Part of My Story
I read a note on Facebook the other night. It was written by one of my wingmates from senior year of college. She is expecting her first and in her note she wrote of the joy she finds in carrying her child, her intimacy with Mary, the beauty and the privilege of pregnancy, the happiness of living out her vocation. It's beautifully written.
But, upon reading it I cried onto my keyboard. They were tears of disillusionment and disappointment. Tears of guilt and frustration. And these are familiar tears to me these days.
When I think back to my pregnancy with Turtle, I think of how happy and in awe we were. I think of how excited I was about all the newness and how in love I was with that baby. I thought of her often, cradled my hands around her every chance I got, played her classical music, sang to her and danced with her. I think I even wrote her a poem.
And now, this time around, it is so different. And I don't want it to be different. When I took the pregnancy test in the wee hours of May 2nd, it was really just to eliminate the possibility of pregnancy. We didn't really think it would be positive. And when it was, the familiar feeling of awe was there, yes, but this time, there came also an overwhelming sense of panic, and then guilt. I felt guilty that nothing remotely like happiness welled up inside of me.
And that happiness, the happiness that I wish I felt, the happiness that this baby deserves to have me feel, even now often eludes my grasp.
When I'm so overwhelmed that I can't do anything,
when my headaches are debilitating,
when I don't treat my girls right because I'm so irritable and weepy,
when I get frustrated at everything about being a mother and a voice in my head assures me that it will only get worse and harder with three,
when I see needs in my girls that I can't meet because I'm too overwhelmed or too busy or just too tired to try,
when any kind of patient, consistent, intentional mothering goes out the window,
when day after day is just surviving till daddy gets home,
when I stop myself at least 3 times a day from calling my mom and crying to her,
when my toddler says, "Mommy, when the baby comes, will you eat dinner with us again?"
when my husband tries not to complain that the dinner isn't made, again, or that it's just pasta, again . . .
Yes, even now there are many times that the happiness about this pregnancy seems so far away.
Many days I just can't find that joy, that wonder, that privilege-of-being-a-woman feeling. I want to see pregnancy again in the glow of a new little life, sacred vessels, a holy privilege, hearts beating together, growing and giving and embracing . . . But many days all I see is the tiredness, and the weakness and the aches and the difficulty of it, the so many things that I need to be and provide and do and all the resources that I don't have because there's nothing left.
I'm tired. I was tired before I was pregnant. I'm still tired now.
And, if I were honest, I wouldn't say I was excited, though people ask me if I am. My husband is. Turtle is. My main feeling is one of being stretched thin to breaking.
I write this because, though, it may scandalize some, it is honest. I've written here honestly before. And I've linked to another's thoughts about honesty. And I know that there are women out there who know exactly what I am talking about, who have been where I am, and know that this can be a cross in the way of life that we Catholics have chosen -- the openness to life, the "yes" that we say to all God's good gifts, and especially to this most sublime gift of all.
I know that I am not wrong to feel this way. It is sad, yes. Sad for me. Sad for the baby especially. It's not the way that I would've wished to experience this pregnancy of my 3rd child. It's not the "perfect" way. It especially hurts when I think of how unfair this is for the baby. But many things are not perfect in this life. I try to remind myself of St. Paul and how he said, "when I am weak then I am strong."
But, of course, because God is a good God, and lest you think that all is darkness over here :), there are moments of grace.
There was my baby dream.
There are my midwife appointments when I hear the little heart beating inside of me. And the soft gentle bumps of a tiny foot -- felt for the first time.
And every Sunday, when I receive Jesus, I imagine Him holding me and holding the baby in His other arm and the three of us just rest together.
Every night I pray for the baby and my relationship with it, asking for healing and joy and bonding. And I know that prayer isn't one that God will leave unanswered.
And there's Turtle and her excitement. She blesses the baby with holy water. She kisses my belly. She talks about my growing stomach and wintertime "when the baby will come out." We have sweet conversations about umbilical cords and why babies are naked inside mommies (from her book).
Then, there are the words of a friend, understanding and giving me hope:
There are the words that gave me consolation back in September:
I do love my baby. I chose to love it the moment I knew of it's existence. And I tell him or her that, and that I am happy to have them with me, that our family is happy too. I may not feel it most of the time, but I choose it. And that is what counts.
