Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Definite miscarriage.  Why on earth would you let me get pregnant just to go through this again?  It did occur to me that I now have been pregnant six times.  The number of children Jonathan and I said we wanted to have before we even got married.  I have now been pregnant the same number of times as both N and J and one less time than A.  All women who have more earthly children than I do.  That’s a hard pill to swallow. 

Gender identifying test.  I want to know if this baby was a boy or a girl.  I just want to name him, to name her.  I wish I had named all of them.  All three.  Dec 2008.  May 2009.  February 2012.  Three babies who never breathed air here on earth.  I wish they had a name, an identity I could impart to them, to refer to them with.  I guess I have “had” six children, just not really.   A July baby, a January baby and an October baby that were all born too early.  Or not born at all, as some calloused, ignorant souls would claim.    

In some backwards way I was calculating how close my children were going to be, with this last pregnancy, in comparison to other women.  Calculating that I can handle just as much as they can.  See I’m not a loser, my marriage doesn’t suck any worse than yours (well, actually it does sometimes/often).  I’m not less of a woman that you.  I CAN DO IT!  Just like you.  I’m not less and if God had only allowed those babies to stay I would have been able to prove it.    Because proving it is what life is really all about, right?

Why do we do this?  What could possibly possess us in these times of great celebration and great mourning to compare ourselves to one another?  Surely, I am not the only one.  This does not help anyone and it certainly does not help me.  Why on earth are we so masochistic?  God is not asking us to do this, in fact He’s telling us not to.  Neither are our husbands doing this to us or asking us to inflict ourselves in this way.  Our friends may be asking us to but usually in a self-depreciating or maligning another kind of way.  And in that moment they are truly being the worse type of ‘friend.’  I can't attack their character for I have done it too.

Look how she’s dressed, why can’t she lose that weight, have you seen her house, did you see how she disciplined her children or didn’t discipline her child.  I've done this to other women even at times women I love.  Why do we find it necessary to figure life out in this way?  As if there is some mighty scale somewhere that weighs us all out and those with the right looks, house, marriage, children, relationship with God will balance the scale and the rest of us... "you have been weighed, you have been measured and you have been found wanting"

                When we turn inward and outward to compare ourselves we are devaluing our personhood and we are devaluing theirs as well.  We are not whole without God, they aren’t and we aren’t either.  It doesn’t matter how well we clean our houses, it doesn’t matter how we decorate, what we weigh, how we discipline or don't.  It doesn’t matter how many children we have or how close together or far apart they are born from one another.  It doesn’t even matter whether or not they are born.  We are not whole without God and if we don’t have Him filling us up; we will live our lives in a constant state of comparing and striving to improve ourselves. 

                What if all your striving only mars the beauty you already have within you?

                “Comparing = Death  You are you, who else gets to be that?”  - Stasi Eldredge

sts 2/22/2012

Sunday, February 26, 2012

Stuck in a Moment

Miscarrying and bleeding awful day, let him go in the morning don’t complain.  Copes corn mixed with milk and green beans on the stove making me want to puke.  He admits it’s a flop and won’t throw it out.   I can’t even eat at the same table as that nasty looking… umm stuff.   I will definitely be sick.  I explain this and retire to my chair.  He yells and yells and yells across the house for me to come back to the table. 

“#$%^ YOU” rings across the house.  You can assume the direction that went.

                I don’t want to lose this baby.  I don’t want to lose this baby.  My heart can’t take that again.  Crying for the first time all day, first time I let myself sit since it started this morning. I thought that was happening last month, it was not, but if I continue to bleed there will be no denying it this time.  Two tests have confirmed this baby’s existence.  Appointment tomorrow to know for… sure?

                He comes looking for me. 

“Momma, please come to the table” 

“Why’s she (Baby girl) crying? “ 

“Because she misses you” 

“Why, really?” 

“I don’t know” 

“Did you really think I’d come after how you just treated me?” 

“I’m sorry, I’m just…” 

 “Just what? Miscarrying your third baby.  After letting you leave this morning without even complaining?”  (this would be defined as complaining)

“Fine, I’ll take care of the kids” 

                I have to stop typing to go rescue two out of the three kids from crying.  Baby girl recovers.  Duka returns to the table.  Relative peace.  Mascara runs dyeing the cracks in my fingers.  He calls me again from four rooms away.  He does not like it when I do that to him.  I feel like he should bring me a plate… make me some tea... rub my feet.  I feel ignored, mistreated.  He probably just doesn’t know what to say.  Maybe he’s disappointed and doesn’t want to look me in the face.  Seems like it could be true; it’s probably not.  My head tells me there’s a way to care for someone in this time, my heart asks if I care for him in times like this in the way my head tells me he should care for me?

                He comes and asks if he can bring me something, whoa?!  He apologizes for acting grumpy saying he has no right.  He’s right; he does not.  He offers egg salad with water chestnuts in it… bleck.  I think I’ll just eat chicken and mac and cheese if that’s alright.  I’m humbled even if only slightly.  Baby please stay.  I pour over baby names to distract.  Oh Jesus, please.  I have no right to ask, I am less than nothing, just look and see how I fail.  How I fall on my face. 

                The nurse says it could be sex.  Have you done that recently? 

“Yes” I reply.  That awful interaction??  That one is causing this heartache after all the wonderfully awesome experiences in the recent past?  How unredemptive.  There’s just no way to salve that wound.  “Lord, I can’t take this.  I can’t I’m not strong enough.  The cracks in the veneer are starting to show and Lord you know how deep they go.  I will be dust to be blown away by the wind”  

Do I even have a smile for Baby Girl?  The one I want to give a little sibling to?  It’s a weak one, I try to crack it but it may make the crevasses that much deeper just to smile.  But you know Lord, you know the truth.  You know that this sibling, any sibling isn’t about her, or me, or him or the boys.  This sibling is about You.  The one you told me for months in advance that would be coming.  Making birth control pills roll under refrigerators or drop in other bottles of pink pills.  Me, desperately fishing them out while contemplating divorce.  Till that voice in the kitchen, the one I couldn’t deny.  Asking for “Mama?”  Wondering where I was.  And me left searching for that child the one that sounds so much like Harvey but isn’t him.  Going all through the house knowing that none of my earthly, present, children asked for me but refusing to believe otherwise.  Until I settled on the truth, knowing you had spoken and threw the pink pills away.  Alright, Lord.  I won’t fight you anymore.  Now this.  Is this part of it? 

If so Lord, I do not understand.  I do not.  I will try and submit and hold on enough to not become dust and let go enough to follow your plan.  But the glue is failing, it is up to you Lord. 

Was expecting this to be me in nine months

I'm stuck in this moment