That Thing I’m Not Sure I Want to Talk About

Or more aptly put: a post about the fact that nothing is happening. But one, some dear friends encouraged me to share this; two, bigger picture moments aren’t always a celebration, but are rather a marking or noticing of time; and three, sometimes the things that make you want to hide under your writer’s desk are precisely the things you need to write about. So here it goes.

Warning: if you don’t like reading about “women stuff” you might want to go ahead and skip this post.

The calendar pages flip ever inexorably towards May, an innocuous month as far as months go, except for the niggling little reminder in the back of my head that in May of last year, my husband and I decided we were ready to officially go “TTC.” I was gung-ho about it at first, marking and timing, tracking and predicting every possible sign of fertility with scientific precision – I got that doctorate for something right? – until it began to dawn on me that a decade of artificial hormones would not leave my body without a trace, as I suffered the worst cramps of my life and bleeding sufficient enough to send me to the doctor convinced I was having an early miscarriage. (I’d read all about them on WebMD.) A consultation, ultrasound, and internal examination later, the doctor calmly explained to my very red face that what I was experiencing was called my period, otherwise known as menstruation.

I gave up tracking and just submitted myself to the wait for my body to regain some sense of decorum. But the months were ticking by. The more time passed, the more normal my body became, but closer we were getting to Things We’d Like to Do If I Don’t Get Pregnant. Like travel to Hong Kong in January. That trip came and went. Now it’s flying to Berlin to visit Toby’s family. This fall, it will be a trip back home to the States to visit family, go to a writer’s conference, and take part in our friends’ wedding. It’s a tricky time where, if I don’t get pregnant, we get to do awesome and important (to us) things. But that means I will still be walking around sans bebe. It leads to an awkward stage where we’re trying, but kind of not.

This trying-but-not-very-hard means I don’t know if I actually have a fertility issue, or if we’ve just managed to avoid getting me pregnant. It also means I’m left wondering if, despite all doctors’ claims that it is a nonissue, the pill was a bad choice after all and maybe I should have stuck with options that didn’t involve messing with hormonal imbalances. {Insert guilt.} I also wonder if, irony of ironies, waiting those years to get educated, financially secure, settled in marriage, and emotionally ready to be great parents meant I missed the fertility window for motherhood. {Did I mention guilt?} And I wonder if the fact that we want to take these trips to visit family we haven’t seen in nearly two years means I’m still putting selfish desires in front of a (hypothetical) baby and therefore still unready to be a mother. {Oh hai, Mme. Guilt! Come sit by me.}

Most days, I try not to think about it and what with moving to a foreign country, a healthy supply of visitors, working on my book, and doing work with SOLD, I’ve had enough on my plate to keep me distracted. But then I’ll be in the grocery store and spy a colorful little worktable and imagine myself sitting down with a large-eyed, towheaded son or daughter and a palette of paints or scrap wood dino construction kit and I feel a twinge. Or I’ll see a sakura bloom sling and imagine our little one in a sling of our own, and there that twinge is again. Or I’ll look at my husband and wonder what blend of his features and mine we would produce, and the twinge becomes more like an ache.

Most days, I manage not to be too worried, thinking we still have time, and we’ll get really serious about trying after our trip in the fall. I know there are fertility clinics too, and options. This isn’t the 1800’s where a woman having difficulty getting pregnant is labeled “barren.”

But some days that word, barren, is exactly how I feel.

“Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take,
but by the moments that take our breath away.”
- Author Unknown

What moments stole your breath away this week?

Each Thursday, we come together to celebrate living life with intention by capturing a glimmer of the bigger picture through a simple moment. Have you found yourself in such a moment lately? Share it with us!

Live. Capture. Share. Encourage.

This week we’re linking up at Hyacynth’s!

Pinnacle Moments {Hyacynth}

Welcome to this week’s edition of Pinnacle Moments, where we share the moments that have shaped our lives. This week’s moment comes from the lovely Hyacynth, of Undercover Mother. It’s a poignant one. I hope you’ll stay to hear her tale. Here it is.

From Hyacynth:

His two-year-old footprints shimmer in the sunlight dancing on the wooden floor as we both sit in a tangled heap crying, his small body draped over a rather pregnant stretch of baby beneath my skin.

