Birth

I’m proud of the births I’ve had. I don’t know why others want to take that joy away from me.
Me, my husband, my children. That’s all it’s ever been about. The other world is shut out. My best decision for me. You don’t have to agree. But can’t you allow me my choice? My joy? My experience?

These are the happiest moments of my life. And yet I’m on the defense so often. So often, I just shut up. I hide it. I keep quiet. I won’t share with you because you’ll feel bad somehow. Bad because I’m happy? Bad because I’m brave? Bad because I’m empowered in a way that you never knew was possible. In a way you never were interested in.

You chose big white shiny building with sparkling floors and sterile needles. That’s fine. It’s fine for you. It’s fine for so many. But it’s not fine for me.

It’s not about bedside manner. It’s not about getting back to nature. It’s about my husband at my side, reaching down, being the first hand to touch the fruit of the gift he gave me. It’s about welcoming home my precious babe. No bright lights. No room transfers. No release forms.

Just mom and dad, brothers, sisters, and love.

Cherubic cheeks

Her cherubic cheeks were smeared with chocolate. I huffed at the sight of her, wondering if there was ever a moment when that girl’s face was not a mess. But then I recalled how she got that way – by delighting in the chocolate chocolate-chip muffins I’d baked this morning. The ones I had made to make up for being a grumpy mommy the past few days.
I sprinkled water on a washcloth from the kitchen faucet and wrung it out. Kneeling down, I began to wipe her face. Stray strands of hair covered over her sparkling blue eyes, gazing patiently at me. In those eyes, I remembered the baby I rejoiced over, the toddler I delighted in, the preschooler who this very morning had asked when I would make her favorite muffins again.
She smiled at me sweetly as my fingers pressed the cloth across her cheeks and I knew that this was how I wanted to remember my daughter. Not because her cheeks were spotless and rosy. But because her eyes gazed upon me lovingly while enduring my swabs.
So often lately, she had been one more person who needed to be clothed, and reminded that shoes need to go on the fireplace, and told to buckle up as soon as you sit in your car seat so we can go. Go, go, always going. Always distracted even when I’m home. The days go by and this girl’s hair needs brushing every hour, her shoes are never together in a pair, she talks too much, she sings too loud, she does everything but keep quiet and stay out of the way.
I love her. I forget sometimes to take a moment from scrubbing the dishes just to study her face, absorb the admiration she has for me. It’s a struggle to forget my own embarrassment over how poorly I’ve behaved. I want to hide my face, but instead I catch my breath and turn toward my daughter, humbled by the lovely violets she picked for me.