At the end of my pregnancy, I quit blogging. In fact I wasn’t sure I would ever write in public again. I realized that things would change soon with 4 boys, and one morning I woke up and decided that I wanted to enjoy my life in its precious stage; I wanted to live it and soak it up, and I wanted to keep it like a secret pearl.
There were days I wanted to pour my heart out but couldn’t. My body was doing its own creative work in making child, and it left me wordless, in a peaceful writer’s block.
Most days I didn’t even turn my computer on – rather I lived, and I lived fun, and I lived hard. My girlfriends prayed over me before labor. They put their hands on my skin, and they spoke blessing.
We went to a 7 year old’s Civil War birthday party, so we could be with our real-life community. The boys were supposed to enlist with the pretend Confederacy, but then the Union swept in and recruited them. I’m not sure why I felt guilty about the whole thing. But my girlfriend patted my back, knowing I was thinking I’d have to explain myself to my Tennessean daddy.
Then, while one had fifths disease and one had an ear infection, we got lice. I was 37 weeks pregnant, and we had critters. Don’t judge me. I called my girlfriends laughing hysterically so I wouldn’t cry myself to sleep. We spent 2 weeks dealing with that, and all the while I longed for connection, holding my babies to my huge body and waving at friends as they dropped dinner off at our front door.
I stepped outside for some vitamin D and a girlfriend left this drawing with a mocha and a slice of pie. I smiled at my real life, our tomorrow, the critters finally gone.
Arkansas trees turned crispy in the heat. Labor started then, and it lasted prodromally for weeks.
I sit on the couch of a coffee shop with two close girlfriends every Friday morning, and we cry every single time we meet. They were what I looked forward to, how I felt some days I could come up for air.
Finally my water broke. Then dear ones hovered with fists countering my back labor and fingers wiping my hair back. They said, “You’re doing it. You’re doing it.” Hands of reassurance, in all mustered strength, literally held me up while my eyes went wild to keep from pushing.
Then Titus was born, a gentle one. And as the milk and honey of motherhood settled in, the wave of creativity whooshed in also, and that’s when I started writing again, rejoining community here online in full assurance that there is life here, too – but only by way of having lived it offline.
Some of my best friends live across the country from me, and I ache to put my arms around them, but I live in gratitude for the ones that live near me, in(RL), hands that put on the blessings, that stir the soup, hands that draw cartoons that make me laugh, the ones who wipe my brow. You are all Jesus to me.Leave a Comment