Subscribe in a Reader
My Truth
I remember the day the nurse brought my freshly birthed daughter back into my room after being cleaned up and examined and thinking, “What the hell? What do I do now?” At barely 20, I was woefully unprepared for the trials motherhood thrust upon me the moment I pushed that baby out of my nice, warm uterus. I’ve been dog paddling in the pool of parenting ever since.
It ain’t pretty. I barely have my nose above the water, and every now and then a wave comes and threatens to take me out. Parenting is hard. And it is painful. Beyond the obvious feminine aspect of gestating, labouring and delivering, being a parent hurts. Worse than if you slam your finger in the car door or get kicked in the face by a four year-old Arabian stallion.
(A demonstration of what type of creative cusser I can be in both instances.)
Just when you finally learn to live on two hours of sleep, succumb to your infant’s every demands, become adept at diapering with one hand and feeding with the other, and accept there will never be a moment of sexual intimacy between you and your partner again, the little buggers go and change the rules on you.
The next flaming hoop of fire to jump through is when your darling precious learns to walk, talk and pee in a pot. Preferably the ugly plastic one you bought special for the occasion and not one of the pretty stainless steel ones you received as a wedding gift from an uncle, and left on the floor so your kiddy could bang on it with a wooden spoon…
(The real reason I call myself a redneck…my children pee in whatever receptacle they can find…or in my son’s case, right off the freaking front deck.)
If you are lucky, both you and your child survive this landscape fraught with hidden obstacles relatively intact and bonded stronger than ever.
(Say ‘hamburger’ for mommy’s friends darling. Be a good girl. See!!! I told you!! Isn’t she the sweetest thing?! Snicker. Hangaboogers. My kid is the greatest!)
Then like a stalk of corn in the middle of my mother-in-law’s garden, they grow again, thereby changing the rules of the game, once more. Every stage brings with it new rules, new dangers, new dilemmas and better rewards.
I never expected to enjoy parenting this much. As a teen I vowed my uterus would remain unused. Wasted anatomy. I wanted to save the world and make millions while doing it. There was no room in my vision to include children. Falling in love changed that.
(Forgetting about grade nine sex education and the value of rubbers may have also played a small part in my attitude adjustment.)
Yet, before I reached 25, I had squeezed out three little angels, pretty much solving the mystery of how babies are made.
By boarding the parenthood train, I bought a ticket for disappointment, sadness, anger, laughter, love and loss. I silently agreed to give away the biggest part of my heart to these dirty, blonde rugrats who often don’t protect the soft side of their parents.
(Ask Boo. He’s been kicked in the man grapes more than once.)
You must give of yourself wholly and put your heart out there so that your children can run off with it when ever they choose. It’s written in the fine print at the bottom of the contract.
There is no pain or reward greater than being a parent. If someone had told me seven years ago, that I was going to deliver a baby most people wouldn’t want, most people wouldn’t understand, a child most people chose not to see, I would have said told them they were off their freaking rocker. Bad things happen to other people. Not Boo and me. We had reached our quota for bad things. Surely, God or Nature or my fucking uterus wouldn’t be so cruel as to stick us with that.
Except, we weren’t stuck, we were blessed. If you had told me seven years ago that this child would be the best thing to happen to us, our marriage and our kids, I would have laughed uncomfortably and then ran screaming from the room, to search for some alcohol.
And if you told me 653 days ago, when I walked out of the hospital with nothing but a wad of tissue in one hand and an big white plastic bag in the other, that I would want to walk that path again, fight with bureaucrats and beg for a ticket on that train, I would have probably strangled you with my bare hands.
The stakes of this parenting game suddenly got a whole lot higher. We don’t often think about our children passing away. Sure, we fear it. In an abstract way. The same way, we fear they will be stolen from us while shopping in a crowded mall, or snatched by some stranger on the street. We know the possibility of death exists but if we sat and actually understood what it would mean to lose our child(ren) we would be paralyzed with fear, unable to give them the space they need to grow.
