Thanksgiving

No one ever takes pictures of me.
Sometimes I feel left out and wish I could see myself reflected in these memories.
Over time, they will be the only evidence to remind me, any of this ever happened.
But my actual face is not the only depiction of Sarah.
In a way, these people tell more about me than a million portraits of my face.
I care for these people.
I do their laundry.
I bake them cookies.
I hold them until they fall asleep...Andrew included.

When I look back, I will not see my own face, I'll see theirs.

I will see Beckam looking up at me from a midnight rocking chair with his blanky in his fingertips.

This is our family on Thanksgiving.
Beckam waddled around the gym.
He took his most ambitious steps on this day.
He stood watching the older boys playing
basketball, hypnotized.
Sophie and I had a hand-stand contest.
We collided into each other as we walked on palms to keep our balance.
I wondered if his family thought me ridiculous.
A grown woman trying to do a walkover, which I could barely pull off.
I had to bicycle my legs franticly to make it over.
Sophie laughed so hard that no sound came out.
Her mouth gaping and tears in her eyes.
We ended up collapsed on the gym floor, shirts up over our bellies, hair splayed wide.

 



Pepper of course, nibbled on mints from a tiny box.  I think she really is a fairy. 

On our way home, Andrew and I talked logistics.  How are we going to proceed with this family?  We need to buy a house.  Which means we need to save $7,000 for a down payment.  This is the scary part.  We sacrifice everything for these tiny moments with our children.  So much happens behind the scenes.  Things they never see.  I am glad it is this way.  I am content to work backstage so they can shine.

Note to Beckam

  

Dear Beckam

Please stay asleep all night.
I can't be mad at you for causing me to loose sleep.  I know it is not intentional.
But this has been going on for 2 weeks, this cold.
And we both need to rest.

I can't help but to cuddle your thick chunk of body in the rocking chair, no matter how much mucus shoots from your nose.

I will remember you as the baby I rocked through snow storms.
Quiet living rooms in delicate winter hours.
Our time set apart from the rest of life.  Just you and I and the snowfall.
Your grumbly little cry turning to a story of things I feel but can't put into words.
I understand, and I tell you so,
"I know little buddy...I know."

I smooth your red hair, my red hair, along your wide forehead.
You are my only red-head.
The only one with my orange zest.
It makes me love both of us more.
Your forehead has a dark flower of bruise on one side.  This bruise is always with you.  It migrates, but I can always find it.  Evidence of your efforts to walk.  Already you are a rugby player.

Today you blew bubbles in the bath with Sophie.
She is sick, but she smiled at you.

Pepper was in hysterics watching you stick your monkey butt into the air and push your truck across the kitchen.

I will miss you this way,  perhaps more than any other baby.  I don't know why.
But I will encourage you to grow up, just as I have the others.
Even though I ache to think of the Beckam I held today, turning into someone else.
Someone bigger. 
Someone less innocent.
Someone who thinks he's not supposed to cry.
Someone I can't rock in the living room snow.

3 am

It is 3 am
Beckam is awake.
He has glow-in-the-dark mucus coming out of his eyes and nose.
He can't stay asleep.
I laid awake listening to him grumble and yell to himself for an hour.
He almost talked his body into going back to sleep.
But the mucus won.
So now he is lying on the couch watching Baby Einstein's.
At least the soundtrack is Mozart.
He was threatening to wake the whole house, so I had to do something.

Just before I got out of bed, I floated in euphoria.
Like being drunk or in love for the first time.
I could have stayed there forever.  I was that tired and that comfortable.
Every piece of my body slotted into the mattress as if I was packed for shipping.
I laid perfectly still, soaked it in for 3 more seconds, took a deep breath through my nose and threw the covers off.

The only way I've made it through motherhood is by telling myself, 'This is temporary.'
I don't want to miss it because I am angry at the incovenience.
There is something much more important going on here.
I lay my cheek next to Beckam's cheek.
I rock in him in the snowy living room.
"I'm sorry you are suffering.  I'm sorry you are sick little Buddy."
His mass always surprises me when I hold him.
He is a pint sized football player, which seems a ridiculous thing to cuddle.
But he will become a man.  Now is my chance. 
Now is my chance to fill him up before he realizes that I am a woman and he is a man.
When my babies are newborn, it feels like I am pouring something out of myself and into them.  I am bringing them to life, like watering a plant.
It is the thing that makes the light.  The light which makes it impossible to ignore love, impossible not to care even when it's hard.  They will need it more than anything else.  And I don't want to miss a chance to give it to them.

Now it is 3:39 am
I think he may be ready to go back to sleep, and hopefully I can too.

Birth story

Beckam the moment after birth 2011

I just got home from watching Birth Story at the library.
It is a documentary about Ina May Gaskin.
She is a pioneer of midwifery.
She has been a witness to natural birth for 40 years.

Now the whole world is quiet.  It is distilled into one fact. 

I have done that. 

Three times, I have done that.  I know it is real.


