 |
| Mother's Day Family Dinner at Mint & Basil with New Addition |
How do you put into words the boundless gratitude you feel, this indescribable love that fills your heart, the sprinkle of luck that brings you the miracle of a child? Sure, I continue to be thankful to have a mother to celebrate this occasion with. But it wasn't until a few years ago that I started to reflect upon the ramifications of this holiday, for those who don't have moms, or have estranged relationships with theirs; for those who are mothers without children, or those who yearn to, but cannot be, mothers.
In my lifetime, I have been to two funerals for stillborn children. It is two too many. There is something especially puzzling and unfair about the natural order of things being disrupted. Parents shouldn't have to bury their children, especially those who have barely gotten the briefest glimpse of this world, the innocents who have never known life outside the hospital and barely outside the womb, who haven't gotten the chance to smile, love, live. It makes you think about your own children and go home to hug them harder, hold them closer. Your heart breaks for other parents in a way that you wouldn't think possible. I remember when Luc was admitted to NICU for phototherapy to clear up his jaundice. It's a common enough neonatal condition, and yet the stress still builds up from sleepless nights punctuated with worry, pumping milk for him every two hours around the clock, and running it to his bassinet to feed him by gently lifting him out with wires still hooked to his fragile body. Luc was wedged between two bassinets of preemie babies, and he was in the best shape of all the newborns there in his brief stay of barely over a day. While Tung and I were there, we briefly met a father whose third baby, a first daughter, was born premature and had no indication of when she would recover enough to leave the hospital. As I was wheeled out with my less-jaundiced baby cradled safely in my arms, I felt so thankful to be able to leave, tinged with guilt and sorrow that the other babies remain behind, fighting for their lives.
In my online mothers' group, we have a weekly post called Thankful Thursdays. Studies show that you are a happier person if you think of three things that you are thankful for on a daily basis. I recently posted a picture of these woven-cotton crib sheets.
Summer sheets that I had just taken out from the original packaging and laundered until crinkly clean. Sheets that I wasn't sure I would be able to use, and therefore was scared to unpack, for my winter baby even as I was carrying him heavy in my belly. As a parent, you worry about the million things that can go wrong during pregnancy, when raising children, through the teenage years, and as they grow up and away from your ability to protect them. I look at my baby, now a solid four-month-old learning to grasp objects and so curious already about the world around him, and I am thankful.
In the early days of spring when rain still pelted the earth, a mother bird nested under my eaves, right outside the kitchen window. She startles easily when I brush aside my mesh curtains to open the window and let in fresh air. She flies to perch on my rose bush and stares helplessly, nervously, at her nest from a safe distance, hoping no harm will come to the three treasures inside. Safe and warm in my house, tending to my own baby as the world outside continues on without me, I watch her tirelessly fly up and down from her nest, hunting and pecking at my front lawn for spring worms and grubs to bring back to her chicks. When heavy winds come, she flies back to her perch to keep the babies warm, vigilantly facing inward to my kitchen to watch for movement and danger. What a responsibility to care for three lives at once, and yet what a gift as I watch her delicate, naked birds sprout feathers, squawk and clamor for food, learn to take their first hops on the wood beams of my roof, and eventually flee the nest right before Mothers' Day weekend. So much of parenthood is about dedicating your life to nurturing, and then one day discovering that it's time to let go.
I've traveled the rocky road of infertility until perseverance led me to this point. As I wash my hands at the sink in the Master bathroom, I glance out to check on my son, nestled on my nursing pillow as he practices looking at the world while being on his tummy. He bursts into a smile when he sees me, and I remember the very counter upon which I rested my home pregnancy test, expecting for the millionth time to see a stark-white negative, but getting the surprise of my life when a second pink line appeared. That was almost exactly a year ago; I remembered thinking at that point that life will never be the same.
I know how it is to yearn for something you're not sure you'll ever have, and nothing that you do within your power seems to help. But I always go back to the hopeful words I remember reading from a forum I'm on--"I never knew of any woman wanting to become a mother, who didn't find one way or another to be one." This post is not only for the already-mothers and the very soon mothers-to-be, but also those still aspiring to be mothers, and those who are already mothers through their actions, dedication, and love. To the furbaby mothers, adoptive mothers, and surrogate mothers who give their bodies and a piece of their soul to fulfill another's fondest wish. For those who have ever lost a child, my condolences go out to you from the very depths of my heart where there are no words to describe what I feel, much like your grief. And for those still on the path to conceive, to one day join me in the solidarity of sleepless nights and countless diaper changes--but also of one of the richest rewards that life can offer--I hope you find the strength to keep fighting. I still think of you daily and wish you well.
