It could have been so different.

 Content warning: this post contains references to traumatic childbirth.

"It's something that your brain and body will always remember," says my therapist. 

Every year, when the calendar flips to March, the sunny days mixed with cold ones, as the daffodils begin to rise and bloom, I remember. 

I hold space in my heart and during my days for the conflicting feelings. The joy, pure joy of a birthday - the celebrations, the little touches to make it special.

And I remember how this day almost wasn't. I remember how my only clear memory of it was coming to in the ICU minutes before the clocked ticked over to a new day. The uncertainty of our future. "We don't know if he is okay," Caleb said about our baby. 

"It feels heavy," I say to my therapist.

The heaviness is the weight of the divide marking the before and after. A return for me to allopathic medicine and away from homeopathy, chiropractors, yoga, the holistic community I'd felt a part of. A sense of loss of what I thought would be. The realization that though this may be the day of the birth, it is not the day I first saw my baby, that was the next day... or the day that I held him, that didn't come for several days after... or the day that I saw his face without machines, that's a different anniversary... it's not the day his feeding tube came out, or the day I spent the night with him for the first time, alone in the NICU. I'm not sure which day we realized he didn't have any complications from the birth or that my complications were resolved... those anniversaries came months or even over a year later. 

It feels heavy. 

I lean into the gratitude, filled with a heavy sense of wonder, if wonder can be heavy, that I have been able to experience the past few years with my family. It could have been so different. "I love you," I whisper to each of them again and again before bed, kissing their faces, and holding them close. "I love you."

Blackberry picking and Caprese salad - a tale of two worlds

It was the summer of volunteering to teach English and the summer of transitions. I had just graduated from college and was volunteering in a number of places teaching English. I went once or twice a week to teach English to a big family from Burundi, another from Iraq, and to a community center to teach English to a group of Burmese/ Nepali children and their parents. We picked them up in vans, yelling "Namaste!" to the elderly grandparents and aunties, who stayed behind and wore big warm hats even in midwestern July. We exchanged hearty smiles, enthusiastic waves, and occasionally, the best chai of my life in crowded living rooms with plastic tablecloths. Occasionally I would drive some of the girls to my parents' house for blackberry picking, swimming, jumping on the trampoline and baking fun. I would return them to their homes with buckets of blackberries and full hearts all around. I always tried my best to communicate everything we'd be doing with their parents - I knew it had to feel like a risk to let some stranger take your children away in a car, but I know their children had to fill in a lot of the gaps afterwards. Somehow though, we managed to communicate with sincere glances, hand gestures, slow speaking, kind eyes.

After one such outing, I drove to a different neighborhood, an affluent one, to meet an old friend for a pool party. I peeled off my sweaty shorts and grimy blackberry-picking shirt to jump in the pool and then I realized no one else was swimming. I looked around in the August heat to see people wearing cocktail dresses, heels, make-up and masks. Not the kind of face coverings we've grew accustomed to in 2020, but the kind we all had before then. Polite small talk, tinkling, quiet laughs deployed at just the right moment for a line we'd all heard before. It was a potluck and there were 4 different Caprese salads - heirloom tomatoes, fresh mozzarella and basil. 

I'd felt this difference before - so many times before and after, but this particular moment stands out to me as the moment it felt like something broke. I still don't quite have the language for it, the best I can do is talk around it, saying "It was kind of like this, but that doesn't really explain it." What I can say for sure is that it was a conversion moment. Twelve years later, I still am not quite sure how or if I fit into the world of pool parties where no one swims and everyone brings the right on-trend dishes. But I also know that that divide needs to be bridged - because the people who are outsiders to those parties have so much to teach us. 

Intuition

 *For a long while, writing was too overwhelming, so my therapist suggested I try voice recordings. This is my first attempt to transfer a voice recording to blog format.

Sept 16, 2020

Hello Intuition 

It's been a while since I listened to you. I've been driven by survival. Slowing down has not felt possible. Being present with myself, with my children, with my friends, none of that has felt possible. 

When I try, I can't slow down. I can't bring myself to be still and be present with them. I think it's because I haven't been present with myself. 

I value being present with others and I don't value being present with myself. I am trying to change that. I hope that as I begin to listen and hear the messages of my intuition, that it will become easier. That the messages that haven't been heard will find a voice and that I will be able to hear that voice. 

On what we've lost

9/27/20 

We went to the park where I used to have Tinkergarten classes. I thought it would be a good "pandemic park" because there isn't a playground close by, or really much of anything other than green space and walking trails. I forgot about the shelter nearby, which was hosting a massive birthday party. Between that and the other small groups of people gathered on the hills and walking on the trails, I've never seen so many people there. How could I have not realized? I've never tried to guess which park would be most deserted for a Saturday night picnic before, especially during a pandemic. 

The anxiety was instant. How was I going to keep my kids away from the people, the lake, and the poison ivy? They were uninterested in food, preferring instead to run (toward the people, the poison ivy, or the lake). 

