bewildered by grace

The other day we were enjoying a lazy weekend and watching the baby kick my stomach mercilessly. I'd never seen her so active, don't remember Bella being like this so early on in my pregnancy with her. Peter looked at my stomach and said, "hey, you in there. You are supposed to be our calm baby!"

A couple weeks ago you turned four. Four. I know that I say all the time how fast time is passing, and that's true. It's going much, much too quickly for me. A while ago your daddy and I took you for a walk and once again, you were too far ahead, running all over the place and your daddy looked at me and said, "it's always going to feel this way isn't it? Like she's too fast, too far ahead, like we can't keep up with her." It does. It always feels that way. It's such a confusing mixture of feeling like you've always been here and like you just arrived. We're running behind you, watching you do and become all these things that you're just doing (so confidently!) and Daddy and I are wondering how we got here. 

Hi Bella,

I find myself wanting to talk to you tonight, probably in a way you're not ready for right now. You're so little, and so big, and I'm so lost in all of it. It feels like I've always had you, like there's never been a part of my life when you didn't exist. Sometimes it feels like you're new. Like we just got you home from the hospital a minute ago, and I went to take a long shower and came out and you're three and a half. You really are everything to me, in a way that sometimes even I don't understand, and it's hard to feel what I'm feeling right now and not be able to talk to you about it. Because it's you. It's your story too.

Those two days at Children's Hospital when you were so small feel very, very close to me this week. I remember every second of it. Everything I loved was at stake, and I was drowning. Half of your little face wasn't moving, they said your brain had been compromised. The told me you could have serious seizures your whole life. They were worried about your spine (something I haven't really thought of since that week, and find myself thinking of now), they were worried about your face, then they were worried about your heart. That was the minute I was kicked in the stomach. I remember stumbling down the hall to Cardiology, tears pouring down my face and thinking that the saying, "God won't give you more than you can handle" was total and complete garbage. I'd seen the haunted eyes of a cancer mom earlier that day as her nine year old went in for her third lumbar puncture, a very painful procedure. Her daughter was brave, but that woman looked like she'd been physically beaten. I refuse to say that saying to this day. I don't believe it. Unfortunately we don't live in that world, the one where God is totally in control. We took that control in Eden, and now we live here. Where people get sick, even good people. Where little kids don't leave Children's hospital and their parents stagger home, trying to figure out how to possibly keep breathing.

It's not that I don't know you're okay, not that I'm not more thankful than I can express. The day we carried you out of the hospital into the afternoon sun is what I imagine winning the lottery would feel like. You were going to live, and be totally normal. We've been back and forth to that hospital many times between that day and this one, and you've always done just fine. You're fine. But Tuesday is your first surgery. And that's going to be a hard day for me. I don't want to go back into those rooms. The same pre-op room where I saw that cancer mom, heard her daughter tell the doctor that it was okay, he didn't have to tell her how much it would hurt. She knew. The waiting room where they misquoted me how long your MRI would take and after almost three times the wait I'd been told to expect, we calmly asked to be taken to you immediately, or given a sedative. By that point I was shaking uncontrollably, still not used to you being out of my body, let alone out of my arms.  I don't want to go into the recovery room. Where I had to go find you by myself, last bed on the left, hooked up to all those wires. I could live to be a million years old and never forget for a second what you looked like in that bed, and how it felt to see you like that, and wonder how many more times I would have to see you like that. I know it's stupid, but I'm worried about how you'll look when you're done. It bruises horribly - I've Googled photos. For a week or two it's going to look like you were badly burned or beaten. It will look like a step backwards which is frustrating. When the bruises fade, we'll be able to see how successful the surgery was. I'd feel better if I could go into that room and see you with your mark almost gone, and know that it was so worth it. But it's going to look much worse, and then it will look better.