I knew something was wrong with my pregnancy with Bug. I used to tell my husband that I had an alien baby inside me, and I was only half joking. I would complain to my doctor about my size and my fears and she would quickly dismiss me. I would leave half annoyed she didn’t hear me and half relieved she didn’t listen.
When Shalebug was born, and all the doctors and specialists kept telling me he wouldn’t live long, or be normal, my heart cracked with every word, every prophecy they uttered. I knew that my love couldn’t save him, but I was hoping it would prolong his life.
I believe it did. I never prayed for him to heal or be normal. I never asked God to fix him or make him whole. I couldn’t bring myself to wish for him to be anything who he was because who he was to me was bloody brilliant.
Instead of hoping to change him, I hoped for him to walk through life with grace and dignity and love. I hoped he felt no pain. And most of all, I hoped every night when I went to bed that I would wake up to have another day with him.
Wishes don’t always come true.
People ask what I fear most, now that I have been through this nightmare. I could say not much, having walked through this fire and survived. But being the boob-oogling, over-emotional, hyper-hormonal woman I am, I can’t lie to you.
It would be wrong to say I fear losing a child. There is no word to describe the terror and anxiety I feel when I think of life with out yet another of my kiddies. The word ‘fear’ simply doesn’t touch it.
I think what I fear the most is losing the ability to try. To try and live without the shadow of grief clouding my every movement, every choice. I would rather love and lose a child than be too scared to try and parent again. I can think of no better way to honour my son and help my children through their pain than to remember how to laugh, to love and to live. How to try.
To learn to ignore the shackles of fear and remember the bonds of love.
Because, in the end, all we have are our memories of the ones who touched us, made us into who we are today. If we don’t accept the chance of dying we can never really live.
And that is my truth.
Which I will be reciting over and over to myself as our final adoption meeting advances upon us like a steam train next week.
August 3rd, 2007 at 9:11 am
You never cease to amaze me woman. Fric and Frac and their future sib are lucky, lucky indeed.
August 3rd, 2007 at 9:15 am
Once again, another beautiful post. Your kiddos are so lucky to have a loving and thoughtful mother (with or without the duct tape in hand) that is so much fun. ShaleBug was one of the luckiest little boys to have such understanding, compassion and love in his life.
I didn’t think it was possible to heart you more T.
August 3rd, 2007 at 9:16 am
I always get a huge lump in my throat when you talk about Bug.
You were blessed with him, but he was equally blessed to have you.
Making any progress with the adoption process? I can’t believe they are jerking you around so much!
August 3rd, 2007 at 9:18 am
This is lovely. You are lovely. You get it, you so get it, T. Like few others, I think. Is that what loss does, teach you how to live, really live?
And this:
these dirty, blonde rugrats who often don’t protect the soft side of their parents.
It’s as if you got inside my head today. No, they often don’t protect the soft side, do they.
August 3rd, 2007 at 9:19 am
“Instead of hoping to change him, I hoped for him to walk through life with grace and dignity and love”
That is simply beautiful. All children should be so lucky to have their mothers hope for this.
August 3rd, 2007 at 9:26 am
Good luck with the adoption meeting. I’m sure you’ll do fine.
August 3rd, 2007 at 9:35 am
T your heart and words are absolutely beautiful.
Truly, truly beautiful. Just like your children.
August 3rd, 2007 at 9:36 am
You have a way with words, marrying wit and candor, to staggering effect.
Beautiful.
August 3rd, 2007 at 9:41 am
“Because, in the end, all we have are our memories of the ones who touched us, made us into who we are today”. Beautiful. Another touching post.
