Sometimes being a parent means stretching thin the line between self and other, till the threads of who you are unravel and trail behind the person who rocks, feeds, holds, and comforts another. You barely remember what it felt like to wake in the mornings on your own time-clock, with only your individual needs to fulfill.
A late February snowfall covers the unfamiliar trees in my new backyard, fat flakes, relentless in their tragic beauty. Somewhere underneath the layers, up in the mountains, on the tundra, in the caves and hollows, Mama Grizzlies give birth to their cubs, where they wait out spring, entwined in the darkness, tongue to nipple, fur to fur, skin to skin.
This morning, as I lay in bed nursing Olive, Elias asked, "Did you use to nurse me when I was a baby?"
"Yes, babe."
"Was I in your belly?"
"Mm-hmm," I responded, eyes still closed, not quite ready to rise to this ongoing conversation we've carried and nurtured and expanded since the arrival of his sister.
"What room was I born in?"
"The surgery room."
"Did I have to have surgery?" he asked, as he leaned over Olive and put his head on top of mine.
"Yes, as a baby you did." I said, awake now.
"Where did I have to have surgery?" he asked, cutting our conversation deeper, to questions I haven't yet answered.
"On your heart, your brain, and your eyes."
As I said this, I looked at his eyes that rarely look at mine, for a sign of comprehension, wondering if the next question would be "Why?"
Heart. Brain. Eyes.
Three different doorways to the soul.
And I may not attend an indoor church, or identify with a specific religion, but I still search for deeper meanings, for spiritual awakenings, and redemption.
When it comes time to answer Elias's brewing storm of why's--Why do I need canes? Why was I born early? Why can't I...--I'll try to give him multiple layers to wrap around his growing sense of self, so that he looks in the mirror and sees himself as whole.
In order to do this, I need to do the same. Embrace my own completeness, my own soul.
I will always be Elias and Olive's Mommy, and with this title comes a blurring of edges, a run-on sentence in which my subject leads to theirs, without semi-colons or periods, barely a comma rests between us as we breathe the same air, like Grizzlies entwined in their winter den, snowed-in till spring comes.
But spring will come. And little paws will grow wide. And wander off to find their own blueberry bushes, their own salmon streams, their own honey-scented air to breathe.
This is lovely.
Posted by: Morgan S. | 02/25/2010 at 10:44 AM
*gulping back tears* Beautiful. And so difficult for us (ok, me) to reconnect with ourselves, isn't it?
Posted by: Niksmom | 02/25/2010 at 11:37 AM
You brought tears to my eyes. Beautiful said. I am sure you've been told this a million times, but you really should write a book.
Posted by: Krista | 02/25/2010 at 12:29 PM
Christy, I think this is your most beautil and heart wrenching writing yet. Love to you and your baby cubs from our den...
Posted by: Tina | 02/25/2010 at 01:06 PM
Sorry, that word was "beautiful."
Posted by: Tina | 02/25/2010 at 01:07 PM
I'm glad Elias & Olive have you and Nick to snuggle with in this winter den. Alaskan winter is so dark, but also somehow safe and protective. You've captured that here. This is beautiful, Christy.
Posted by: Ginna | 02/25/2010 at 01:21 PM
My son S (now 5) was full of questions about his birth with the arrival of his newest brother too. I was surprised by how much I got taken back to the dark days of his birth and early life as I allowed him the chance to revisit what happened. So many times though he has said to me 'I am glad baby A wasn't sick like me'. Being a big brother is a very special gift.
Posted by: Dianne | 03/01/2010 at 12:39 PM