I know you're okay. I do. It's an incredibly quick surgery, done by a very skilled doctor, in the best possible hospital. You don't even have to spend the night. But I'd like to take a moment and tell you, even if you can't read it yet, that I'm sorry about the IV, that it'll hurt. I'm sorry that we live in a world where we have to do the surgery at all. A world where some people will only see the mark on your face, instead of the incredible person you are. I want you to know that Daddy and I don't see it. We just don't. But we'd like to have it done before you remember it too clearly. As clearly as I remember that first visit. I want this whole experience to get so muddled in your brain, so crowded out by great memories, that one day you look at baby photos of yourself and have to ask us what the mark on your face is.

I love you honey. So much. And the anticipation of the surgery is going to be the worst part. After that, it'll be fine, and you'll be fine. The surgeries after that (they say three or four) will be slightly easier because I'll know what to expect. This time I don't, and I'm a little afraid too. But we will get through it together. And you're excited because we're going to stay at a hotel with a swimming pool and go for a hot tub the night before. Because you're awesome like that. You know about the IV, about everything that will happen, and you're excited for swimming.

Sweet Bella, when I grow up, I want to be just like you.

Mama.

People used to say that about Christians. They were wrong. And right. "Mothers are the meanest group of people in the world" I believe I posted to Facebook not long ago. I took it down almost immediately, thanks to a friend who said that it was a pretty awful generalization and Facebook wasn't the place for it. She was right. I was wrong. And I was right.

I'll preface this with saying that I know some amazing mothers. I come from a good line of them. I have some amazing friends that are wonderful mothers. The other day at a restaurant, I met a waitress who was a single mom, and she spoke glowingly about her daughter. She loved being a mom, and was so nauseatingly in love with her little girl that she couldn't see straight. She found Bella a book in her purse or her car that her daughter had outgrown and gave it to her. It was the first time I as a customer had been "tipped" by a waitress, and I was touched. A total stranger. It made my day. I may have spoken to her manager, called the restaurants head office and spoken to them, saying she needs a raise. I've always been a little overboard that way.

When I was a girl, our whole extended family used to vacation at the lake together. We'd take up a bunch of campsites, the kids slept all over the place, and in the afternoons we'd all meet at the beach. I have a lot of uncles, and a couple of them had boats. Tubing behind a boat with my uncles are some of the best and most terrifying memories of my childhood. I can picture myself back there, sitting in some plastic contraption holding a nylon handle, bobbing quietly in the water and watching my uncles in the boat up ahead in the calm before they'd hit the throttle. Knowing I wanted a ride, wishing against all logic that they'd tow me nicely around the lake at a reasonable speed. Watching to see which one of them was taking the wheel. I never got that nice pull around the lake. It was always a million miles an hour, until I either hit a wave and careened wildly into the air or I got tired and simply couldn't hold on any longer. I don't remember a single trip that ended without a wipe out. That was the point.  

Motherhood feels like that to me. Sitting in the tube, feeling totally powerless and about to be taken on an exhilarating and frightening ride, knowing that I went ahead and got myself into this mess and wondering why. Partly loving it and partly wanting to sob in fright. I think a lot of us feel like that. When women are honest and vulnerable with each other I feel like we are built for such amazing relationships. We connect in such an beautiful way. And if we all feel this way, why don't we rally together, instead of being mean and judgmental and awful? But mom's really are mean. 

I'm on a fun shopping day with my sister and our kids. When we're ready to leave our favorite kids store, adorable purchases in tow, Bella decides to "assert her independence". She says she's taking an entire rack of leggings and when I tell her to put it back she says no. When I tell her she can't talk to me like that she pulls something she's never done in her life and raises her little fist and pops me on the chin three times. Bop bop bop. In front of the sales lady. I'm first of all startled, then angry,  then embarrassed, then lost. What do you do for a consequence? I nearly told her we weren't going to feed the seals at the park, but that's not fair to her cousin who is behaving. I grab her hand and drag her to the bathroom. Which is MILES away. She's barely keeping up with me, and knows I'm incredibly upset, and is screaming her head off. I can't get upset here, not with everyone around, besides, I don't know what I'll say. She's never hit me. I'm desperate for a place to be alone with her, to be able to parent without judgmental eyes and ears. We make it to the bathrooms, and have to wait for a handicapped bathroom because Lord knows I can't go into the stalls. As we're standing there a total stranger comes up to my and my screaming child and says, "Oh! Is that how we always get what we want?"

