You know that image of the doctor slapping the newborn baby to help it breath its first breath? Well, I’ve been thinking about it lately. Although the practice of slapping the baby is no longer current, the image seems profoundly appropriate to me.
Before kids, I lived a very full life. I had a challenging, but positive and nourishing childhood. After leaving home I went to college and I travelled the world. I married in my early twenties and had this great sustaining relationship. Together, we lived in several different countries and had adventures. We had no money, and we had many challenges, and ups and downs, but we grew together, not apart.
Despite all the adventures and challenges, before becoming a mother I had this tendency to freeze up and become numb at the defining events in life. I remember being 8 and learning that my cat had been hit by a car. I sat in my a room by myself thinking, I should be crying, I should be feeling more and I tried to cry. It continued that way as I got older. I remember when I got the phone call that my father died, it was like I left my body and observed myself for an hour or so, willing myself to respond appropriately, to feel appropriately.
Therefore, when I was pregnant and approaching my due date, I had this nagging fear that I would see my baby and freeze. I would get to that moment and observe myself rather than being in the moment.
When I think back to the giving birth to Rachel, I think of the dark and explosive experience of my body taking over, of giving up control while fighting to stay in control of the labor, of the frightening aspect of losing control and falling into a place of pain and panic, of having an urgent need to push when the nurse was telling me not to, of having the nurse discover that the baby WAS coming and hearing the panic in his voice, of the relief when I could finally push. And I think of that moment I turned Rachel around on my stomach so we could face each other for the first time. I remember seeing her and being yanked so absolutely into the present—like a big slap, helping me to finally breath fully, to feel fully.
The rawness of early motherhood. The physicality of it. It takes you to past your limit and when you feel you are at breaking point, sometimes it opens you up to magic. The sharp pain as you heal from childbirth contrasting with the adrenilin that sustains you for a time as you survive on little sleep. The feeling each night that you’ve been hit by a truck every time you have to wake up and feed the baby. And how that moment can suddenly lead to witnessing something glorious as you watch the light reflect off the rosy glow of the baby’s sleep when you are nursing. Fluids everywhere: leaking milk, spit-up, blood as your uterus empties out, tears when you’ve hit the wall. The stinging, foggy, heavy tightness behind your eyes due to sleep deprivaion. It’s all intermingled with this born-again feeling that life suddenly has endless dimensions, endless possibiliies. As the children grow older, the monotony of cleaning messy floors and fighting battles of will. This ordinariness is broken by the extraordinary. The unexpected moment that makes you catch your breath. Your child surprises you with something that she’s said, or learned, or done.
I am in the present. I am breathing fully. I am sitting still but having the adventure of a lifetime.
