Motherhood: A Collision Course

You could scroll through this blog and discover what I am about to confess right here and now: I don't love motherhood. Please do not misunderstand me. I love my kids with a fierce, fierce love. I will protect them at the expense of my own self. I love my husband more that I can express. I love knowing that my people are become good and decent human beings. My family is a bunch of rock-stars. Get to know us. I am 100% sure you will agree.

But motherhood, that job is not my cup of tea. In fact, almost on a daily basis, I want to GIVE. IT. BACK. And I have had jobs that were hard. I worked at piloting an alternative middle school program - we made that from scratch and took all the kids no one else wanted, and I will tell you that was exhausting. I worked at a charter middle school in one of the poorest cities in the nation, working from 7am - 5pm (that was the required time on the job), keeping middle school students focused, safe, and off the streets. That was exhausting too. But none of that even holds a candle to how intense motherhood is for me. It will make you bloody and bone-tired and then ask you for more. It will take you right up to the cliff and kick you over. It is like standing in the middle of Times Square naked and hungry staring down a bear. Motherhood brings it. All the time. It's embarrassing and risky and exhausting.

I used to say (a lot) that I wish someone would have told me about all this before I decided to have kids. Perhaps other girls were paying better attention. Perhaps I just have an intense bunch of kids. Perhaps other women do a better job of sucking it up than I do. Perhaps this is just my own reality, and not that of any other mom. I really don't know. And in a way, it doesn't really matter to me. But I think it's incredibly important that I don't sugarcoat any of my experience as a mom for my kids. It's the hardest job I may never love. And it's the hardest job they may never love. And I want them to know that it kicked my ass on the regular, but that these kids are so important to me, I got up and did it again. Day after day. They are that important. 

This is my truth: You will feel under appreciated and beaten up by motherhood. And everything will go wrong, right after the help who was there yesterday (your husband, the grandparents, the babysitter) has gone. And the shit never hits the fan from 9am to 5pm Monday - Friday when the pediatrician and plumber have office hours. And speaking of off-hours, everything will feel personal at 3 am: puking, crying babies, fire alarms that won't stop. All of it. Totally personal. And no matter how prepared you are for all the contingencies, shit will find you. Sometimes you will have to do whatever you can to stop the bleeding (even if you have to use a tampon in your kid's nose). And the poop issues are prolific. Yours, the dog's, the kids', the over abundance and the lack thereof. Motherhood is definitely all about the poop. And you won't get "caught up" on your sleep for another 6 years, so just stop expecting that. And odds are good that showering regularly is no longer an option. You will not hear me saying to enjoy every moment, because sister, there are moments that absolutely need to be forgotten in the abyss of time never to be thought of again.

Here's what I want to say next: and it will all be worth it. But I hesitate to say that. I am not all the way through it. I have not come to see my kids as adult children with all the emotional and physical distance and time to prove that out. I am hopeful that it will be true. I am operating under that assumption. And the one kid that is close to leaving for college (Lord Jesus is that right?) gives me the sense that it is true. But I can’t give you that hope yet. All I can do is say that I believe making people into decent human beings is incredibly hard work, but what else can we do? We need all the decent and good humans the world can hold. So I persist in trying to make mine into that sort of human. And in the process I am pretty sure that I am also becoming a better human. I am being taught all sorts of lessons about human dignity and grace and mercy and love. And that my friends, is worthwhile.

A Hard Anniversary

Warning: This post is about pregnancy loss. If you need to pass this one up, I completely understand. I'll catch you the next time.

Seven years ago we lost a baby.

It's best to just be blunt about it. This sort of thing isn't usually talked about or shared much because it's difficult and ugly and raw. But it happens to so many women. You actually know someone who has had a miscarriage (a horrible word) even if they have never told you about it. At least one in four women lose a baby. Think about that for a moment, one in four. That's your mom, your wife and two female friends. It's a very common occurrence. And it's not just a female experience either. When you and your partner enter into a pregnancy together, the partner feels the loss as well. Now that's not to infer that the experience is the same, but the grief, that's universal. Loss is never easy to take.

