I am standing in my kitchen reading about a woman who was asked to cover up while breastfeeding her newborn in a Texas health club. Just when I feel my blood pressure ratcheting up, I happen to glance out the window to my right – and what I see makes me catch my breath.
Outside, the backyard is bathed in an otherworldly light. Two looming evergreens in the distance, several houses down, are glowing in the spotlight of a sinking sun against a backdrop of dark clouds. A half-arc of rainbow bends above them to the left, but it is the light on these trees that makes me stop what I am doing and walk outside, as if in a trance. For a second I wonder if I am wearing my amazing Target sunglasses that cast a rosy filter on everything, but this is just raw nature, working its ordinary magic.
I walk out into a gentle rain – the kind of summer rain that appears suddenly in the wake of afternoon heat and smells strongly, as if each drop is tilling up the earth. Yes, it rains a lot in Oregon, but mostly a moody, incessant drizzle from the end of autumn through spring. August rain, rain like this, is a rare gift.
For a moment I just stand there, feeling panicked that I needed to somehow mark the moment in order to enjoy it. I consider grabbing a book of poetry, maybe something by Mary Oliver, and losing myself in a naturalist stupor.
Then I notice the cloth diapers on the clothesline, just on the edge of dryness after hours in the sun, and without thinking I grab a basket to gather them so they won’t get soaked again. I move meditatively, plucking them off one by one, letting the rain pelt me, breathing the soil-rich air.
This, I think, is better than poetry. I don’t need to compel a ceremony; I just need to be, to collect the diapers and let my senses gather in the world.
By nature, my mind is a nomad. I like to roam in the past and future, or lose myself in the timeless portal of the Internet. The might-have-been, the what-will-be – those are my haunts, too often. It takes a lot to pull me fully into the present. I usually need to be startled into the ecstasy of now.
And this has done it, this tornado light: low-lying storm clouds trapping the sun in an eerie, glowing calm – a sublime blend of beauty and doom.
What if I could learn to live here, in the rapture of the ordinary? What if I could trust what it’s telling me?
This is all that is asked of you:
offer your wonder as gratitude,
empty the clothesline before the storm hits.
My last post on “the mother wound” was hard to write. It was deeply heartfelt, but – let’s be honest – a little bit of a downer. I’m certainly glad I wrote it and that so many other parents, men and women, identified with what I described. (We’re in the trenches together, people!!!) That said, I’m feeling completely emotionally drained from simply existing through this past week, with its various horrors. Perhaps you can relate. So, today I’m keeping it simple and happy, folks. I’m going all Pollyanna on your ass.
Oh, and one more thing: to my readers who aren’t yet mothers but who might-be-sort-of-contemplating-going-down-that-road-one-day-maybe – I realize much of what I write involves exposing my worst parenting moments, which might be somewhat of a deterrent, so this post is dedicated to you:
A Few Things That Have Surprised Me About Motherhood (In a Good Way)
1. Poop Immunity
Right before sitting down to write this post, I was trying to put Julian down for the night. Just when he was teetering on the edge of deep sleep, he launched into a forceful, sustained grunt and proceeded to enthusiastically expel a geyser of poop that burst forth from his diaper and totally slimed his pajamas.
Non-mamas: this description probably grosses you out. But I have good news! If you’re anything like me, when it’s YOUR baby pooping, you won’t be grossed out at all. You will have poop immunity. Not only will you not be grossed out, you might actually acquire an academic interest in said poop. You might even feel a tiny thrill of curiosity when changing a diaper, a sense of anticipation not unlike what you feel on Christmas morning as you begin to unwrap the special package baby has laid for you and wonder: How much did he poop? What color will it be?
I have such powerful poop immunity that I actually like the process of washing his cloth diapers. Yes, this is totally weird. At least, I can understand how it might appear weird to others, but it seem perfectly natural to me. When it’s time to wash Julian’s diapers, I start filling the washer to let the soap dissolve and proceed to make neat piles of his dirty diapers on top of the lid. The poopy diapers get their own pile, so I can assess how much he’s pooping and inspect the color. Is it a bright soylent green? Or perhaps the ideal rich, mustardy-yellow with orange hues?
I realize that poop immunity may be compromised once Julian starts to eat solids, when his nice, frothy milk-poop will transform into run-of-the-mill gross human shit. But for the moment, it’s no big deal. So don’t worry too much about the poop thing.