August 3rd, 2007 at 9:56 am
What a great blog! Great style and amazingly funny. I had just stumbled upton mommycast and was almost loosing my trust in North American taste. But you definitely rebuild my confidence
Just that some posts are a bit long (unconvenient if you read it at work
Cheers from London
Mario
August 3rd, 2007 at 9:58 am
The thing that you have learned, not in a book sense that allows you to recite it at dinner conversation with others, but LEARNED as in able to deliver a speech on it, in a nano second is the same thing I learned when I lost my daughter.
There are feelings and emotions that have two sides, loving - hatred, fear - hope, life - death, enjoyment - pain etc, and what you have learned is that for any of US to really know the good side, and only to the extent we have the capacity to see the good sides full measure is this, that to really know the good side, we have to experience the bad. We cannot fully understand the wealth we have until we taste the abject poverty others see, we cannot feel real love until we see pure hatred, and lastly, with both of us, we cannot truly accept, understand, or cherish fully the value of life until we feel the coldness of death.
peace out!
August 3rd, 2007 at 10:10 am
Just when I’ve finished wiping my tears from the last tear-jerker post, you go and do it again. Thanks, T, and hugs. Wish I could have gone to BlogHer just to meet you. And grab your Canadian boobs.
August 3rd, 2007 at 10:19 am
You know when someone tells you something you don’t want to hear but you need to hear it for your own good? That was this post for me.
Your kids are lucky, T., to have a mother who walks through life with a respect for fear but who isn’t afraid of flipping it the bird.
August 3rd, 2007 at 10:22 am
***TEARS*** You are the greatest, T. The kids (past, current & future) are the luckiest ones out there. I wish you and Boo the best. I’ll be praying for you!!!!!!!
August 3rd, 2007 at 10:44 am
You gave me chills, T. You are such an amazing writer and are so incredibly perceptive and thoughtful I’m in awe! I wish you the absolute best with your final adoption meeting.
(oh and by the way I guess I better start calling myself a redneck too because my son pee outside in the grass ALL the time)
August 3rd, 2007 at 10:45 am
Your words about living in fear really resonate with me. This is an amazing story and I love the way you write (i’ve been reading and not commenting for awhile). I felt myself holding my breathe as I read about your Bug. What a lovely way to honor your boy, congratulations as you move forward with your adoption.
August 3rd, 2007 at 10:54 am
Aww, RM. Damn it. You’ve made me cry yet again.
Like Mrs. C, I really needed to hear this message too. It doesn’t make the idea of death of a loved one any less frightening, but in a strange way it makes more sense. Or maybe I’m just too sleep deprived.
Good luck with your adoption meeting. I can’t wait to read about it.
August 3rd, 2007 at 10:58 am
this child is already so incredibly blessed to be coming to your home. and this post made me miss you entirely and long for one more balmy night in your company baring souls.
your mothering, your courage…it’s an aspiration, sister. i love you.
August 3rd, 2007 at 10:58 am
Beautiful post. No fair; you’re funny and poignant.
I loved this line:
To learn to ignore the shackles of fear and remember the bonds of love.
Best wishes on your adoption meeting.
August 3rd, 2007 at 11:29 am
I like your truthiness. I was thinking about some similar themes today, actually. I was driving on a dangerous road and I started thinking about people dying, then about children dying, then about people I know whose children have died, then I started to wonder what it would be like if somehow a person knew for sure that his or her child is going to die in, say, five, or ten, or twenty years. How would one live his or her life differently with that knowledge? So you kind of answered that question. Wow, you are good. What a psychic cross continental connection.
August 3rd, 2007 at 11:37 am
Damn you, woman. There go the waterworks again, man!
You are such an amazing mother, an amazing wife, just an amazing woman.
Best of luck with you adoption meeting. I know you and Boo will do great.
As always, thank you for sharing your life with us.
August 3rd, 2007 at 11:48 am
I fear not being able to go on if I lose my children. I’m just not sure how you do it.
But it’s apparent that you model walking with grace, dignity and love.
May I learn from that example.
