from "I Thank God For You" by Andrew Osenga, album Choosing Sides, 2010 "I'm singing as you sweetly drift off to sleep, to grow another day I hope there is a special room in Heaven where moms and dads can watch their children play I want you to grow, but I want you to stay..." My sweet baby boy turned two last week. Like most moms do on such occasions, I spent some time remembering the circumstances of his arrival. Waking up at midnight with a sore back. Trying to rest in the recliner, IPhone in hand, timing the space between the pain. Mom driving overnight to get to us before he came. My dear friend, also a delivery nurse, by my side the whole day. Lenny's subs after he arrived. My husband saying to me, "Isn't this the best thing you've ever done?"
But once we left the hospital, the adrenaline of delivery wore away, and the exhaustion and emotional tornado took over. Trouble with breastfeeding. Multiple weight-checks. Infection; children's hospital; formula. All of those struggles seem so small to me now; I can remember them without the hard emotions attached. One moment, though, and the epiphany that followed, has remained foundational for me as a mom. I held him as we rocked in the room painted a green that wasn't quite what I wanted. I'm sure that I was under the influence of hormones, but I looked down at my week old child and started to weep. I became totally overwhelmed with the knowledge that he would not be this small always. I cried for my future self who would, very soon, not have a little bitty baby boy anymore. I know that I am not the only mom who has spent time mourning that time goes by too fast. In fact, I don't know one mom who hasn't. I see my friends posting pictures of their kindergartners with "#timeslowdown" underneath. Or I read a blog about how with parenting, the days are slow but the years are fast. We need to cherish each stress-filled day. Blink and they will be graduating. In fact, strangers in the grocery store or at a restaurant will often remind me of how quickly he will grow. "Enjoy it - he will be married before you know it." It was this truth that I had realized that night when I was rocking my seven-pound baby. It was this truth that left me weeping. I'm not sure how much time passed before I was able to reflect on this moment; it may have been a week or two later when I realized how silly I was being. I had become nostalgic for my baby while I was rocking my baby. I HAD the little bitty baby boy. There was no need to waste my time being sad. Yes, we should cherish the time we have with our kids. But what I came to realize is that we should cherish time with our kids because it is time with our kids - not because one day it will be gone. Not one bit of sadness or nostalgia or longing is going to keep this boy from growing. Once I flipped my thinking, I realized that what I wanted most was for my boy to grow and learn and become a good and loving person. I try hard not to say that I "miss" when my kids were smaller. Yes, those feelings come, but I don't want my boys to think that I'd rather have someone other than who they are right now. Instead of being sad, or thinking about how cruel time is, I try to celebrate each day, month, and year. My little man can count to 10. He can say "I love you mommie." He can sing along to our dinner prayer. My big boy can read chapter books. He can ride a bike and build cool things with Legos. These moments are happening now, and I cherish that God has chosen me to witness them. It's good to remember our babies births. It's good to look at pictures and remember how quickly things change. But being sad at how quickly they have grown makes us, well, sad. Instead, try to spend some time celebrating who your children are today. Tell them what you notice about their accomplishments. Look to the heavens and give thanks that they are growing and learning, and that somehow, God chose you to celebrate each day with them.
0 Comments
from "The Dead" by James Joyce, Dubliners, 1914 "A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly on the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned softly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead." I taught this story in my British Literature course this past spring, and I was drawn to this passage (as most critics are). These final lines remind me of the the simultaneous strength and fragility of life. I took some creative liberty with the following stories, but they are both true, just filtered through my "sanctified imagination" as the fabulous Otis Moss III calls it. She struggled to push the cart of mulch toward the roses. After, of course, she had loaded each bag into her trunk at the store, and onto the cart once she returned home. Her family would probably arrive in a few hours - her brother, nieces and nephews, and great nieces and nephews. The tamales cooked inside; she would check on them once the mulching was finished. But for now, she must tend to the roses. The garden she cared for so carefully, feeding and nurturing each bloom, kept her fingers busy and her mind clear. Yes, tend the garden, then tend the family. Even though she did not have kids of her own, she had her garden - and she had family that she loved and nurtured. She cocked a slight smile, thinking of how her family would get to see her flowers soon.