I couldn't do it, but Caleb took over, graciously navigating the hazards and allowing me to sit and eat my dinner on the picnic blanket alone. 

I looked out over the park and wondered if it was really just over a year ago that I was welcoming and inviting families I didn't know to gather on a tarp and read a story before launching into that week's activity. It was then that it struck me, how much we've lost. 

We're not good at mourning or grief as a society. We're excellent at avoidance, numbing out, putting on a fresh face until we get home. And we've only been home lately. 

It's always felt like work, good work, important work, but a lot of work for me to talk to people I don't know, to connect with others in a crowd of strangers. Both my parents are outgoing and effortlessly launch into conversations with new people, seemingly without any racking their brain for a good topic or overthinking their first line. When I was little, I assumed this was just something all adults were capable of, but it turns out that it still is hard for me to think of what to say, even though I desperately want to connect. 

Now it's a pandemic, so in addition to overthinking, I am trying to keep myself and my kids 6 feet away or more plus evaluating what the risk is of striking up a conversation with someone who isn't masked outside. It's just easier to stay quiet or only talk to my kids. 

It was within this very year, from January through the first week of March that I gathered in that same spot to take a Tinkergarten class that I wasn't leading, meeting families without having practiced their names to try to memorize parent and child each week. 

How could so much have changed in such a short time? This is a rhetorical question of course. I know how. I watched it unfold, with much anxiety. Too much anxiety, or maybe just the right amount for the situation.

Pandemic day 106

July 14

WHERE TO BEGIN?

I woke up at six am with my littlest. These days, even though we keep their sound machines on blast, they tend to wake each other up even one is still tired and woke up three times in a night. So when the cry blared through the house at 6:00am, I bolted as much as one can bolt from a deep sleep at 6am to get him and hold him.

It was too early for him to wake up, but he wasn't going back to sleep, so outside we went. He tends to be very sad when he wakes up to early, but if I can sneak him into the backyard, his mood improves and he is less likely to wake up Sammy. So we had a nice time letting our chickens out, except they were out of food, so I lugged the 40 lb bag of feed out there and then proceeded to dump half of it on the ground instead of their chicken feeder at 6:11am. Oops. We watered our garden and had a generally nice time, minus the mosquitos, then went back inside and met Sammy as he woke up at 6:37.

Last week when our three year old came down with all the usual cold symptoms: runny and stuffy nose leading to congestion that makes you cough, I panicked. I called the pediatrician and was told that since he hadn't been around anyone who had tested positive for COVID, they did not think he needed to be tested... despite the fact that our state is now considered in "uncontrolled spread". We took him to get tested at the county and were told we would have results in 3 days. Today is day 5 and we still have no results. Nothing posted on the patient portal, no response to voicemails. After talking to daycare, they said the were not particularly concerned about his symptoms, so we have continued to send him for the three days per week he is there. We all have the cold now.

A week and a half ago, I ordered myself some hats that don't have sports logos on them since I do not like sports but do like wearing a hat when I walk. I also ordered a small new toy. Still has not arrived, tracking has not been updated. I run to the mailbox every 30 minutes all day to see if it will arrive. I am thinking about placing a new order for the same or different toys just to see if it will get here faster.

We had a follow-up appointment with a nurse practitioner from the allergist. The week before the lockdown, our youngest had a multi-system reaction to eggs. We had a video appointment with the allergist a few weeks ago, followed by bloodwork (generally was awful, they dug around in his arm trying to find the vein for so long that he stopped crying which was the worst feeling), followed by a phone call that said "yep, he is really allergic to eggs, call us back in a few months or a year." During that last phone call I asked so many questions that they offered us another video appointment with the nurse. Normally, I don't care at all if an appointment is running late, but when you are home alone and have one kid set up with rare screen time alone in his room and the other set up with puzzles and other quiet gadgets at the table with you, a delay of 5 minutes is very meaningful. The answers to my questions made me wonder if this was a place that handled very many food allergies.

This all in one morning, on day 106. 

Imperfect beginnings: an introduction

 I was listening to a Brené Brown podcast where she was talking about the article Your ‘Surge Capacity’ Is Depleted — It’s Why You Feel Awful. 

One of the things she or it mentioned was that now that we have hit six months of crisis, we have depleted all of our reserves and we must find a new source of strength. The paradox (I think that's the right word?) is that we can't do that until we have acknowledged how hard it has been so far. 

You may find my writing now less precise, but I am giving it an imperfect try and trying not to overthink it because frankly I don't have the bandwidth. Like many of you that I have talked to, my head is full of fog most of the time, especially when I try to write. I make and ignore more typos than I ever have before. 

Another thing Brené mentions is that when we are struggling with something, we are rarely struggling alone. She mentions that phenomenon when the one student bravely asks the question and there is relief written across the faces of 90% of the class who also had the same question. So here, in this space, I will attempt to share honestly how things have been, how things are, in the hope that I will make others and myself feel less alone. This will most certainly delve into topics not usually "aired", and that is intentional. 