When talking to people about Bella's health issues in the beginning I've often laughed and said, "We're hoping she's an easy teenager, since she's used up all our stress reserves." Most people laugh a snide sounding laugh and roll their eyes and say, "Yeah, good luck with that." REALLY?! C'mon people. I'm aware that one has nothing to do with the other. When I talk to other moms about the day to day struggles of meal times, or spending less time in front of the TV, or all the stuff that comes with having a three year old, I get told ALL THE TIME, "Have fun when she's 13." Often by moms who don't have teenagers, who never have. 

I get told that I'm lucky I only have one. If I had four then I'd be able to talk. Sure, that would be more stress, but Bella would have a playmate other than myself, and the ability to grow up with a sibling (something Peter and I loved). And could we also take a second and be super honest about that? Bella doesn't have a sibling NOT because we wouldn't have LOVED for her to have a sibling. So shut the hell up. 

In what scenario is it okay to tell someone who is struggling, frightened, and overwhelmed that they're screwed either way? Or that, "you think it's hard now? You've seen NOTHING. Things are about to really, really suck." That's a mean thing to say! And I hear it LOTS. And lets say for arguments sake, that they're right. It's still awful. Maybe more so. 

So let me take one second and be super honest, and really vulnerable. It's hurtful. It makes me feel little, and stupid, and like I'm never ever going to be a good mom. It makes me feel like it's not okay to struggle. It makes me feel so isolated in all this. 

To the mom who glared at me because Bella watched Netflix on our walk - screw you. I'm in desperate need of losing 40 pounds which is one more exhausting thing on my list of crap to do. My kid can't walk because she can't lose weight or I'm going to have to add a nutritionist to our list of doctors and I don't want to. I'm trying to keep her awake so that she gets a good night sleep before we head to our cardiologist appointment tomorrow. Which I'm sure will probably go fine, but I'm allowed to be a little stressed out about without some other mom saying, "At least she doesn't have cancer." 

There's the moms who think I'm an elitist snob and that my daughter is going to be an unsocialized awkward idiot with a below par education if I home school her.(I feel vindicated that unsocialized is not a word) To them? MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS. I don't think you're a terrible parent for choosing public education for your child, do me the service of reserving your judgment of me. And also? I am unbelievably scared to home school her. But I want it to be me who teaches her to read. I want to be there for those moments when she figures something out. I want to be able to explain things to her, and learn with her. I realize I'm probably getting in way over my head, and I really don't need to hear it from someone else, usually someone who knows us not at all.

To the mom who wrote the condescending post about the mom in the park with her iPhone who was missing her children's childhoods, I ask, "Who was watching your kids while you were judging every minuscule detail about her?" And to every mom who forwarded it all over the Internet so I saw it at least four times - way to go. Way to forward a mean message about a mom who was likely simply catching a few minutes of "me time" while her kids were happily playing at the park. I've done it. I did it today. I still pushed her on the swing, we still had fun.

I'm not saying I've never stood in judgment, and that I'm not so sorry about that. We've all done it a time or two. But goodness sake, could we maybe tell each other just a little, "Hey, you're a good mom. That's a sweet kid you have there, you must be proud of yourself" Don't be surprised if you say it and some mom breaks down crying in relief. Don't we all feel like we're screwing it up? My goodness, lets throw each other a rope instead of looking at each other drowning and saying, "Wow - you think you can't swim there? The waves are about to get way worse." And then walking smugly away. WHY do people do that? I just don't get it. 

The problem is, it's mostly strangers who do it. Nobody who reads this post is going to be the mom I'm talking about (though I wish the judgy one with the viral post would). So my mission for this week, is to find one of those people - a stranger or a distance acquaintance and tell her she's doing a great job as a mom. I'll tell you how it goes. Someone's gotta freaking say it, and I'm sure not hearing it. Let's have that go viral. 