In a moment of twoness that I just couldn’t understand, he scampered across the freshly mopped floor for a fourth time in so many minutes.

In a moment of selfishness, irritation he just couldn’t understand, I forcefully reached out, grabbed him by the arm and all but yanked him from the still-soaking floors while yelling loudly and denouncing his repeated attempts at puddle splashing.

Eyes wide, full of surprise, he looks at me stunned. He’s never heard that mommy before, never felt an ungentle touch come from her hands.

But I keep scolding anyway, hot from emotions and the exhaustion of scrubbing floors and being eight months pregnant and keeping up with a spirited toddler.

I hear the harshness in my voice. I see the panic spread across his brow, creep into his normally joyful eyes.

And at the same time he bursts into scared tears, I snap back into the reality of the situation:

he’s a two year old exploring our world, not a teenager defiantly staying out past curfew.

In his unique verbalization of two he cries, “Mommy soooo mad. I sorry. No more splashing on the floor. Mommy scary like a monster.”

The words mommy monster burn into my brain. It’s my turn for hot tears to spill past heavy lashes, for panic to creep into my heart about what kind of precedent I’ve just set, what kind of experience I’ve allowed him to harbor as a memory.

In a moment of Divine Grace realized, I’m reminded that no one is made of perfection; but everyone is bathed in forgiveness if only they ask.

So his body gathered in my arms, I dry his tears and my own as the floor’s wetness, too, evaporates and ask him simply, voice full of remorse, “Mommy is so sorry I yelled at you. Could you forgive me?”

Though he cannot yet speak the real meaning of apology or forgiveness, he feels the working definition of both in his heart after seeing the regret across my face, feeling the warmth of my arms and voice; he wraps his small arms around my neck, while nodding his head yes.

I feel his forgiveness, and I understand forgiveness in a whole new way through his embrace:

it doesn’t stem from being right, nor is it something that can be earned or bought; rather it’s given freely out of love.

And through the child-blessing of an oldest son, I suddenly know a little better the heart of the Father who gifted him to us.

What a moment! Even without a child of my own, I recognize that same part in me that Hyacynth so bravely shared with us today. Pinnacle Moments will be taking a break for the Thanksgiving holiday next week, but will return the week after. I hope you’ve enjoyed the series so far! Have a wonderful Thanksgiving!

decisions, decisions

My sister came in the back door, girls wet from the pool in tow. “Here. Kaelyn’s shoes,” she said to my brother.

He pulled open the refrigerator door. “Little girls gin yang?” he said. Did the little girls eat yet? “No? Okay, I make you something.” And he pulled out some food to make for my two nieces, Kaelyn (age 6) and Jacqueline (age 5).

Kaelyn is my brother’s daughter, Jacqueline, my sister’s. They are cousins but are raised more like sisters. It was such a simple little moment, but it stood out to me as a moment to remember and carry with me, for it spoke volumes for how my family operates. It was so seamless, so unselfconscious, how my sister took care of keeping track of the girls’ things and how my brother made food for them. The shared love and the shared responsibility. It’s not: this is my kid and that’s your kid and I’ll take care of my kid’s food and you take of your kid’s shoes. It is: these are our kids. Not just on special occasions like the 4th of July, but every day.

I suddenly realized there’s a very subtle but powerful hierarchy for raising children in the family (my German in-law calls it a “clan”, in a way that I think might be equal parts sarcastic, impressed, and curious). All the adults have a role to play with raising the children, and all adults are respected equally. Everyone remains aware of where the kids are and what they need (whether it’s food, kisses, or a gentle warning) and addresses them as simply as breathing. For special treats, like spending the night at a cousin’s house, the parent always must be asked for permission and is the final authority. My mom, the grandmother, is the one all the grandkids go to for a both sympathetic and wise ear. She is the person to talk to when you don’t understand or don’t know what to do. When you need friend and counsel. Or just a really good bowl of noodle soup. Grandpa is the one you really don’t want to mess with. But it’s okay because if you tickle him just right, he turns teddy bear. As a kid, if you do good, there’s a whole caboodle of people to puff up your ego. If you mess up, someone will tell you straight up that what you did wasn’t cool. But there is always someone else you can run to who will understand and tell you it’s okay, we still love you. (If everyone tells you you messed up, then you really know!) There is always both discipline and forgiveness to be found. And there is always someone to offer food and love and something fun to do.