As I wrote in September:
Somehow, someway, God is in this hard time for me and the baby, even when I don't see it. He will be there with us in all the future hard times, teaching me to trust, teaching me to have confidence. I am grateful for the un-equivocal clarity of knowing that this is God's plan.
And thanks to His plan, I am learning to let go, to say "yes" and to gratefully watch Him write straight with crooked lines.
But, upon reading it I cried onto my keyboard. They were tears of disillusionment and disappointment. Tears of guilt and frustration. And these are familiar tears to me these days.
When I think back to my pregnancy with Turtle, I think of how happy and in awe we were. I think of how excited I was about all the newness and how in love I was with that baby. I thought of her often, cradled my hands around her every chance I got, played her classical music, sang to her and danced with her. I think I even wrote her a poem.
And now, this time around, it is so different. And I don't want it to be different. When I took the pregnancy test in the wee hours of May 2nd, it was really just to eliminate the possibility of pregnancy. We didn't really think it would be positive. And when it was, the familiar feeling of awe was there, yes, but this time, there came also an overwhelming sense of panic, and then guilt. I felt guilty that nothing remotely like happiness welled up inside of me.
And that happiness, the happiness that I wish I felt, the happiness that this baby deserves to have me feel, even now often eludes my grasp.
When I'm so overwhelmed that I can't do anything,
when my headaches are debilitating,
when I don't treat my girls right because I'm so irritable and weepy,
when I get frustrated at everything about being a mother and a voice in my head assures me that it will only get worse and harder with three,
when I see needs in my girls that I can't meet because I'm too overwhelmed or too busy or just too tired to try,
when any kind of patient, consistent, intentional mothering goes out the window,
when day after day is just surviving till daddy gets home,
when I stop myself at least 3 times a day from calling my mom and crying to her,
when my toddler says, "Mommy, when the baby comes, will you eat dinner with us again?"
when my husband tries not to complain that the dinner isn't made, again, or that it's just pasta, again . . .
Yes, even now there are many times that the happiness about this pregnancy seems so far away.
Many days I just can't find that joy, that wonder, that privilege-of-being-a-woman feeling. I want to see pregnancy again in the glow of a new little life, sacred vessels, a holy privilege, hearts beating together, growing and giving and embracing . . . But many days all I see is the tiredness, and the weakness and the aches and the difficulty of it, the so many things that I need to be and provide and do and all the resources that I don't have because there's nothing left.
I'm tired. I was tired before I was pregnant. I'm still tired now.
And, if I were honest, I wouldn't say I was excited, though people ask me if I am. My husband is. Turtle is. My main feeling is one of being stretched thin to breaking.
I write this because, though, it may scandalize some, it is honest. I've written here honestly before. And I've linked to another's thoughts about honesty. And I know that there are women out there who know exactly what I am talking about, who have been where I am, and know that this can be a cross in the way of life that we Catholics have chosen -- the openness to life, the "yes" that we say to all God's good gifts, and especially to this most sublime gift of all.
I know that I am not wrong to feel this way. It is sad, yes. Sad for me. Sad for the baby especially. It's not the way that I would've wished to experience this pregnancy of my 3rd child. It's not the "perfect" way. It especially hurts when I think of how unfair this is for the baby. But many things are not perfect in this life. I try to remind myself of St. Paul and how he said, "when I am weak then I am strong."
But, of course, because God is a good God, and lest you think that all is darkness over here :), there are moments of grace.
There was my baby dream.
There are my midwife appointments when I hear the little heart beating inside of me. And the soft gentle bumps of a tiny foot -- felt for the first time.
And every Sunday, when I receive Jesus, I imagine Him holding me and holding the baby in His other arm and the three of us just rest together.
Every night I pray for the baby and my relationship with it, asking for healing and joy and bonding. And I know that prayer isn't one that God will leave unanswered.
And there's Turtle and her excitement. She blesses the baby with holy water. She kisses my belly. She talks about my growing stomach and wintertime "when the baby will come out." We have sweet conversations about umbilical cords and why babies are naked inside mommies (from her book).
Then, there are the words of a friend, understanding and giving me hope:
I worried about bonding with #3 when I was pregnant. I was
so worn out from the other two, I felt like I had nothing left to give. . . .