You are doing a good job, even on the days you're not. Even on the days when you glance at your phone too often, or sit your kid in a cooling bath to write a blog for an hour just so you can get your feelings out. It's not like there's anyone to talk to. I'm here alone almost every afternoon and evening. I'd appreciate (without an ounce of sarcasm), would really REALLY appreciate, being able to go on my walk without the "You're a crap mom" glare. Because it matters to me. More than it should, more than I'd normally ever want to admit. It matters.

You never see yourself doing it, not at the time. When you're young and single, or worse, young and in love, you don't see it. You think you know what you're getting into. 
"Of course there'll be hard times," you tell yourself. "I don't think everything will be perfect." (You do, actually. Think it'll be perfect. You do.) 
You stand at an alter in a white dress and you're so filled with love that even tears aren't enough, and you dream a beautiful, perfect dream. You promise, "for better or worse" and you mean it. And like almost everything in life, you haven't the slightest idea what you're doing. 
Don't get me wrong, you should do it. Even if you don't know, probably because you don't know, you should do it. Get married. Have a baby. Even if you're so full of hope and promise that you're nauseating to talk to, you should do it. It's a good thing. And there's no preparing. You think you'll be different when those times come. You will not be the 22 year old you, you'll be a wife, or a mother. Those words hold a lot more mysticism than they really should, maybe more so if you're a sweet, naive, Christian girl. Somehow, even though we don't believe we do, we are so sure that that ceremony, or that moment when they lay a child in your arms, will change everything. And it does, in a way. But not in the way you think when you're the nauseating 22 year old in a white dress.  In a lot of ways, it changes not one thing. Because at the end of the day, I'm still me. 
I'm standing in the kitchen, three pots bubbling on the stove, a crockpot in the corner, a burn on my hand from pulling muffins out of the oven without a mitt, the dog underfoot, while Bella says, "Mama, I stepped in dog pee and I can't get my socks off." I wait for the part of my brain that's a mom to kick in. Do something. Know what to do! You had a baby, you're a mom. I was there, it was gross and awful and amazing and beautiful. It happened. You had that baby over there, the one with pee on her socks. Deal with this. And for a moment I feel like I'm being electrocuted, just a little. Something in my brain short-circuits because I've never dealt with this. I want to help her but I need to deal with those damn muffins. I want to deal with my burning dinner but my kid has pee on her socks. I really want to kill the dog but Bella will cry, and my neighbors will call the cops if I drag her furry dead body out of my house for peeing on my floor for the hundredth time. Wait, dinner. Turn the oven off. Bella, don't run through the kitchen with pee on your socks! Sit down. Muffins, where are my muffins and why don't I have oven mitts any more?! 
And it's like that. Over and over and over again. A totally new situation that I don't know how to deal with. The other day Bella genuinely asked me, without malice, why she had to listen to me. I just blinked at her. I don't know why we should listen to me. Because I won't forget to make dinner because I'm playing dolls? Because I pay the bills? I was stumped for a minute. Then I made a stupid speech about authority that she processed exactly none of and we moved on. 
I'm flying so blind and, even though it's embarrassing to say, I thought I'd have it so much more figured out than I do. I really did think that. 
We've done the "for better and worse." Both. I'd promise them again, knowing what I do. I'd never go back. But the day to day stuff is totally and completely draining. And I keep thinking that I should know how to do it. The good stuff is so freaking great that even at 22 in a white dress, I could never have pictured the perfection of it. The hard stuff is so awful that you want to find that 22 year old and smack the promise and hope right off her stupid face. And the day to day grind of it is endless. I have somehow lost my identity in exactly the place in life where I thought I'd find it. And not in a depressing, awful, way, but just in a way that makes it impossible to be who I was at 22. Which would be fine, if when that girl left the inside of my head the woman who is a wife and mother arrived. Some identity that would make me different inside, and really great at this.  I feel bewildered. Not sad. Not regretful, not even unhappy. Just a little stunned that my mother must have done this too. Women everywhere must just figure it out as they go. And I know, I KNOW, it was stupid and naive, but I really did think that somehow you'd just know how to do it. 
I respect women in a totally different way. Moms are freaking amazing, and you should go hug yours. Or do her dishes. Or, for the love of all that is good in the world, buy her a bottle of wine and run her a bath.