eleven years

I've been a mother for just over six weeks, and in those six weeks I've experienced an upheaval of emotions that I had not expected. We, my husband and I, received all of the well-intentioned "advice" from friends and strangers: "You're life will never be the same," "Don't worry, it'll get better," and our favorite, "Get plenty of sleep while you can!" While that last phrase truly has no merit as I was suffering from heartburn and hot flashes at the end of my pregnancy, the other two always made me think. I wondered just what each person meant when they said it. What point of view, what experiences had flavored that hackneyed phrase? Looking back, I wish that I had interviewed each person who spoke one of those phrases to me and found out exactly what it meant to them. But would anyone really want to tell me...

These past six weeks have been the most challenging of my life. The physical pain and recovery from childbirth coupled with the surges and drops in hormones and the broken moments of both fear of failure and being incompetent and the overwhelming joy of this new life make a person almost crazy. By the end of two weeks I didn't recognize myself. But as with all things time and routine heal, and my daughter, Savannah, and myself began to form a relationship without words. Touching, looking, and intuition are languages that I am just now beginning to truly explore. My daughter has provided a spring of life that I could not have anticipated. 

I think the things they don't tell you are somewhat inexpressible, and that is why this journey of parenthood is so varied and rich. I began writing this inaugural post yesterday, the eleven-year anniversary of my mom's passing. Each year the dull ache becomes fainter, even on holidays like Christmas (usually my worst) and Mother's Day. But this year is different. This year I can finally begin to experience what my mother deemed her greatest joy. She only got seventeen years to be a mom. She was not a cut-out-of-a-magazine mom, but her life and death made me who I am. She taught me many things and a lot of what not to do, but mostly she taught me how to love. Without holding back. I've only truly been able to express that kind of love within the past few years and I'm still learning and stretching. The hardest thing, the thing nobody can tell you, is how hard you fall when you look at your own child. As I rocked Savannah she gazed up at me with the oxytocin-induced lull of sleep and I smiled at the ease of her life and whispered and thank-you in her ear. Thank you for allowing me to be a mother. Thank you to my Lord who gives and takes mercifully, omnisciently, and who will not let me make a mistake without being by my side. Thank you, thank you that in these eleven years I have not crumbled under the weight of loss nor barricaded myself against love and light. Thank you, my God, for making all things new.