I'll pray that the baby can feel God's love through me as they rest under my
heart, and that they can feel my love through their nearness to God. I'll press
my hand against their foot or hand when they kick, and rub their limb's
bump.
There are the words that gave me consolation back in September:
There is misunderstanding about love in the world . . .
It is true that love creates joy. This is true. But when we take on love, it is
also at times like taking on a burden which must then be carried. We should not
decide for love and then, finding that love burdensome at times, set it down and
walk away from it. This is not how it is done.
On the contrary, if you love as I loved, you will find at times that the weight of love is heavy. . . .
I want each of My apostles to expect their love for Me to be a burden to them at
times. This is normal.
I want each of My apostles to expect their love for
others to be a burden to them at times. This is also normal.
In love there are times when the decision to love feels light, of course, and there seems to be no burden to it at all. Rejoice in these times.
In love, there are other times when the burden causes you to question your commitment. Do not be afraid
of these times. This questioning is necessary for your growth.
I do love my baby. I chose to love it the moment I knew of it's existence. And I tell him or her that, and that I am happy to have them with me, that our family is happy too. I may not feel it most of the time, but I choose it. And that is what counts.
As I wrote in September:
I love how God doesn't sugar coat things for us. He doesn't tell us that we
always have to feel happy about a baby -- a quite literal "burden" of love! He
tells us that love can be rejoiced in and love can also be heavy. And He lets us
know that that is okay not to feel like you want it. He who chose the ultimate
burden of love knows that love is not about feelings.But He also tells us that
we cannot walk away from love. We can and must choose what may seem a burdensome weight at the time. We must choose to love. Love is an act of the will.
Somehow, someway, God is in this hard time for me and the baby, even when I don't see it. He will be there with us in all the future hard times, teaching me to trust, teaching me to have confidence. I am grateful for the un-equivocal clarity of knowing that this is God's plan.
And thanks to His plan, I am learning to let go, to say "yes" and to gratefully watch Him write straight with crooked lines.
Comments
Sometimes, when I get frustrated or overwhelmed, I think back on old family stories. There's one about my grandmother being all upset when she was pregnant with my mother, her third child, because she thought she didn't have any more love to give. Mom was a naughty, stubborn child, but before my grandmother died, she told my mother that she had turned out the best of all the children and had been her greatest help and support in her last illness.
We don't know which of our children will help us later on - this little one might be yours.
While it may not be the "perfect" way to experience pregnancy, perhaps it is the "way of perfection" ;)
Wish we were closer and I could help you out!
May He continue to shower His Grace and Comfort on you!
that never was it known that anyone who fled to your protection,
implored your help or sought your intercession,
was left unaided.
Inspired with this confidence,
I fly to you, O Virgin of virgins, my Mother;
to you do I come, before you I stand, sinful and sorrowful.
O Mother of the Word Incarnate,
despise not my petitions,
but in your mercy hear and answer me.
Amen.
(I prefer it the way I memorized it so many years ago but that is what I copied for now).
Can I just say something. You have no idea how awesome you are to be so open to life. It comes at a cost but the fact of the matter is so many people just aren't. What you are doing is what you can do and you are doing is SO much more than SO many people do. Your children have a home. How many people can actually say that? How many people can say they had a childhood? A home and a childhood aren't perfect nor will they ever be, you are doing wonderful. The Graces you need will come, do not get discouraged dear friend.
I adopt, and have never known the strains, emotional and physical of pregnancy, but I am sure that there is a BIG difference between the first pregnancy and subsequent ones. I know when we were adopting our son, it was my life for month after month; when we adopted our daughter, I already had one child to exhaust me and occupy me and enthrall me, so I often feel she has missed out, especially since she came here because of having a high needs brother. But God sent each of my children in His own timing, knowing it would all work for their good and my good, so I try to not feel guilt. God sent your little one in His own timing and for the good of all in your family - one day these struggles may become so beautiful to you, because they pulled you closer to Jesus - the crosses in my own life are precious to me for that reason.
I often wonder if we will adopt again. We are open to do so, but some days the thought of the reality makes me want to be sick! The other day we had DD's godsister here to babysit, and DD was so angry that I had another child to care for - I can't imagine that 24/7, but when it happens we will all cope and God will carry us through.
May Isaiah 40:11 feel true for you.
(sorry this got so long!)