Even when part of the family is broken…a divorce…and the part that left tries to spread bad thoughts and feelings about our family to the child stuck in-between (and can I just tell you how much that makes my blood boil?)…the family rallies together. It does everything it can to heal the wound, to teach love for both mommy and daddy, no matter what. It does not try to spread the foul back. Every one of us just tries to show by doing what our family really is about. The child may be confused and hurt now (and we are all forever sorry for that). But one day the child will be a teenager. And one day she will see for herself what is truth and she can decide what is right for her. The love is tight, but each individual is free: free to be themselves, free to discover for themselves.

And every time I go home, I am overwhelmed by the desire to be more of a part of the lives of my nieces and nephews. To them, I am always gone away, to some mythical place called Santa Barbara. I come in and out of their lives to play for a day and then I am gone again. I want to be more constant than that.

But there lies the rub. Where my family lives. The actual city, the county? I can’t stand. I don’t like the atmosphere, I don’t like the society, the way people behave there. It’s fake most of the time and mean underneath, mostly because people there are just plain more afraid. My mom says she fled from Bangkok because it suffocated her. Where my family lives suffocates me. On top of that my husband hates the area too and refuses to ever live there. We can visit as much as we want, for we do love the family. But living there? His answer is “hell no”. Up until now, I’ve agreed. Wholeheartedly. Bring kids into the picture? Now I’m not so sure.

My mom keeps saying when I’m ready to have kids we really need to move to the same home town, to raise the kids with family. At first I thought she meant help with babysitting and taking care of the kids that way, which I’m sure after a.m. feedings, and crying, and diaper changing, and never-clean house and oh-my-god-can-I-just-get-a-break, there will be moments I’d really love/need that. But now I see there’s more. There is so much more. Of course it is totally possible to raise absolutely wonderful children without all that and millions of families do it all the time. But I do see its worth. And growing up away from that, our kids won’t have the same closeness to their cousins that their cousins share. They’ll miss the everyday camaraderie. They’ll always be just a little bit outside. Loved, for sure, but a little bit outside. I know because I am.

Thankfully I don’t have to make this decision yet. This decision is at least a year or two away. But it’s on the horizon and on my radar. I feel it weighing on me. And my hubby and I will have some figuring out to do.

I’d love to hear your thoughts on this. How does your family operate? What decisions have you had to, or will you have to make?

jess

One of my good friends is 37 weeks along, y’all. 37 weeks! And honor of all honors, she asked me to capture this moment of their lives for them. I’ve never done pregnancy photos before, but with such a gorgeous subject, who could fail right?

Isn’t she stunning, y’all?

The baby is coming so soon and I’m so excited for her and her husband (and her adorable mother) for this next phase of their lives. I know it will bring in change, but I have every confidence that it will all be for the better and it will turn out to be an amazing time for them. Life transitions are never easy, and they can be downright nerve-wracking. But as my parents just told me, I’ll now say for them: focus on getting to happy, whatever happy means for you. Forget about what anyone else thinks or wants, shoulds ifs or oughtas, and just do what your heart tells you is right. Whatever decision you make from the heart, it will be the right decision.

Love,
J

happy mother’s day

A rose for a rose Mothers are tillers of the earth,
Where we are but the roots.
We grow and stretch and reach and strive.
But as far as we may run away,
Beneath us, in us, under everything they lie.
In the end, we all come back.
It all comes back to Mother.
Deep in the heart they unyielding dwell.
Solid, strong, unwavering and rich,
They are the foundation of all, ourselves.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the mothers out there. Your love makes the world go ’round.

i kid you not.

Samitivej Hospital in Bangkok

The biological clock is ticking and my hubby and I are thinking we’re getting close to being ready to try for kids soon (by soon, I mean probably sometime next year – after we get settled, organized, gather our wits about us, etc.). However, given our plans to move and everything, there is a very distinct possibility that our first child will be born in Thailand (but, through us, can still have US citizenship). Since I have an anal tendency to obsessively research everything, naturally I’ve already looked into this.

