The Deep End

Ruminate with me a moment…



Carrying life is complex.
It is complex for those who wish to do it, and cannot.
And it is complex for those who can do it.

I offer this statement up front:

Neither’s complexity is capable of white-washing the difficulties of the other. Not if we’re being honest.

And by seeking to understand my own difficulties and situation, I do not diminish the difficulties or situations of others. I merely learn more of “self.”

***

I am a mother and I carry life.

I thought of this yesterday as Justin unburdened himself to me.

Justin’s life differs from my own in every way imaginable. I used to exist in a life similar to his, but even the memories that do remain after eight years are suspiciously cloudy and indistinct. I do not have hard and fast deadlines, I do not have superiors evaluating my progress, and I do not have colleagues competing with my every step.

At least, not in that way.

If I get fed-up and overworked, I leave the laundry in the basket for another day and read a book.
If I don’t want to make dinner, I pull something out of the freezer and read a book.
If I can’t stand the thought of cleaning the bathrooms, I tidy them to “ok” standards, and - yes - read a book.

Measured by my ability to control my own situation, this life seems to be one that is lived on pretty good terms.

“But!” I thought - as I considered this seeming inequality between Justin's proscribed rat-race and my own "calm jaunt"…

“But!…”

For what about that other part of it?

***

This other part is the part that mothers are told it is wrong for them to think about:

because of the blessing, the completely immeasurable blessing of motherhood

This is a strong and viable argument.
But does it mean that I deny this truth of unmeasured motherhood bounty if I acknowledge the “But!”?

Because I am a mother and I carry life.
And that is not easy.

Even if I get to read a book.

***

Inside me, a baby squirms. Justin does not get to feel this like me. What would he pay to feel this!
But he also does not think daily of another body that did not squirm or move. Nor does he lose space inside of his own body for the regular rhythms of breathing, eating, sleeping, or - oh yes, it must be said - going to the bathroom.

Inside me, a baby grows. Justin does not get to watch this happening as clearly as me. He does not get to see it poke its leg upward while he bathes, or have it wake him in the night with its own sleeping adjustments.
But he also does not pine for sleep or food like me. A twenty-four hour obsession meant to build the body-fat of that growing entity inside, while my own stores of vitamins and energy dwindle to obscurity.

And while I am one of the lucky ones who does not deal with throwing up, growing dehydrated, becoming ill, or feeling concretely crazy… these are all possible additions to this particular experience. All possible risks a mother takes to carry life.

And once the life comes?
The amazing, heart-rending life of a child?

To have your child hug you, smile at you, giggle with you, reach for you, cuddle you, call for you.
Who can describe the emotions associated with such things?

To have your child scream at you, bite you, tell you you’re mean, whine at you, demand of you, throw things at you.
Who can describe the emotions associated with such things?

***

I thought today of many mothers that I know.

Each has a different story, a different task, a different trial that she faces.

babies gone, babies interminably awake, babies that are sick, bodies that are sick with carrying baby, bodies that are waiting for babies, or bodies that are “simply” meeting the demands and desires of baby

And I wondered, is it meaningful to acknowledge the load that “mother” carries, to speak of the other?
Is it a negative or a positive exercise?

Does it diminish the joy she gains as “mother”?
Does it imply she would not choose her tasks again?
Or does the truth allow a greater understanding of the task of motherhood to awaken?

I thought of the constant reminders in the Bible to the Israelites.

Reminders to remember their fathers, to remember their captivity.

Not to remember that one good day they had that one time twenty years ago.

No, they were to remember their captivity - not the good times, and then to remember the mercy of The Father to their fathers.

Always I thought that remembering the captivity only implied remembering that it ended.  Always I thought the mercy came after - that the mercy came in the release from captivity. 
But is that right?
Is not captivity and trial merciful???
And remembering it, acknowledging it - in the moment we have sunk to our knees in heaviness - realizing that this burden is our Father’s mercy, is his gift to help us grow - is that not what is asked for?

Not a wallowing, not a slide into depression, not a chance to list the faults and insecurities and difficulties of life.

And not because our children are a captivity - but because sometimes the trials associated with giving them life and raising them up do seem that way.

But because knowing this, seeing this, is it not a chance to see the mercies of our Father?
As they are - the joys and the pains.
And to give acknowledgment that we see it, that we know it, that we feel it.


And that we choose it.
As our mothers did.
And that we would choose it again.