, for taking him to the movies when he is sick and watching him throw-up popcorn later that day.
Learning to be a mom is hard. Most moms have the first 5 years to get in sync with the needs of a child, to learn the language of the child's body, to find a pace that makes sense. A Mom has the luxury of those first, admittedly taxing, years to train herself about snacks, bedtimes and the symptoms of sickness. She becomes attuned to the growth and development of her child while the rest of us, the childless tribe, the step-mothers, at 30-years-old, still sometimes forget to feed ourselves, have never had to remind a small person to shower, to make a bed, to eat something, or to save his appetite. We have been on autopilot and are dropped into lives in which we are suddenly responsible for the care of another person. If you are like me then the child is at an age when he can remember everything we say and do, an age when the he can observe us struggling to juggle work, guitar lessons, lunch preparation, meal-planning, and school-drop offs.
Through feverish eyes my step-son accepts the cool washcloth I offer him, and directs me to make a mixture of castor oil and eucalyptus oil (5 drops).
The odor blows open Not Mom's senses. She is all alert at her duty, following the child's instructions to rub the mix on his chest and neck. She does so slowly in circles, trying to be someone who can ease the child's suffering, hoping that Not Mom or not, the act of trying counts for something. When it doesn't work to reduce his fever, Not mom and Dad call Mom, and she drives over and cuddles her boy, takes his temperature, instructs the two parents standing sentry at the door the proper use of the tinctures she has brought--syrup, echinacea, elderberry. She holds him until he falls asleep. She stands up and you see how it breaks her heart a little too. She goes back over the instructions, squeezes your Not Mom arm and looks at you kindly. In that moment you realize how strange it is that your best hope is to follow the lead of the woman whose job might just be harder than yours, the woman whose job it is to entrust her child to the care of another woman, to entrust it to you. In that moment you make a silent vow to take good care of this other woman's boy, who now is yours in a way and it terrifies you and fills you with love.
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