A Good Gift

October 16th, 2005 Mothering, Spirituality

It happens, sooner or later, during every pregnancy: I get scared.

Of course, there’s no shortage of things to be scared of when you’re pregnant. Miscarriage/stillbirth, complications, birth defects–I started enumerating some examples but I quickly gave up and erased them, because there’s too many to even take a stab at.

But what haunts me most is a twofold question that, when it surfaces, stops me cold:

Will life be a good thing for this baby? And will this baby’s life be a good thing for me?

How can I doubt the goodness of bringing a soul to earth? Because it’s messy, and hard, and dangerous–both for the child, and for me. Not just the birth part, but everything afterward.

Can I really adequately care for another child? I don’t know–define “adequate.” My good friend has a philosophy of life that I admire: she doesn’t take on any more than she knows she can well care for. If she only has the resources to care for 6 tomato plants in her garden, she only plants six, and gives them meticulous care. She takes the same approach with her interior homemaking, her family life, and her other responsibilities.

My approach is a lot more haphazard. I get sloppy, even with things that are very important.
Every time a new baby is on the way, I wonder what the heck I’m doing. It’s not like I’m doing such a stellar job with the children I already have, that I clearly should invite another. The postpartum period is so draining and demanding–I feel as if I’m on the bare edge of survival for months. Things go to pot. Family life gets permanently and exponentially more complex each time we add another member.

Contemplating these inevitable outcomes can feel a lot like falling off a cliff in slow motion. At first the view is lovely and the bottom seems too far away to be threatening. But as I get closer and closer, I know I’m going to crash, and that it’s going to take a long time to climb out of chaos and into comfortable, routine, manageable life again. Not that it ever stays comfortable, routine, and manageable for long.

And that’s just part I of the issue.

The other side of it is the child’s experience. I get scared about how my shortcomings will affect this person’s life. I worry about the crazy family dynamic he or she will be tossed into. And overall I worry about life itself. What sufferings will this soul be required to endure? On a rational level I know that pain is essential to progression, and that this mortal life is the gateway to a potentially glorious future. But it hurts, really bad, to think about the innocence and vulnerability of a new baby, and the darkness of this world, some of which dwells within my own mortal self.

So–I get scared. But before I lapse into deep melancholy, allow me to report the series of experiences and memories that allowed me to transcend my latest bout of mid-pregnancy fear.

1. On agency

In our old neighborhood we lived across the street from a very depressing family. The deplorable physical condition of the yard and home was a good match for the mess of abuse and other problems that plagued the family’s relationships. I was a visiting teacher to one of the daughters in that home, a young adult who had suffered horribly over the years. One night when I made a visit, she was babysitting one of her sister’s children (it was a family tradition of sorts to bear children out of wedlock–there were a half-dozen or so living there at the time). This baby was lying on a filthy, crusty couch. He only had a diaper on. His mother was prone to disappearing for days at a time, leaving him in the care of her younger siblings, who were none too pleased to have the responsibility thrust upon them. Needless to say, the baby and the other “cousins” were not well-treated.

He was a gorgeous child–half Latino, with olive skin and huge, deep-deep brown eyes and long lashes. He stood out like a sparkling jewel amidst the squalor of his surroundings.

When I was home again I thought about the future that awaited him. My heart hurt so much I didn’t think I could bear it. I just couldn’t reconcile his perfect, holy little self with the circumstances he had been placed within. How could this be okay?

The answer came, clearly and firmly: He chose to come.

2. Beauty all around

During my fifth pregnancy, my regular pregnancy freak-out came back for a second round when I was in the hospital. With the drama of childbirth over, real life came rushing in as I realized I’d be bringing Matthew home the next day. As I sat on the hospital bed with my delicious little blanket-wrapped guy on my lap, I was overwhelmed by the whole prospect. How could I ever pull this off? And what had ever made me think this was a good idea?

The door opened, and in walked an elderly hospital volunteer bearing a floral arrangment from my mother. As she crossed the room I stared at the flowers. I had a distinct impression that my son was something truly wonderful and lovely–a gift that had just entered my life, like the flowers that had just been carried into the room.

When the woman noticed my baby she stopped in her tracks. “Oh!” she exclaimed with a deep sigh. She looked at me kindly, yet intently. “Oh, I envy you.”

Matthew. The name means “gift of god.”

3. Bread and fish

I was way tired and grumpy as Relief Society began a few weeks ago. I was sitting in the front row with my legs sprawled out in front of me. Even with the help of the padding on the folding chair, I was still really uncomfortable after sitting there for the Sunday School hour. As the RS President bustled around, adjusting the tablecloth and all that, she came upon my legs. They were a kind of roadblock. She paused politely, waiting for me to assume a more ladylike position.

