Even before I had one child, for a year I had one very big child, a big spirit, a hole in my life. It takes an incredible amount of energy to parent that, I tell you. Just this evening I was putting together a plea-for-meals for a friend whose unborn baby passed away several weeks ago. I thought about her, at home, glazed and thunderstruck, her two and a half year old son running around her in circles, and wondered just how long we could stretch the meals on wheels for. I imagined myself, after Fiona's birth, a few weeks later feeling proud that I had slung her in the Moby wrap, as Aoife and Liam amused themselves at the art table, and cooked our family a complete meal. But a newly bereaved mom? You just can't take that grief and wrap it up in 17 feet of stretchy cotton, get on your feet, and function. The lack of baby sucks the very life right out of you, and you are flat on your back. I was thinking maybe if I could stretch her meals to about six months, or eight, maybe she could feel a lightening then. But maybe not.
But although I admit that we all fill our time, I have found myself lately being angry at myself for letting certain things slide. I feel sad about this blog. I know that I have lost a good many readers over the last eighteen months because I haven't been posting regularly. Five comments feels like a good day, and I cringe when there are only two. I want--need--this community, yet can I blame people who give up when weeks pass with nothing? Similarly, I have been working on a project-- not a secret project, just not one that is fully developed enough to share in detail, about lactation after loss. My mind is absolutely swirling with details, ideas, calls to bereaved mothers to contribute, questionnaires to write, people to contact... but the days pass.
And in the days, I get children up, and dress them, and feed them, and drive them places. I run around doing their laundry and picking up their toys and hanging up their coats. I try to sweep the kitchen floor so Fiona won't eat too much organic matter. I put in laundry, take it out, try to fold it and put it away from the five overflowing baskets. I pay the bills, try not to lose anything important, and pick the kids up. I play with them, love them, enjoy them. I feed them some more, bathe them all, read to them, tuck them in. When they are in bed, at long last, I clean up from dinner, wipe down the counters, wash the baby seat, make the lunches, and try to figure out what we'll eat for breakfast. Then I lay out their clothes, make sure I can find coats, and shoes, and dig my car keys out of whatever pocket I left them in so I don't have a temper tantrum tomorrow morning. And then, I look at the clock, and it is 9:00 every time.
So if I want to go to bed at 9:00, where's my minute?
BUT...
But, but, but. There is a big difference between what the above could mean, and what I mean it to mean. The above could mean, oi! I have NO time for myself!
Or it could mean, and does to me, WOW! I have a lot going on in my life right now, and I haven't even touched on the support organization I run out of my kitchen and the weekly meetings. But it's full with EVERYTHING I love and everything I chose (well, not the bereavement part, but I did choose what to do with it), and so rather than look at it as an opportunity to complain, I choose instead to look at it for what it is (busy) and say, I'm busy right now. I'm not going to get to blog every day, or work on my project three times a week. I do what I can, and I have to know that I have thirty-four years behind me and hopefully at least that many ahead of me and there's nothing more beautiful than those little blonde heads resting on pillows upstairs....
And so, I bid you adieu for the night, knowing that I've just used my minute (or five) to tell you all of this.
Good night!
7 comments:
Part of my version of busy means not reading as frequently as I used to and, more often than I'd like, logging off without commenting—but I'm still here, still reading, whenever you find that minute.
It's good to be busy, and the way you're busy would be fine with me.
Good night!
I'm always glad for any minute(s) you can give us! And like Sara, if you don't see a comment here (rare for me on your blog I know!) you can be sure that I DID read. Sometimes my minute is only enough to read, not comment.
I do wonder how you mothers do it - those of you with more than one at home. Angus seems like six full time jobs rolled in one. And there is only one of him. And yep, then there is that huge hole in my heart I have to parent, and I wish I had more minutes to give her.
I'm sure the newly bereaved mum really appreciates those meals. I wish I had a Carol close by when Hope left us.
xo
See, that's the thing EXACTLY Shannon-- the difference between complaining about being busy, versus saying, I'm busy but I wouldn't have it any other way. I certainly hope you read it the way I meant it to be heard. I wouldn't trade this.
I always feel so inspired after reading your blog. I love that you can take the every day hustle, bustle and "craziness" and make it sound like poetry. :-)
Hey, you. Been thinking of you, and now I know why. I do want to hear more about your project. You know, after Grace, after I had carefully weaned Sophia three months earlier, I practically forced her to start breastfeeding again. It wasn't really that hard. But she latched on during the fourth day and all I could think about was, "thank you for drinking some of Grace's milk." I don't know what I might have done without that! Sigh. Thinking of you.
You'll never lose all of us, no matter how infrequent your posts! I have been reading for several months now - and an overdue thank you - but have never commented. That's not because I haven't been moved and grateful for your words, but because I am often too emotionally tired to articulate anything. Knowing that you feel energised and supported by comments, however, I will make an effort! I wish my daughter was here to make me feel busy too. I remember my previous life of always being busy, but this new, awful bereaved life is not busy at all, but much more exhausting.
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