But the mulch was too heavy. She pushed the cart, and her heart stopped. The doctors say it was quick and painless. For her, maybe, but not for the family - or the roses. So many questions lingered over the scene. Wasn't she feeling better? Why didn't she ask for help to move these bags? The cliche pleasantries followed. "Well, she lived a great life." "At least she didn't suffer." "She was doing what she loved." All true - but none served to ease the hurt or fill the void that she left behind. She seemed to have so much life left to live, but the mulch was too heavy. _____________________________________________________________________ The walk to the tower wasn't too bad. The four friends just needed to get away from campus for an hour; exam studying loomed heavy. A quick hike might help - looking down on the city and mountains from up high would give them some perspective. The college is a tiny speck from up there - the classroom, the teacher, and the test all seemed minor as they enjoyed the view. Still, the smog lingered, reminding them of the work still unfinished. So, they decided to work their way back down the ramp, through the woods, to the car, and back to their books. He was still feeling restless. This ramp, which made the view accessible to everyone, weaved back and forth. The long stretches of declining pavement added too much time to the journey. What's the shortest distance between two points? A straight line. So as his three friends continued down the safe concrete path that was laid out before them, he jumped. The first jump was both easy and hard; adrenaline pumped as he ran toward the ledge to jump over the three foot gap to the level below. He was ready the second time; he knew he could make the distance. But in the air, he realized that his angle was all wrong. For the first jump, the two legs of the ramp sat uncovered - exposed to the open air. But as he jumped further down, the concrete bottom of that top ramp loomed over. He missed, falling 50 feet to the ground below, hitting his head on the concrete ledge along the way. His companions called for help; it was ages before the ambulance came. They came from those tiny specks of building that the group had just pointed out from up high. It took him a month to walk again. And a year to speak. He had to re-learn everything. The almost sophomore was back in second grade. Three years later, as his friends graduated, he returned to that campus - that speck of building from before was now more daunting than ever. That walk to the tower was easy then; no walk is easy now. Still, he survived; he fought his way back to the classroom, the teacher and the test. ___________________________________________________________________ This paradox haunts me when I stop long enough to think. What a paper thin wall exists between life and death. One minor change in plans, one inch right or left, one second looking away - It's the difference between our loved ones planning dinner and planning a funeral. Forty pounds of mulch. Is this the difference between life and death? Yet, he survives a fall that should kill him. The body is both so weak and so strong - fragile and resilient. The worst is that I don't know if I should be afraid or encouraged. What I do know for sure is that the difference between those of us who live to see the sun another day and those who don't might as well be random. So, when I can remember to notice how lucky I am every night when my head hits the pillow, I try to give thanks for today's safety, pray for the same tomorrow, and soak in the mystery of this world. The first time he saw the ocean, he ran to it with the fury of a dog to its food. He had no fear - only wonder and excitement. I raced after, grabbing the little hand and keeping him at a safe depth. Water crashed over his toes; the sand under his feet pulled away as the water receded. As he inched deeper into the waves, a stronger current yanked at the ground under his feet - then a larger wave splashed up to his chest. He looked up with eyes wide, ready to retreat. "Momma hold you," he cried to me, reaching his hands up toward my neck. I snatched him up and planted him in the sand, a safe distance from the coming tide. For a while, he played with buckets and shovels, and I hauled the ocean to him in buckets so that he could still splash away from the danger of the open water.
Soon, he noticed his brother and cousins playing tag with the waves. Their laughter called him back towards the water. I followed closely as he approached, this time slower than before. Eventually, we found a nice spot just where the water lapped calmly to the sand. We sat together, playing in the sandy slime that rested below us. A wave broke close to us, and water once again licked his toes. He laughed and waited for another wave. "Here comes, here comes!" we screamed together as the water came toward us. Then again, one big crash sent us back to the safety of the dry sand - to repeat our play with buckets and shovels and second-hand ocean. This went on for most of the day as the whole family rested by the water - enjoying the sun and breeze in the Outer Banks. The sand and sticky salt water have never been my favorite, but helping my little one navigate this new landscape was well worth the irritation. I loved seeing the joy in his face when the cold water surprised him. I loved seeing his trepidation just the same. This particular child shows little fear - he jumps, climbs, swims, slides, and runs without any hesitation. Watching him in the ocean, though, I couldn't help but be proud of him for figuring out something about the world. The ocean is both exciting and scary. See, for his mama, when the water is to COLD or ROUGH or DEEP, retreat is the only response. The inconvenience of the consequences of a day at the ocean will keep me away - for good. The water is cold. The surface below is unstable. The waves are unpredictable. The sandy spot just above the breaking water removes us from danger. Still, my little guy is more brave than his mama. He knew that after some time, the sand starts to scratch and the sun starts to burn. Relief comes from returning to the water - scary as it is. This shockingly unstable and unpredictable world is where we live. I am grateful that this experience showed him this. More so, I'm glad that he chose to meet the water again and again - pulling my hand along for the ride. So last week, my family went to the beach. This means two things. 1) I did not spend time writing. 2) I am even more aware of my figure flaws. So, I am taking my title of Original Plagiarism more literally this week and re-posting something I wrote a few years ago. from The Eyes of the Heart: A Memoir of the Lost and Found by Frederick Buechner, 1999 In speaking about his mother: "I always felt [it was a] curse upon her of having been born blue-eyed and beautiful, with the result that she never had to be especially kind and loving in order to draw people to her because they were drawn to her anyway." So there was this girl that I went to college with named Ashley. I really didn't know her all that well - she lived in my dorm but on a different hall than I did. All I really knew about Ashley was that she was gorgeous. So much so that my friends and I started calling her "Pretty Ashley." (Coincidently, one girl in my close group of friends was also named Ashley. We did not intend for the adjective to become a point of comparison between the two girls with the same name, but I have not ever asked my friend if she was specifically hurt by the nickname for the other.) So conversations might be like this: "Pretty Ashley was at the gym this morning with me" or "Oh, Pretty Ashley was looking for her backpack - have you seen it?" I don't remember if we ever called her Pretty Ashley to her face, but to this day I think about her as not Ashley, but as Pretty Ashley.
