What a weird era of life.
Perhaps it is because I am currently taking a course on rites of
passage, but as I drove over 3,000 miles last week, carting my two oldest
children to a very official college visit and music scholarship audition at
their school of choice that was once relatively close to home but is now
incredibly far away, I kept thinking to myself, “I feel like I am pregnant all
over again.”
Stay with me. I
understand how very bizarre that sounds.
There I was, in this closely confined space, when out of
nowhere it suddenly felt like all of their hopes and dreams for the future that
have been wrapped up inside of me were about to come spilling out in a graphic
and violent manner. I didn’t tell them
this. I was driving. It would do none of us any good if I became a
puddle of tears on the side of the road.
And that is pretty much par for the course on how this Mama does life. I feel very deeply (uncharacteristically so
of most humans), but I can stuff it (believe it or not).
I have given (literal) birth to five children. Each one of their stories is different, and
if you have read me for long, you are probably familiar with them. I’m not going to take the time to give you
the full versions here, today, but there are, indeed, some odd parallels to
this new ‘birthing’ experience. Let us
start with ‘the boy.’
After 2 ½ years of trying, it was hard to believe he was
coming into existence at all. I waited a
long time to tell anyone. It was easier
to grasp the reality of him when I began to feel him kick, and I knew he was OK
when I could see him moving in my body.
There was a certain degree of panic that accompanied any span of time without
movement. It was a difficult pregnancy. The boy came into the world with a security
guard posted at my hospital room door. You
can’t make this stuff up. It felt like
an easy delivery, even though his little body ripped mine all the way
through. I couldn’t hold him for an
hour, because there were so many stitches.
It took the medical staff some time to convince me that I could accept
pain medication during that process, because I had been so adamant about not
taking anything during delivery that I struggled to recognize he was now separated
from me, and it would be OK to dull the pain of this after birth
experience. He was the most beautiful baby
I had ever seen, and my fierce protection of him grew exponentially the moment
I saw him, even though I had already been keeping him safe… sometimes at my own
expense… for nine months. Even though
the cord was cut, it was as if I was still carrying him inside of me. I didn’t realize it until last week, but
eighteen years later I still feel this. It’s
hard to believe he is leaving home. I
haven’t made an announcement, because the acceptance process isn’t quite
complete. I had moments of panic over
these days when I could not see his movement, but there was peace when I caught
a glimpse of him across campus doing all the things an incoming college
Freshman should be doing. In some ways,
it has been a difficult childhood, and in other ways it felt easy. I still want to post a guard around this one. I cannot bear the thought of him being hurt,
and as I am typing these words, they are ripping my spirit… all the way
through. But I have kept him as safe as
I could (spoiler alert: the world is not safe)… sometimes… still… at my own
expense (I have a bit of a reputation for being a Mama bear, and I can be
really ugly if you mess with my babies) for these eighteen years. When I was pregnant with this first child of
mine, I had a few months to think about what my life was going to look like
when the baby arrived and changed everything.
Now I have a few months to think about what my life will look like when
he leaves and changes everything again. And
I just hope he flies (even though I am now that aforementioned puddle of
tears).
And then, there’s ‘the girl.’ In some ways, there is something cruel about
having to launch two pieces of your heart at once, but I can’t slow her
down. I have never been able to. She came to us completely unexpectedly. No one plans for a little pink line with a
four month old in their arms… but certainly not anyone who knows what it is to
pee on those sticks month after month. I have always called her “the best surprise
of my life,” and she is. Her entry into
the world was frightening in its own right, because she was conceived while I
was on medication that is not conducive to pregnancy but was necessary for
dealing with the postpartum condition of my body. Coumadin.
Category X. The literature warned
that this medication, when taken during pregnancy, may (although I think what I
was told sounded much more like ‘should’… and ‘will’…) result in central
nervous system defects, deformed limbs, and developmental retardation. The girl was born singing. It was really more of a low, guttural, mournful
humming sound, and as medical staff and visiting friends and family expressed
concern, I shut them out. I was
twenty-two years old. Maybe I was exhausted
because of the longer labor than the one before, or maybe I was preoccupied
with the toddler in the pack-in-play, whom I would not allow to be taken home
by his grandparents, or maybe I was trying to wrap my mind around why this baby
really wasn’t as beautiful as the first and was going to need me in her
corner. Whatever the reason, my line
over the next 24 hours became, “I think she just loves music.” Cue the continued pitiful glances… and the
failed hearing test… and walking out of the hospital the second they would let
us go. None of that really matters, because
I was right, and she has been stickin’ it to the world ever since. Most everyone had all but forgotten how her
life began by the time she taught herself to read at age four… and was
published in a magazine… and started winning essay contests and talent shows and
quiz scholarships. So please excuse me
when I post indiscriminately about my girl with perfect pitch who is going to
college for free to major in music composition!
As a baby, she was either crying or eating. She had to be touching me to be happy. This week I realized that I had to be
touching her, too. I spent most of the
week following her around. It is helpful
that she has promised to always text me at the end of the day, so I know she is
alive. I received the first of these
texts on Friday night. It literally
said, “I’m alive!” And I laughed. Cliché as it might be, I just hope she
dances.
Even though I had worked in early childhood for years before
having my own kids, there was something far more terrifying about keeping my
own little person alive. Even though I
spent many years working with teenagers and their families as they transitioned
to adulthood, there is something entirely different about experiencing this for
myself. But this is also exactly what
parents are supposed to do. It is our
job to transform slimy, wrinkly, needy little things into loving, responsible
people who will make their mark on the world.
Giving birth to adults is hard.
In some ways, I think it’s harder and more painful work than giving birth
to babies (maybe I’m just far enough removed from this to have forgotten), because
we’ve had them for a long time when we reach this stage, and we like them. Their being is interconnected with ours, and
even a gentle ripping away will leave some raw spaces. And so… over the next few months, I prepare
to push them out into the world, measured breathing all the way…
L.
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