I know what it feels like to hold a new life up under my chin the second it hits the air.  I know the full body shudder and release from pain which follows the second a baby is born.  I know Andrew's forehead pressed into mine as I get ready to push.  He centers me one more time, and then I go into my center and groan out a sound I never make at any other time.   I surrender my whole body.  It's the only way to finish. 
It's hard to write about because I go to a place with no words.  But I want to write about it because I am afraid I'll forget.

I invited a newly-pregnant woman to the screening.  Last week I asked her if she'd like to learn about natural birth.
She gave me a blank look. 
In the last 3 days I've shown her 2 documentaries:  Birth Story and The Business of Being Born.
She is not blank anymore.

As I drove my mini-van through downtown city lights, the phone up to my ear, I was smiling, and crying.  Not really crying,  just the small tears that come when I hear truth echoed back to me.  I was listening to that same girl bursting with words.  She wants it.  Not everyone wants it, but she does, and I did.  I wanted it, bad.


Look at me.  Hooked up to nothing.  3 minutes post birth

My mom told me,
"If you have your baby naturally, without drugs, you experience all of it.  It's harder than anything you'll ever do.  And once you do it, it becomes a source of strength that no one can ever take away from you."
My Mom has birthed 7 babies this way.
My aunt Lucy has birthed 10.
This is the legacy of birth in my family.
It is rare.

So now I am the one to tell pregnant women, what was said to me.
If no one had ever told me, I would have missed the depth of my own capacity...of what birth had to teach me.
I didn't have eyes to see it.

I have stumbled into the role of doula.
I don't have to sell anything.
I just tell women about what birth can be.
And they say:  I want to do that.  Will you come with me?  Will you help me?
What can I do but say:  Of course.  Of course I'll be there.
It's the only way I don't forget what it is.
Because a spiritual experience will never stay fresh in my pocket.



The moment of staring and staring and staring...

Pepper and that crazy tongue right after birth 2009

 

 

Andrew Beckam and I at the birth center 2011

Why I love pictures

I was looking through my pictures this morning, and I was amazed at how much life we've lived.

With kids it all changes so fast.  At least I can look back and appreciate it all over again.

This is just 11 seconds worth of Beckam.

Learning to stand June 2012



Gorilla baby at Liberty park June 2012




Crawling at Heritage park August 2012




Rock climbing in Ferguson's October 2012





borrowing a Harley Dude's scarf at Backstreet club October 2012




Hulk Baby October 2012




early morning sunshine August 2012




Riding the turtle at Liberty park October 2012




Car ride taken by Sophie October 2012




Those odd toddler seats in the bathroom at Smith's September 2012




Leslie's wedding October 2012



climb into the leaves



Sophie took this one.  She has an eye.



It was Saturday afternoon.  I had promised Sophie, friends and myself that we'd go climbing.  I had lost my voice 2 days ago, and my throat felt like a burning straw.  Not even a whole straw, but the kind you get with a Capri Sun.  My muscles were thin and asleep.  I started sweating just from walking up the stairs.

How can I take 4 kids up the canyone today?

Then I remembered how many times I've put one foot in front of the other and walked into beauty.  No matter how tired. 

One step at a time, Sarah.  Okay.  What have I got to loose?

Look what I gained.

Thank you Kai for the backpack and for sharing your joy of climbing.

Thank you Sophie, Beach and Pepper for your play and smiles.

Thank you Gary for carrying Pepper down the trail.

Thank you Katrina for appearing magically again.

Thank you Scott for your huff, puff, squeal up the 5.11.

Thank you AB for your heart.

Thank you Cody for the use of your finger-nail clippers.  You are a magician.

Thank you to my body for cooperating.

Grace is all around me.  My life is saturated with it.

 



Best friends down the trail





Beckam, Katrina and I at the base of climb



Beckam's cradle



He was so tired he nearly bobbed right out of the pack



brings back memories of Sophie as a baby



no shortage of imagination or beauty here



Date Night

Half way through the movie I slipped my feet into Andrew's lap.

His hands warm my popcycle toes.

We started out as strangers.

He munched popcorn all through the previews.

I sat indian style in my seat, not moving, hearing him crunch.

He tries to be quiet, but I can still hear it.

The movie is about love.

Real love.

It is about us.

Two hours pass.

The credits roll black and white into the ceiling.

I look over at him.
"I know you still love me."

"I do," and he looks soft.  He is not the same man who was frantically scrubbing dishes in our kitchen two hours ago, trying to make it to the movie on time.  He is not the one who comes home and opens the bills with scrunched up forehead, ignoring the kids.  Ignoring me. 

He is the one who wrapped arms around me on a summer boat when the wind moved fast over our bare skin.
"We used to be like that," he says.
"I know.  And now we are somebodies Mom and Dad.  Isn't it crazy?"
Our foreheads touch and eyes close.  I feel a tear in mine.
"It happened so fast," he says.

"I know.  But I'm so glad you're doing it with me.  Thank you for doing it with me," my voice cracks and I am really crying.  Right here in the dark theatre, I can't help it.  I don't want to help it.  I want him to know.

"Do you think I'm crazy for crying right here?" I ask.
"No," and he means it.  He knows.
We sit huddled into each other.

We are the only people in the theatre.