My first Mother’s Day six years ago was spent doused in
vomit and tears (Caedmon’s and mine, respectively), which sounds about right
for a new mom of a one-month-old. We were on our way to church—our first attendance
after the arrival of the baby—which was significant because while we had
ventured into the world a few tentative times before, this was our first
attempt at returning to an old routine, paving the way to what I hoped would be
some semblance of structure in our topsy-turvy lives. The fact that it was
Mother’s Day only added to the salience of the occasion.
It’s not that we hadn’t WANTED to go back to church (or anywhere
with a more defined framework) prior to this point, it was more a matter that
we COULDN’T. Still learning to handle this creature whose sole purpose seemed to
be to ruin our lives, we just physically couldn’t get our acts together enough
to leave the house to arrive anywhere on time. We were running frantically on
this endless hamster wheel of feeding, burping—and because Caedmon had moderate
reflux—near-projectile vomiting, which then meant cleaning up, changing, and then
repeating from the beginning. And while I so appreciate the imagery of “herding cats”—plural—I
can’t even use it to accurately describe our desperation as new parents. Though
the sentiment of harried rushing and running about, trying to corral a number
of feral beasts who are simultaneously scampering away and scratching out your
eyes is spot-on, we only had one cat,
and one who—as a newborn—didn’t even move! But still, herding that one,
immobile cat took everything out of us. (Anyone who has cared for a newborn
for any prolonged amount of time will attest that those unmoving baby cats are
the worst.)
So it really was a near-miracle when on the morning of that
first Mother’s Day, Wayne and I had managed to get ourselves up and dressed early,
and had even enjoyed a peaceful breakfast while Caedmon still slept soundly.
And as if he understood my carefully detailed timetable and lofty expectations
for the day, Caedmon stirred at the perfect hour that would begin our perfect
day. I nursed him, we changed his diaper and put him in his special outfit, and
then strapped him into his car seat. Even though the drive was across town, we
had plenty of time to spare and would even be early—something I rarely was,
even before I had children to blame. I was just patting myself on the back for
such a job well done, when Wayne hoisted the car seat, and Caedmon, with his
sensitive tummy, suddenly and violently spit up his entire meal, dousing me,
himself, and our carefully laid-out plans in a thick layer of baby vomit. So
much for going to church this Mother’s Day, or anywhere, it seemed, for the
foreseeable future. Time to break out the emergency survival kit; we were
hunkering down for the long-haul.
There was little to do at that point but to clean up the
mess—which is what Wayne did, because I just sat there and cried pathetically
on the couch. I cried for our plans, so painstakingly synced with Caedmon’s
schedule, that had just folded like a house of cards. I cried for this complete
loss of control over our lives and the ineptitude I felt over accomplishing the
simplest tasks. I cried for my body that still hurt from birthing a tiny human
and from keeping this tiny human alive; my toes still curled at the onset of each nursing
session. I cried that that same body, once in marathon and triathlon form,
could now be a stand-in for Jabba the Hutt. I cried and cried and cried. There
was nothing happy about this day or being a mother!
But thank goodness for dads who know to take the baton when
Mom has fallen flat on her face and refuses to budge from her pity party. I was
useless as Wayne quietly extricated Caedmon from his soggy car seat, changed
him into a new set of clothes, and then washed all the soiled seat covers. And
because the seat was all wet, which I thought dictated our sequestration at
home, Wayne resourcefully lined Caedmon’s chair in a thick layer of towels,
even padding the undersides of the wet straps. And while I was still ugly-crying
on the couch, Wayne came over to give me a hug and a quick pep talk along the
lines of “this is hard, but we can do it” (which rings truer each and every
day), and then presented me with our newly clean and highly absorbent baby:
“Okay, Mom, we’re ready!”
We did make it to church that day, even if it was literally
for the last two seconds of service. And we even held it together long enough
to make a trip out to Costco afterwards for supplies and lunch. (Look at us,
surviving!) It was clearly nothing fancy, but that first Mother’s Day was
monumental. To me, it symbolized an inauguration into this league of undercover
super heroes who had been making and sustaining lives all around me. I had been
Lois Lane, blind as a bat to all these phenomenal women, most notably my own
mother, disguised loosely—not in glasses—but in kid-friendly cottons and
synthetics. How amazing and awesome and all-sacrificing a mother is—whether she
even wholly embraces it or not.
Since then, I have become a mother two more times over,
which has left my body worn and damaged beyond easy repair (blistering eczema all over my hands and a herniated umbilical just to name a couple of gripes). I have been doused
countless more times in vomit and all other bodily fluids. (In fact, I was puked
on all over just yesterday evening, and today, it was baby jelly poo.) And I have
had my plans spoiled… what, every day? But still my heart beats so completely
for these little beings who have ruined EVERYTHING. They try me and test me and
stretch me, but you know, they also rebuild me. That first Mother’s Day—just
one month into the fray—I cried for the loss of my self, and understandably so;
that forced self-denial is brutal. But what I didn’t yet have the perspective
to see is that once the milk has been cleaned up, our schedules sufficiently
reshuffled, and those extra pounds—well, may or may not have been lost—I
still have this entourage of mini people who, through all my vacillating
emotions and self-centered regrets and soul-searching identity crises, have
remained my biggest fans. They’re just waiting for me, wrapped in absorbent
towels, to finish MY tantrum so they (at least for now in these little years)
can continue loving on me with their simple, uncomplicated, yet fierce
adoration.
And that’s nothing to cry about.
Our absorbent baby
Introducing Caedmon to one of our favorite places.
Enjoying my first hot dog after following all the pregnancy rules, like a conscientious mamma should. (This happened not at all with pregnancies #2 and #3.)