I suddenly felt so big, so cumbersome. Instead of getting depressed, I got huffy. I actually got up and moved to a seat in the back row.

The RS Pres, who really is a lovely woman, came back and apologized. I assured her that my relocation had nothing to do with the leg incident (which was a big fat lie). I was just more comfortable back there, I explained. And that was true. I just wanted to be left alone so I could wallow in the misery of very-largeness.

The local missionaries were guest teachers for the day. Their lesson was about member missionary work. They turned on the Church’s DVD about the restoration of the gospel in the latter days. I had already seen it a few times; in fact we had watched it as a family recently. So as soon as the lights went down, I zoned out into an almost-nap.

I snapped into alertness for some reason a few minutes before the program ended. Checking the monitor, I saw Joseph Smith Sr. handing his little son a hand-carved wooden horse, homemade–just like the one the boy had admired in the general store at the start of the story. The words of the voiceover sunk deep into me:

If ye then know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much more shall your Father who is in heaven give good things to them that ask him?

4. While the sun shines

Not long ago we sang “Today, While The Sun Shines” for our pre-scripture-reading hymn. I’m not a huge fan of the sunshine-y hymns–I’m all for good cheer, but they remind me of that stereotypical overly perky RS pres. or something. They do, however, help the atmosphere at a 6:30 a.m. gathering. Anyway, as we sang, this line lodged brightly in my mind:

Today, while the birds sing, harbor no care: Call life a good gift, call the world fair.

I’ve been thinking about all this a lot lately. Preterm labor has landed me in the hospital for an extended stay. The first day I was here it seemed highly likely that our son would be born very soon. At 28 weeks’ gestation, he weighed about 3 lbs. They put me in a delivery room which had a drive-thru-type window that opened into the NICU. They warned me that as soon as the baby arrived, he’d be whisked through that window and likely put on a ventilator. It would be a few hours before I’d be able to see him, and who knows how long before I’d be able to hold him.

Miraculously my labor stalled, and my condition stabilized. I was moved out of the labor/delivery unit. Since then I’ve had plenty of time to think about that close call, about the tiny preemies I saw during the NICU tour, about this time-bomb uterus of mine, about the possible outcomes of this little drama.
Here’s what’s assuaging all (okay, most) of my current freak-out tendencies:

Knowing–and not just in my head–that this new, impatient life within me is a good gift. It’s a good gift for me, even though that goodness necessarily emerges amidst the fog, stress, and even trauma of mortal life. And it’s a good gift for this son of mine. Even if he only lives a few minutes, or must endure long-term complications, or simply has to weather childhood in my household, life is a good gift.

And while the world hardly seems fair, especially for the children born into pain and squalor, someday our understanding will expand, divine compensation will kick in, and we’ll realize that things are fair after all.

Imagine that. I might even learn to love those sunshine-y hymns.

Being Enough

July 7th, 2005 Mothering, Spirituality

I’m sitting on my bed folding laundry. Sitting while folding is awkward because I have to keep twisting around in a weird way as I reach for the basket and the piles. But I can’t stand up for long because my thigh muscles are on sabbatical today. We took the kids swimming last night and I underestimated the toll of carrying small people around in deep water.

Doing laundry is my only productive endeavor for the day. And that’s been typical. While sitting I try to remember times that I’ve actually been the motivated, organized, creative teacher-mom that I’ve fantasized about for twelve years. Whenever I’m in a slump I tend to think that I’m really dropping the ball, that I’m usually a whole different animal. But I don’t think that’s actually true. That different animal is mostly a mental construct. I hold on to the fantasy as if my devotion to it can compensate for not being it. In reality I’ve had short stints where I’ve come close–I plan, I gather materials, I implement, I nurture and connect, singing as I go–but it doesn’t last long. Inevitably I revert to my usual schlepping mode.

I’m much better these days about accepting myself while in schlepping mode, but as I fold my underwear I’m suddenly panicky about my thoroughly mediocre mothering/homemaking. I haven’t had one of these panic attacks for a while. Luckily I remember what to do.

Please, I pray, let it be enough. Let me be enough. I don’t have anything else I can give. Please tell me that I am safe, and that they are safe, despite all I lack.

And God replies: It is. You are. They are.

This can seem hard to believe. I know how deep and weighty my responsibilities are. How can it really be okay to be so weak and unproductive? But I already know the answer, which rests beneath the muddy river of my rational thoughts:

I become enough, through grace, in the asking.