I’ve spent quite a bit of time already looking into childbirth and care in the U.S., reading up on how there are some very important hormonal and developmental things that happen between mother and child during the birthing process and cesareans hijack and prohibit them from occurring. Of course cesareans are a godsend in times of need, but there’s growing evidence that a whole slew of unnecessary interventions occur because the mother isn’t going through labor “fast enough” for hospital desires and wishes. There are a lot of decisions to make and options to learn about, but I think one thing is clear for me and that is I want to avoid a cesarean as much as possible (you know, assuming everything goes along as it should).

Thailand is known for having top-quality care available, at rates much more affordable than the U.S. Many of the top doctors in Thailand trained at top medical universities like Johns Hopkins in the U.S., and then go back to Thailand and work there. (Even the King of Thailand was actually born in Cambridge because his father, Prince Mahidol, studied medicine at Harvard – and later became a figure revolutionizing health practices in Thailand.) We hear a lot of stories about people from western countries flying to Thailand for surgeries, with great success, and – flight included – still end up paying less than they would here. My hubby’s even planning to have lasik surgery done while we’re there. So my initial reaction was not to worry about my ability to find good care in Thailand – especially since, in Thailand, for the right price you can basically get whatever you want.

But then I found out something that freaked me the eff out. So, as a reference, the WHO puts a healthy national cesarean rate around 5-10%. There has been a movement to raise awareness and concern about the U.S.’s cesarean rates that are skyrocketing upward from about 4.5% in the mid-1960′s when it was first measured to a high of about 32% in 2007. In Thailand, that rate is around 34% nationwide, and as high as 51% in private hospitals.

I started to worry that it would be difficult to find a doctor who would present me with clear information about my options. I started to fear that I would get pressured into something because it was better for the hospital, but that I’d be too far in pain to think clearly about it. I started to worry about all the precautions and extra arrangements I’d have to make to come back to the U.S….flying while pregnant, staying with parents, possibly being separated from my husband, the extra costs…let the panic attacks commence.

But then I talked to my mom (who was born, raised, and well-educated in Thailand) about my concerns. And she laughed. She said the reason cesareans are so high in Thailand is because women ask for them. They want cesareans so they can plan their child’s birth to fall on a “lucky” day, astrologically. Or, like even some members of my own dear family, they opt for them to keep their special woman parts looking pretty(!).

Oh, said I.

Well, in that case, I think I can stop panicking. I’m pretty sure a “honeymoon” va-jay-jay is not at the top of the list of my concerns.

the history of childbirth and things you’d never believe are true

During my drive to work today, I heard an amazing, fascinating interview on NPR (NPR always has the best stuff, I swear) with author Randi Hutter Epstein about her book Get Me Out: A History of Childbirth from the Garden of Eden to the Sperm Bank, in which she chronicles all the different tried methods and beliefs surrounding childbirth that have surfaced through the ages. Things like medieval doctors who put semen into womb-shaped vases and hoped to produce a baby. Or that a century ago it was believed that ‘civilized women’ should only have cesareans because they did not have enough “energy” to go through labor (this is why they should also not be educated because education drains our limited resources of energy towards the head and away from childbearing). Poor women on the other hand were “well-equipped” to make babies. The interview itself is amazing, and you can listen to it here.

I bring special attention to the interview because two themes emerged (that I think would be of interest to Women Unbound readers or to anyone interested in issues surrounding childbirth, or indeed female solidarity). One theme was the importance of a social support system and methods that help put a woman’s mind at ease when she goes through childbirth. One caller reported her family had a history of traumatic childbirth experiences where her grandmother, for example, was forced to have her legs tied together until the doctor could arrive to prevent the child from being born before he got there. Her mother experienced a traumatic miscarriage involving a lot of blood loss. Meanwhile her own experience was quite the opposite. She went to Lamaze classes and found techniques that helped her breathe and remain calm…and so when she ended up delivering in the back of their minivan, she felt at peace and empowered. But he mother and grandmother insisted (because of their own history) that childbirth could not possibly be a positive experience. So it’s very often that women have very strong beliefs about how childbirth should go, and sometimes don’t always allow each other room to create their own experiences or allow for different ones to be legitimate.