We females are great at comparing ourselves to others - as my friends and I secretly did every time we saw Pretty Ashley on campus. I know that many "ologists" (Psychologists, Sociologists, Anthropologists) have scientific and cultural explanations for our tendency to always size each other up. It's an instinct thing - we are competing with each other for a mate. It's social - we associate beauty with wealth, so our chubby pale ancestors were beautiful because they didn't have to work and had money for food, but now tan and skinny is a cultural sign of wealth. In the end, I am sure that there are many logical reason that women walk into a room and immediately rate themselves against the others. "Well I am bigger than her, but prettier than that other girl..." Still, it can't be healthy and I wish I could stop myself from participating in this culture of comparison. When I first read this quote from Buechner I was shocked. I neglected to underline it, as I was reading in the pre-kindle days. Still, the idea that Buechner planted has lingered in my consciousness for years, so I finally hunted and found the direct quote: "She never had to be especially kind and loving in order to draw people to her because they were drawn to her anyway." What an insightful turn of perspective. Is it possible that my "Coomer Boomer"* hips have given me a wider sense of understanding? Could it be that my crooked nose has helped me to love straighter? Maybe my muffin top shaped my peaceful nature. If so, than did my symmetrical lips cause me to talk negatively about others? Did my pretty hair cause me to see others as ugly? Now I know that in many ways, this is a gross oversimplification and it does not work out. I know that a healthy self-esteem is good. It's normal for me to love and hate parts of myself. After all, there are plenty of unattractive people who are cruel and mean, and plenty of beautiful people who are warm and kind. Still, thinking about body image from Buechner's perspective helps me to shut out the negative self talk, the objectified comparisons, and the unjustified superiority - and I am guilty of all three. *"Coomer Boomer" is the name that my mom's generation of sisters and cousins have given to the genetically wide hips that run the family. My generation has adopted this nickname as well. Honestly, I have never met a stronger or more self sufficient group of women than the Coomer Clan, and I'll take these hips all day if it means that I can inherit an ounce of the drive and grace that comes with them. from "Planting Seeds" by Andrew Peterson , Counting Stars, 2010 "So many years from now Long after we are gone These trees will spread their branches out And bless the dawn." Two summers ago, my husband decided that he wanted to grow tomatoes. We ventured to the local home improvement store and purchased some small cherry tomato plants. He was very faithful in watering the plants, removing the bad blooms, and keeping the tomatoes healthy. That summer we had fresh cherry tomatoes on all of our salads! Though I didn’t do much to help in this venture, I still loved the idea of us growing our own food to enjoy.
Fast forward one year, we didn’t go to the store and buy a tomato plant. We didn’t put the effort in, so we didn’t enjoy homegrown tomatoes that summer. Things were busy – we had a new baby at home – so we didn’t feel bad about the lack of fresh produce that year. This summer, guess what? We didn’t buy tomatoes this year, either. We moved a few months ago, so tomatoes were not on our radar. Once again, we were planning to go to the local produce section for our salad fixings. So, imagine our surprise when vines started up from the pot we had used two years ago for our tomato plants. Turns out, that every once in a while, there was a rotten tomato on the vine. Maybe we didn’t get to it in time and it turned squishy. Maybe a bug got to it before we did. Either way, we knew that this was not a cherry tomato that we wanted to eat. So, we would pick it off of the plant and drop it in the pot. When we saw the beginnings of a tomato plant creeping back up this year, we realized that it was these rejected tomatoes that had done the work. What we thought was garbage and wasn’t worth saving actually has turned out to benefit us. The tomatoes helped to reinforce an idea that I hope to never forget. Lost causes can still have value. Relationships can be repaired. People can change. The bad apples (and bad tomatoes) in our lives can still bear fruit. We may have to be patient, and we may have to give it time to germinate, but it can happen. You may have heard the adage, “Anyone can count the seeds in an apple, but no one can count the number of apples in a seed.” Well I can tell you, it’s true for tomatoes too. Spend some time with me, and think about the lost causes or damaged people and relationships in your life. Could they still possibly bear fruit? |
Diana CurtisWife, mom, stepmom, writing instructor, handbell ringer, choir singer, calligrapher, and expert napper. Archives
December 2017
|