Open hands, essay 1

Open Hands, essay #1

I fell haphazardly into motherhood. Like Alice in wonderland, I looked out on a crazy landscape and saw what my own eyes chose to see. I didn’t stop to ask for directions or whether or not I was even purposed to walk forward, I just sort of started skipping along – smiling kind of absentmindedly as I moved. I was eight months into marriage and four months off of birth control. I had done a little bit of research, but not nearly enough, and I knew there was something about hormonal birth control that didn’t sit right with me. It didn’t help that it made me into a raving lunatic, either. Really quickly I learned that I shouldn’t even advertise the fact that I was partially doing naturally family planning because not only was I doing it totally wrong, but I also was almost completely unfaithful in taking my temperatures or checking my fluid. So – we were winging it. Did we necessarily want a baby this minute? No. Were we opposed to the idea of it, however? Not so much. Had we put an ounce of thought into what kind of careers we wanted to have when children showed up, where we wanted to live, how we wanted to live, or what kind of parents we would choose to be? Not a chance.

It’s hard to remember what was going through my mind then – and I’m scared to say it’s because my mind was pretty blank concerning the concept of motherhood. Six months into marriage I got the notion to leave a well paying job that I absolutely loved to become a nanny. Mostly because my friends were doing it and meeting up for coffee playdates sounded more appealing than working hard 40 hours a week, but somewhere in the back of my head I was hoping this job would prepare me for mommydom – just a little bit further down the road. Well, the family was a bit maniacal, the kids were defiant, and the coffee dates just didn’t happen – but my hard heart began to soften and my idea of purpose was very quickly readjusted.

I worked for a stay-at-home mom, who had three children. I was one of three nannies and worked around forty-five hours a week. For the first few weeks I was intrigued and possessed by what a wonderful life my boss seemed to live. She had these children who were so attached to her, so in love with her – she was always the mama. But she had oodles and oodles of time. Money wasn’t under a shortage either, but time seemed to be her true luxury. I arrived at seven a.m. so she could have time to shower and get dressed. I dressed and fed the kids so she had time to make herself a low-carb omelet. She took the two eldest daughters to preschool and I stayed home with the youngest so she could workout, lunch with other important mommies, shop, and have a really seemingly glamorous midday. When preschool was over, she brought all the kids home and was around… I played with them, but they always wanted her. If they fell, they ran to her. When they fought, she was interrupted from her magazine to mediate. She taught me the standards by which they were to live – dishwasher always clean & emptied, laundry baskets always bare because clothes were in their place, portion sizes small, and tv – off. During rare naptimes or quiet moments, she would impart life lessons to me – “Start saving now so you can have someone like yourself when you have babies… I didn’t have a nanny with my first and I didn’t have time for anything”.

Two months in, my ideals were shot and my little nannying dream was broken. I realized I was learning everything about childcare and nothing about mothering. On top of that, my little slightly chubby belly was suddenly becoming swollen-feeling and the sight of raw chicken made my throw-up. It had to be an occupational hazard, not enough days on the treadmill and a mental aversion from too much casserole prep. With my husband between jobs and no insurance to our name, I let weeks pass as I ignored my nausea and started buying maternity pants just because they were more comfortable. On a weekend getaway at my mom’s house, she took one look at me and crashed my denial to a thousand little bits with her simple statement, “your face looks pregnant”. So with the video camera rolling, Nick on the cell phone, and a glass of wine in hand – my sister, my mother, and I all stood over the bathroom counter… a plus sign glaring back at us.

I went to bed that night and woke the next morning with a million questions facing me, ignoring the most important one. Boy or girl, to gain copiously or to be careful, midwife or doctor, natural or aided, which vitamin to use, where to register, what to name, who to honor, which books to buy, who to tell, how to place my hand just so – in an effort to look pregnant, not chubby. Every decision revolved around me, or us, each thought was of myself. I was prayerful, mind you, praying for safety for him and less sickness for me… his future, my weight, our marriage, and more money. But somewhere between morning sickness and maternity pants, I turned down the volume on the Lord when He asked for a response from me. Too busy planning and growing, I continued to fall down the silly hole – not ever stopping to consider why I’d jumped in and what would happen as I continued moving through life.

Suddenly, he was here. I could speak volumes on the actual process – and used to at length. I’ve learned now, that while birth is monumental – it isn’t important because of how it happens but because what it brings. So it all happened, not at all like I’d planned, and he was here. I heard my ob say, “he’s out!” and Nick and I looked at each other as if to say – “well, isn’t that nice!” It wasn’t till a few moments later when he actually cried that it dawned on me that he was a real person, with his own life - that God had started through me. I could no longer shut out the Lord’s persistent question, try as I would for the next few months. What would I do now that he was here? Who was I because of him? How did Jesus fit into all of this and what was he asking of me? One thing was for certain – the clock was ticking for me to figure it out.