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If you have a few minutes, please peruse Katie’s blog over at The Journey. She’s just your average 20-year-old who moves to Africa and adopts 14 children. On her own.
I read things like this and I wonder how much more I could do, how much more we are all capable of. As R and I wade through adoption and foster care information, I think of Katie, mother to fourteen, and I wonder how much more we can do as partners. Frequently we see families with many kids, or with special needs, or with extraordinary circumstances, and our first thought is always: “How do they do it?” Sometimes, my teaching, my two kids, and a husband who’d lose his head if it weren’t attached are all I can handle. I remember when I was sick sick sick with my second child, face to the ground, unable to stay on my feet, gasping into the dirt: “No more. I can’t do this any more.”
And yet somehow, something intensely human inside of us moves aside when faced with extraordinary circumstances. We do what is in front of us. We do what must be done and we, and those around us, are a little bit better.
A tiny bit.
More.
I promise I remember the days of hyperemesis, when my body cried out for nutrition but always heaved it back up in a matter of minutes, halfway digested. Salad was the worst: those green, crunchy leaves would wreak havoc on my esophagus. I remember the ligament pain, the waddling, the stretching, the lack of sleep.
But somehow, I’m still thinking about you.
I’m thinking about those short, pixellated moments directly after birth with you sobbing on my chest, and me heaving in exhaustion. Feeling in real time what I’ve been feeling for the months before within my belly.
Yes, I still want another head to wash in the bath at night, baby curls encrusted with the day’s leavings. I want to rock with another sweaty head on my shoulder in the wee hours, to calm the fears of another sleepless one. Most often I think of my favorites: swaddling, nursing, and the burbles: you know- that gelatinous sound you’d make, trying to talk to me.
I am still thinking of you. Imagining who you’d be, what path you’d take. What disaster you’d be in my life, what sweetness, what exhaustion.
And I think: there are not enough reasons not. And so many for.
And I think: I hope you come soon.
I wait for the holiday crowd to clear the beach
before stepping onto the first wave.
before stepping onto the first wave.
Soon I am walking across the Atlantic
thinking about Spain,
checking for whales, waterspouts.
I feel the water holding up my shifting weight.
Tonight I will sleep on its rocking surface.
But for now I try to imagine what
this must look like to the fish below,
the bottoms of my feet appearing, disappearing.
-Billy Collins
(Scene: interior of home, kitchen. CHILD, 13 months, and MOM, engaged in “conversation”).
CHILD: Duh!
MOM: Yes, love? You want a grape?
CHILD: Duh! (Pointing).
MOM: (Looking where indicated, somewhere slightly above the exhaust fan on stove). Um, a banana?
CHILD: Duh!
MOM: How about some goldfish?
CHILD: Duh! (Pointing now somewhere near the trash can).
MOM: Uh…no goldfish? Some apple sauce?
CHILD: DUH! (Adamant).
MOM: Oh, sweet pea- I don’t know what it is you want!
CHILD: BA!
MOM: Ohhhh….
CHILD: BA! ! (Signs: “more”, “please”, “milk”).
MOM: Ok, love. I’ll get your bottle.
CHILD: Duh!
MOM: Yeah, duh is right.
…today I will sing you birthday songs in every language I know.
I will kiss you more often, though even now you hardly hold still for it.
I will not fret about the freezy-pop juice on your shirt, or the dirt between your teeth.
I will come running immediately instead of in “just a sec”.
Because you are One, I will let you sit in the bath as long as you like, even after your toes have turned pruney.
I will let you finish the whole bowl of grapes, though I know I will see them all too soon in your diaper.
I will dance to more songs with you in my arms, cause I know you love it.
I will be a better mom, a better wife and daughter, and a better Me.
‘Cause you’re One.
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