August 3rd, 2007 at 12:00 pm
God, T. I freaking love you. Every time you write about Bug, it just takes my breath away. Your love for that sweet boy and the thought of you without him….ack. It just about stops my heart. You are an inspiration, really and truly. For as much grousing as I do on my blog about what we are going through with KayTar, I am always keep in mind that she’s here with us and that in itself is damn precious, regardless of if things are “easy” or not. I’d take KayTar over easy any day.
I can’t wait to “meet” your new addition. I’m sure things are going to work out.
August 3rd, 2007 at 12:40 pm
Wow.
Good luck to you on your adoption. That’s so wonderful.
August 3rd, 2007 at 12:52 pm
If I can be half as good a Mom as you are, I will consider it a job well done.
Beautiful, T.
August 3rd, 2007 at 1:03 pm
Great post, and good luck with your meeting. I don’t know that you could do anything but knock their socks off~
August 3rd, 2007 at 2:03 pm
Fric and Frac will be GREAT big bro and big sis..and whoever your knicnack is…they will be VERY lucky to have an awesome mom and dad!
August 3rd, 2007 at 2:05 pm
Hey, T. What a powerful post this is.
You may not realise this, but through your loss and written expression of it, you are teaching the rest of us to stop being paralysed by fear and worry. You have shown that you can still laugh and love and LIVE, and now those of us untouched by the loss of a child have really got to learn how to live happier, less anxious lives.
I guess losing a child is something we all fear, but ultimately you can live an entire life in dread, or you can enjoy whatever time we may have (ourselves OR our children).
However much you think you’re ‘treading water’ in the sea of parenting - I’m trying to follow your example, T.
August 3rd, 2007 at 2:47 pm
I have to believe women like you when they say things like this. Because otherwise I’d just huddle up in a corner, give up and cry.
Good luck with getting some lucky little snot factory to call yours. If I had a spare lying around I’d pack it off to Canada.
August 3rd, 2007 at 3:45 pm
It took 3 tries to read this because I couldn’t see through the tears. Your post was beautiful, your tribute to your children, magnificent, and I am a complete mess, but thank you anyway.
August 3rd, 2007 at 3:59 pm
I’m holding my breath for you this week.
And what a beautiful truth it is, my friend.
Now stop making me cry and go get another kid already.
August 3rd, 2007 at 4:01 pm
You so eloquently express the unexpressable. I’ll be thinking of you next week!
August 3rd, 2007 at 4:32 pm
i have a special needs child, and i’m so in agreement on the “don’t want to change them” thing. you rock.
August 3rd, 2007 at 6:17 pm
T, you are my hero. I don’t think I have ever “met” a more courageous and strong woman.
Any child would be blessed to call you Mom.
August 3rd, 2007 at 6:39 pm
This was beautiful.
Godspeed on the final adoption meeting.
August 4th, 2007 at 8:39 am
tears in my eyes, T. the truth, indeed.
your lovely Bug does indeed walk through all our hearts with grace and dignity…thanks to your words. just so you know.
as will the new child in your lives.
August 4th, 2007 at 9:27 am
Can’t you just give the adoption-social-worker-whatever this and call it good? It is perfect, more than that.
Thank you for giving so much of yourself.
August 4th, 2007 at 9:55 am
I can not believe you are still fighting with those yahoo’s at the adoption place. Tell them to just give you a baby and then go away and never return. You want me to call ‘em? I will you know.
Oh and don’t show them the things you do to your son. First shaving his head, then flowers….poor kid. LOL!
August 4th, 2007 at 10:54 am
an awesome post that i’m volunteering to nail to the forehead of the next adoption asshat that shows up at your door. godspeed to you this week. victory!
August 4th, 2007 at 6:57 pm
You have lived every parent’s worst nightmare, and as such, you’re an authority, a voice speaking words most of us never want to truly understand.
Thank you for sharing your experience and reminding us - crystalizing - what’s truly important.
(And it was great to meet you, too.)