A second theme that I found interesting is that, while we may not have a full handle on childbirth yet, a lot of advances have been made (part of the process where OB-GYNs emerged as specialists and created a push for midwives to become licensed) in areas running from having a birthing room where mother and baby could be together right after labor to finding out that DES, which was supposed to be beneficial, ended up to be linked to causing vaginal cancer in the baby. These findings were supported by science and the doctors who produced the findings were much lauded…but oftentimes the impetus to conduct the research came from an observation by the female patient. An enterprising and empowered woman would suggest that something might be better or maybe there was a link between a drug and outcome, and the doctor would go through records and literature and discover, hey, she was right!

This is such a sensitive topic, I am certain this book and interview will raise not a few eyebrows. I have yet to read the book myself, but I can definitely highly recommend listening to the interview.

a message for the women

womb I’m sure we’ve all heard of penis envy (Oh Freud, did you ever even talk to a woman, really?) But is there such a thing as womb envy? Do men ever feel envious that they cannot bear life? That the powerful changes and emotions of the pregnancy experience is something they can only try to imagine? Certainly, they provide a necessary and vital function in the creation, protection, and rearing of future generations. But they never feel another heartbeat beside their own. Nor do they feel the warm glow of new life within.

Really, it is truly a magical and wondrous thing: our ability to conceive life. That within our bodies, a separate and (all-too-soon) autonomous being can grow and develop. That we can give nourishment, lavish care, and truly devote our entire lives and beings to another. That we can even bear life so another might experience the joy of motherhood.

And that we, too, are connected to the moon and the oceans, waxing full, and then shedding and beginning again in lunar cycles. (Which, by the way, did you know? Up until a few decades ago, we were told the cramps associated with menarche were merely psychosomatic? It’s a wonder no woman ever punched the lights out of those making such claims. Thankfully for us, it has been scientifically proven it’s not just all in our heads.) And we are connected to each other, converging cycles with those close to us.

Of course, the pain and unpredictability of childbirth is terrifying. And I’m sure the terror and helplessness men feel as they watch their wives bear children is significant in its own right. But the raw power of such self-sacrifice in order to create a beautiful, new life is something only women can know.

Nesting Pains

I promise I’m not ready to have kids yet. I’m still very much enjoying the Simple Married Life, which is so full at the moment and getting fuller towards the horizon. So the thought of taking on the responsibility that is motherhood is something I’m just not up to tackling just yet. Plus labor pains. Oh labor pains. How I do not look forward to thee.

But I find myself spending increasing amounts of time thinking about what kind of mother I will be. Will I be strict and over-protective? Will I be haphazard and over-indulgent? Will I be the one my kids come to for advice? Will I be the one they ask for an extra special treat? I quietly observe other mothers with their children, mentally taking notes of what I admire and what I hope to avoid. I peruse blogs of families with their stories of pregnancy, childhood and the sweet things kids say. I’m constructing my little mental nest for my future chicklets, in preparation for what might become.

It’s slightly dangerous to do this; dangerous to my emotional well-being because it might be quite a while before we really do have kids. And in my family, the women have a history of miscarriages. I might be prepping myself for a child who will never be. And what if…what if we are one of those couples who cannot conceive? I almost can’t believe I wrote that down; a thought too unfathomable I feel I shouldn’t have put it in words.

I shudder, try to rid myself of the thought.

And I go back to perusing blogs and imagining all the cupcakes I’ll make, the sweet little party ideas. I imagine I’ll be the kind of mother who bakes fresh soft chewy cookies, decorates the kids’ bedrooms in super-cute creative yet classy ways, and throws birthday parties that look like this.

I imagine I’ll be the kind of mother my kids know not to piss off. But I’ll also be the one they come to when they skin their first knee, when they lose their first tooth, when they discover a best friend, and when they have their first heartbreak. My husband will be the one they go to when they want to ride their first bike, blow sh*t up, and explore adventure at break-neck speed. He’ll teach them the value of independence and self-confidence. I’ll teach them the value of family and taking care of one another. Together, we will take our kids to museums and libraries (and probably far-off places) and show them the world.

Jade Keller

Tag Archives: motherhood