I nearly always wait before sharing things, wait for it to not be so fresh. But in these unprecedented times (I know we are all sick of this phrase, yet here we are), I don't think we have that luxury. I think the only way for us to collectively move forward is through radical vulnerability about how hard things are. We are seeking deep connection with others, having had most day to day connections removed or severely altered. So let's begin. 

On falling out of love with Christmas time

When I was growing up, I always loved Christmas time. I loved the songs, the special foods (okay, mostly just cookies, pies, and Christmas waffles - I've never been into turkeys, hams, mashed potatoes, etc.), the general sense of merriment and excitement from the adults. I loved the Christmas tree, the stockings, the joyful anticipation of Santa coming.

And now, when this time of year comes, I remember that, and I still want almost nothing to do with it.

Part of it is this - I grew up in a church and school that celebrated Advent - a hope-filled period of waiting and watching the four weeks before Christmas. To wait for four weeks together made the whole thing feel more magical when it arrived. Skipping this period of waiting as a culture feels like having dessert without dinner - all the sugar and very little of the substance. (I recognize the irony of this analogy, by the way, having said above that my favorite holiday foods are only cookies and waffles.)

Part of it is this - I have Christmas Eve and Christmas Day off. It's a lot different as an adult with two days off (which I am grateful for) compared to a child with several weeks off of school.

Part of it is this - I would be responsible for creating all these things: decorating, cooking extra foods, monitoring the children around a tree, hanging lights (or having Caleb do it) and most days, it feels like all we can do to keep everyone fed, clothed, relatively rested, and arriving at their destinations. We only recently added in teeth brushing for the toddler because until now, it quite frankly felt too overwhelming. You make time for the priorities, and many people busier than I make time to do Christmas decorating and the like because it brings them joy - and to them I say great! I am making time to write this right now because it brings me joy, so I fully support you.

A big part of it is this - the earth is rapidly being destroyed. It's groaning all the time, but it seems especially poignant during this time of liturgically hope-filled waiting. The first thing I think of when I see a beautifully wrapped present is about what a waste of precious, limited resources it was to wrap a probably not necessary thing in completely unnecessary paper or a gift bag. My children, who will most certainly have to deal with the consequences of climate denial and inaction, receive many thoughtful gifts (some even suggested by or purchased by me). It is my hope that providing a childhood full of messy play, open-ended toys, extremely limited screens, and lots of outdoor time will help them fall in love with the planet and think creatively to come up solutions to a drastically changing world. But somehow another obligatory part of childhood  in the world today is free plastic junk at every turn. And while I strongly agree that "[O]ne of the functions of preschools [or toddlers] in our society is not to use things, but to finish using things.", the amount of NEW plastic or other junk that arrives home when you have kids is a shock. And apart from the junk, even the things I carefully select come at a cost. I buy new clothes because it's easier than making time to go to a consignment sale. I buy new books to ensure my kids have a selection of books that features female, racially, and ably diverse characters. All of it costs something financially and costs something to the planet. Christmas trees, lights, decorations. 

Also, can we talk about Santa? I love magic and the way that childhood is a time when the lines of fantasy and reality are very blurry. But I have given or sat through a few too many child protection trainings to want my children to ever sit on the lap of a stranger at the request of a trusted adult. One of the only Christmas decorations I own are personalized stockings... I myself loved the magic of Santa growing up, but the whole thing makes me feel uneasy and unsettled.

Overall, I guess I feel like we - as a family and as a society - are already overflowing at the brims - too much stuff, not enough space, too many commitments, not enough time. We take that limited, not-enough space and we jam-pack it full of Christmas trees, Christmas trinkets, plastic stuff. It's a screaming holiday in an already too loud world. As the world gets louder, the holiday too must get louder to be heard above the fray. Sales are moved earlier, shop not just on Black Friday, but the whole month of November. Put up your tree in October, start celebrating the start of the winter season on November 1, even though it's still fall until December 21. Burn yourself out on winter cheer by January 1, and then complain about the weather for another three months.

And I fell out of love with Christmas time.

All of this, to celebrate a major religious holiday, one of the great mysteries of the Christian faith. When we peel the layers back, none of that, at its heart, has much to do with sales or shopping or snow or Christmas movies, or holiday lights, or even Christmas trees.

Maybe what I fell out of love with, in the end, was the idea that to mark this significant celebration required jumping on board with the mayhem of the season. Maybe our traditions can include slowing down, giving only one or two gifts per person in a family, cutting out extra activities, sharing simple meals, and sinking into really being present with each other. Maybe we can listening to the beautifully haunting notes of "O Come O Come Emmanuel" and pray them more fervently than ever before in the face of climate disaster, political instability, and the refugee crisis.

Let's slow down together.