For us, it happened early in our pregnancy. We were still in the first trimester. We never knew the gender of our child. We would never know the person they were to become. What quickly became true for us, was that we were not going to have a baby that year. I felt so betrayed by my body. How could it do something like this? I felt responsible, that somehow I had done something to cause this loss. I miscarried the baby; even our language suggests I was at fault. I knew that wasn't true, but without an explanation, without answers of some kind (which most of us never get) I needed to find something to blame. But that's what's insidious about the loss of a baby you have never known: there is no reason. There is no answer. There is just loss. And emptiness. And grief.

It comes up at various times for me, as grief is bound to do. Always around my birthday (my due date) and every time I watch Tangled (those lanterns!) It gets easier to deal with as time has passed, but I never fully trust my body anymore. I've had two more kids since our loss, but even that hasn't put to rest my mistrust and doubt. I suppose that's just a side effect for me that will linger.

I wanted to share this story for a couple of reasons. First, it's that time again, the time around which we discovered our child was gone. And it's my reality around this time of year, every year, to be reminded of it. Secondly, I share this because I find myself in a political position that seems contrary to this experience at first blush. I am an ardent supporter of the right for a woman to choose if she will terminate a pregnancy or choose to go full term. As much as I grieve our lost child, I need you to know that I do not take pregnancy or bringing life into the world lightly. It's a daunting and sacred task. And it is fraught with peril. So very many things can happen, not the least of which is losing the life of the mother.

To be clear, I would like there to be fewer and fewer abortions. I don't think it's a good solution for everyone, or even most women. But I also feel strongly that a woman needs to be allowed to choose what is best for herself. Because believe me, she is going to have to live with that decision for a very long time no matter what she decides. And there will be consequences no matter which path she takes. Just like my grief has stayed with me, and just like the angst of raising my kids is ever present, the decisions a woman makes durning pregnancy are far reaching.

I'll share a little more later about the day I saw the red line of abortion clearly, and I knew whether I would be able to cross it if the circumstances were raised. But for today, it's enough to remember this lost love one. For those of you who have experienced such loss, know that when I think of our loss, I send up a prayer for others who are suffering and for those who have suffered. We're in an exclusive club. I know your pain. And I support your need to grieve in whatever way you need to. And for those of you who have never experienced such grief, please realize that someone near you has. Maybe just today, on this anniversary of a lost life, we can be a little kinder to those around us. Believe me, it makes a difference.

Once Upon A Time There Was A Girl Named Amy

It's been a month since I have been home from the Women's March on Washington. I've been very busy with almost daily civic action, calling my local and federal representatives, becoming educated on issues and bills, trying to listen with intention to those whose opinions are quite different from mine. It's overwhelming at times, and it can be exhausting. There's no question about it, we have so much work to do. If our nation is to be hold the promises of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, then there is so much more to do.

Something I keep coming back to, part of the work that I believe has to be done, is the need to be honest about our stories. If I don't know what you are struggling with, or why you feel afraid, angry or disappointed, I won't understand you or your needs. And there is a distinct lack of knowing one another right now. I'm not talking about knowing which SNL sketch you find funny or which team you root for on the weekends. I'm talking about understanding what makes you afraid of immigrants; what scares you about the vanishing middle class; what keeps you from voting; what makes you want to run for the hills or hide under the covers; what keeps you up in the middle of the night. I want to know why this country feels so divided when I trust we are all trying to make this a better place. I believe in the power of information and I want to know your story too.

So, in an effort to peel back the mask on my life, I plan to share my stories here. It may happen a little at a time, or it may just flood out. I'm not sure. But the stories need to be told, and I hold on to much hope in telling them; I hope that we all have the ears to hear them. I hope that, if you have a different experience than mine, you will be able to catch a glimpse of what it looks like from my window. I don't intend to change hearts or minds, but I do hope that you have the generosity to see it. And if by some miracle, your story feels similar to mine, then I hope to remind you that you are not alone. It is true that everyone we meet is fighting a battle of some sort. You might not see it. They may never feel brave enough to tell you. But we are all fighting for something. I hope my stories will give voice to some who just may not be able to tell their own.

So let the bravery begin. And please, know that I am all about dignity and respect. Trolls will be blocked. You've been warned. Truth seekers and the curious will find my reality (the good and the bad), one blog post at a time. Welcome friends. Let's get to know one another.