August 4th, 2007 at 7:36 pm
Your posts about your family are so beautiful. Once again you bring tears to my eyes! What an amazing attitude you have about not being afraid to love another child again, your future new baby. I think about things like that sometimes….like why we put ourselves through the grief of loss because we love someone….but without that, there is no life or living. You are so right. We have to just put our hearts out there, love, and know that there will be loss, but the love is just so worth it:)
August 4th, 2007 at 7:55 pm
This is why I “waste [my] time” reading your blog. Your grace leaves me speechless.
Good luck next week.
August 4th, 2007 at 11:04 pm
Amazing, beautiful, true words.
What a blessed little bunny out there, to soon be joining your family.
August 4th, 2007 at 11:13 pm
You blonde reckless crazy redneck loving soul of a woman.
is it wrong that I just want to wrap my arms around you right now and tell you that you have the soul of an angel?
Fuck it. I don’t care about wrong or right.
may it all work out for you darling.
August 5th, 2007 at 8:51 am
You don’t need it, but good luck with the meeting this week… You make my breath catch and then make me laugh, all in the same sentence. Fric and Frac and a very lucky kid will read that some day, and hopefully their breath catches and they laugh as well. *hugs*
August 5th, 2007 at 10:42 am
What an amazing post. Your children are so lucky to have such an amazing mom, and you are so lucky for the children.
August 5th, 2007 at 11:20 am
Extremely amazing post. As many others have said, your kids are super lucky to have someone who loves them as much as you do, and who “gets it” when it comes to being a parent.
DevDad
August 5th, 2007 at 3:04 pm
Wow. Wow. Amazingly beautiful post.
I can’t wait to hear about the new one coming into your home. Can’t wait to congratulate you.
August 5th, 2007 at 11:53 pm
Damn it, now you’ve made me all misty eyed, hang on while I go blow my nose ……….
This is one of the best posts I’ve read. It’s a testament to the power of love and what a big hearted brave woman you are. Best of luck with the adoption meeting
August 6th, 2007 at 2:17 am
I left a comment yesterday. It’s gone now. How weird.
I hope all goes well with the adoption — and soon!
August 6th, 2007 at 9:03 am
I’ve been wondering about the adoption but have not wanted to ask for fear something had come up and it wasn’t going to happen.
Good luck this week, my friend. This is a really lovely post.
August 6th, 2007 at 9:49 am
You amaze me. I didn’t know someone could be eloquent, hilarious, touching and motivating all at the same time.
August 6th, 2007 at 10:59 am
Thank you for this. We buried our 6 year old nephew this past Friday and reading this gives me comfort that we can heal from it.
August 6th, 2007 at 6:55 pm
This is beautiful.
I was reading about bug while I was pregnant knowing, feeling, that something was wrong. It inspires me that you have survived this without losing yourself.
Thank you for sharing this too.
August 8th, 2007 at 11:21 am
You have just captured the essence of parenting completely. And beautifully. Pleasure and pain, despair and hope — all wrapped up in a big box.
I am thinking of you as adoption time draws near. I can’t imagine a family that would provide more love and laughter.
August 10th, 2007 at 9:08 am
Parenting is all such a crapshoot, isn’t it?
I don’t think there’s a day that goes by that I don’t feel guilty in some way or another.
But you, my friend, are my hero.
Luff you.
September 6th, 2007 at 6:14 pm
I just finished pouring out my heart - again - on my blog when I remembered yours. I needed the laugh, then I remembered that you also know the pain of losing a child. Ours was 19 and he died on July 18th. I am nowhere near to where you are in the healing process but just knowing you are out there, it gives me comfort. God bless all our children, and hold close the ones that are also our guardian angels. I can’t wait to hug our boy again, see him smile, and hear him laugh. What I wouldn’t give for one more hug…
September 13th, 2007 at 10:25 am
You must give of yourself wholly and put your heart out there so that your children can run off with it when ever they choose. It’s written in the fine print at the bottom of the contract.
that is just so perfectly said.