[Note: poop immunity also includes pee, booger, ear wax, and drool immunity. Spit-up immunity may or may not be included, especially if it’s chunky.]
2. The Queen of “No”
Not surprisingly, I used to worry a lot about how being a mother would impact my career. To be perfectly honest, before having Julian, the epicenter of my life was work. I’d spend my bike ride home dissecting the workday in my mind, replaying class discussions and mentally assembling to-do lists. When I’d arrive home – nearly every time – I would try to open the back door with my office key. Clearly, I had a hard time not bringing work home with me. This is not to say that I did not have a rich and satisfying relationship with Michael – I did and do. But my thought life, my energy, and my identity were completely tangled up in my job. Probably to an unhealthy extent.
Because of this, I had a hard time setting boundaries with work; I said yes to pretty much everything and probably, frankly, cared a little too much about students’ and colleagues’ opinions of me.
Now, however, there has been a cosmic shift. Now, when I bike home, I pedal as fast as I can, anticipating that moment when I can walk through the door and see my husband cooking dinner while wearing a cute baby whose face lights up when he sees his mama. Now, I try to avoid bringing work home with me whenever possible, and I’ve become so adept at it that I’m constantly behind on grading.
And I’ve never said ‘no’ so much in my life! It’s glorious! Life-changing! And, because I’m pretty much always breastfeeding or pumping, I have an airtight excuse. A guilt-free ‘no’ is a beautiful thing.
Ultimately, having a baby has shuffled my priorities in a way that is healthier for me. Even though I am busier than I’ve ever been, I actually feel like I have some balance in my life and that my roots are where they should be: with my people.
2. My Muse is Back
Writing is my first love. Writing is in my bones. But going through the process of researching and writing a PhD dissertation pitched me into a creative wasteland for years. I forgot what it was like to feel inspired, to feel aflame with words and have to scramble to catch them before they turn to ash.
But just a few weeks after having Julian, I felt that spark again; I felt ignited. And — SPOILER — I started a blog. I am now writing more than I have in years. More than that: I have rediscovered the joy of writing for myself again, not for grades or for a degree or for tenure. Just according to my own selfish whims. And it feels GOOD.
I’m not saying becoming a mother will make you a writer, but it might unlock something inside you, some creative force that’s lying dormant. Motherhood is such a many-colored, monstrous, magnificent thing – you are continually rocked and dazzled by cataclysmic surges of joy and fear and hope. And all that tumult needs an outlet. For me, it’s writing.
4. I Love My Body. (Seriously.)
I worried about the body thing. Sure. I worried about getting fat and having saggy boobs and a little pooch that would force me to wear “Mom Jeans.” But to be perfectly honest, I feel more at home in my own skin now than I ever have. Or since puberty, anyway.
A few months ago, I wrote about wanting to embrace my post-baby body:
“I had worried, prior to giving birth, about what my body would look like afterwards, and contemplated the maneuvers I could take to erase all physical traces of pregnancy and childbirth – but now that feels wrong, like a betrayal. My abdomen is doughy because it grew and housed my son, keeping him warm and cushioned in his water world. Scrambling to maintain the illusion that life does not etch itself into our cells and skin – this seems not only futile but disrespectful to me now.
In reality, I will never “get my body back.” Maybe I’ll get back into those beloved jeans, maybe I won’t, but either way, my body will remain permanently marked, physically and emotionally, by motherhood. And I want to love this incredible, life-giving flesh I inhabit – even the pillowy bits. I want to love it whole.”
Weirdly enough, I’ve managed to cultivate a pretty consistent feeling of affection and respect toward my body, even though I haven’t gotten back into running, or into my favorite pair of pre-pregnancy jeans. My hips are wider. My breasts hang low with milk. My stomach peeks over the edge of my pants. But every night, and several times throughout the day, I get to curl up next to my baby while he wriggles against me for a drink of my milk. In that moment I am filled with gratitude for this body, for its incredible, life-sustaining machinations, and for the nerves that fire up my skin so I can feel his glowing warmth and the roving touch of his inquisitive limbs. In those moments, I can’t help but think: This is why I have a body. This is the texture of bliss.
* * *
There are terrifying aspects of motherhood, absolutely. There are moments of despair and paralysis and UTTER BOREDOM. But woven through those moments is joy like I’ve never known. A rich, mustardy-yellow kind of joy, with orange hues.