Category — Motherhood

A very goofy angel

It took parenthood to awaken me to the fragility of life. 

These days, as I make my way through the world, fearful thoughts dart through my mind: 

“What if that car, racing the red, hit me? I’d be brain-damaged, mangled. Would my daughter recognize me? When they wheeled me out of surgery would her face still crest like the sun at the sight of me? Or would she not know me at all?” 

I imagine her life without her mother and my eyes well with a flurry of tears.

In other moments, I think:

“What if something happened to my little girl? What if she had a life-threatening disease, her body shrunken to a mere few pounds as she fought for life? How would I cope with feeding tubes being laced down her throat? Would I crumble like paper or would I rise up, warring in the fight?”

I find my lips whispering prayers of thanks for life, every day. It’s a new posture for me. For most of my life I have taken life for granted. It was given. I am living it. But now, with a small life entrusted into my faulty hands, I tread lightly. I am mindful. I want to drive slower, look both ways, meander more, notice. 

It’s the way God sees, I think. He watches this spinning globe He made and hones in on a delightful little boy kicking soccer balls in Argentina. He smiles. Delights in this young child, destined for a profession in plumbing, fatherhood, public service. He sees the fullness of a life unfolding beneath dusty feet.

God is a God of love, the Bible tells us over and over. 

Psalm 33:18 reads: “The Lord watches over those who obey him, those who trust in his constant love.” 

How would our lives look differently if we believed it?

I’d be much less fearful, I think.

Here in the Terminal City the Olympics have arrived, the sun is making a rare February appearance, and Vancouverites are uncharacteristically Canada-clad. It’s a lovely scene.

So far, thanks to my brother in Whistler, I’ve been able to attend the final dress rehearsal of the Opening Ceremonies which at times reminded me of Cirque du Soliel and left me similarly jaw-dropped. If you watched it, I’m referring to orcas taking breaths through the floor of BC Place. From our vantage point in the nose-bleeds, it was breathtaking. Nelly Furtado and Sarah MacLachlan weren’t too shabby either. 

I’ve been donning my cherry red Olympic mittens with pride as Madeleine and I galavant through Metro Vancouver, and my red Roots hoodie has been getting its share of wear. Oh Canada. 

I’ve only watched a bit of the actual Games because we live in a cable-free home. On my mom’s t.v. I saw Canada pummel Norway in hockey (sorry Hunny,) at our neighbourhood coffee shop I witnessed the Dutch kick-ass in speed skating, and while I got my haircut at a friend’s house yesterday morning, I took in some curling. What I’d really like to see is some big air. 

Last week I spent the better part of a morning with the Billy Graham Rapid Response Team, interviewing them for a piece for Decision. No, they weren’t called in in the wake of disaster (although the first few days of the Games had its share of it.) Instead they are in town to serve with the More than Gold, a Christian umbrella organization, as community chaplains and hospitality volunteers. You know, serving hot chocolate and all that. They were a great bunch, the oldest of which was a spry seventy years. I met them at the base of Canada Place (aka the International Media Centre,) steps away from the Olympic torch, which also happens to be my little sister’s place of work. So, her and I met up.   

Thursday is my big Olympic Day. I am going to bundle Madeleine up in her adorable blue and white sweater (the most Olympic-looking item in her ‘closet,’) comb through downtown and buy her a Quatchi bear. 

Vive les Jeux Olympiques!

His name is Remi, we are having a love affair, and my spouse knows about it. 

He is a Remington Portable. A archetypal typewriter manufactured in the mid-1930s. His ruddy grey body sits squarely in the centre of my coffee table, the focal point of our living room. And rightly so. As a writer married to a bibliophile, words are central in our home.  

And now more than ever. As new mother I have never been so keenly aware of language. Word by word I am naming my daughter’s world. Raffi songs are sung by heart, daily chores are narrated, and tastes, colours, sights and sounds are animated for her sheer delight.

My daughter teaches me each day that, when it comes to words, it is all about the delivery. For instance, plainly announcing “We are going for a walk” receives no more than a glance, while sing-songing the same line results in a mess of wild baby giggles.

Typewriters have a similar effect on me.

It doesn’t matter what words fall into Remi, he makes them beautiful. It’s this beauty, and the love of sending and receiving letters, that inspired my friend Marisa and I to co-found the Vancouver Letter Writing Party last fall. Each month a growing number of us gather for no other reason than to type. Letters are written, brimming with minutiae, and they are beautiful.

These words want to be read. They are climbing up, off of the paper, begging to be stamped, sealed and sent.  

When was the last time you wrote a letter — typewritten or otherwise?

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This post originally appeared on the After Hours blog. 

Timbers reach
groaning sinews
reaching upward,
upwards.
gentle pebbles
blanketing the undergrowth
lacing knees.
And she grows.

Clouds, pale,
climbing over
silver havens:
powder blue.
the skies,
they climb, up to
billowing suns.
And she grows.

Strangers pass
each other glances,
blackened ravens
feast on dry bread
together, they eat,
feasting.
And she grows.

An old woman
knits her last line
pearl, hook
pearl, hook.
a gift for an old friend.
remembering the first time.
recalling.
And she grows.

A fist opens,
then closes.
clench, reach
touch, lean.
change falling
through worn fingers.
they’re reaching.
And she grows.

A sparrow is born.
nestled in a hanging basket
on a patio, grey.
it takes its first flight
falling thirteen leagues
down,
down
to flight.
he’s soaring.
And she grows.

A mother’s hands
crawl, trembling…
around newborn skin.
she watches:
almond eyes growing
wide with wonder,
searching.
giving name to her world.
And she grows.

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Life is full. I am happy. Madeleine is the joy and wonder of our life.

I love being a mother. The insomnia that plagued me for weeks has been a burden but not one God is too small to bear. I find myself praying: “Lord, you are greater than sleep, than skyscrapers, than galaxies and milk. This is a small thing to you. You can give me rest.” I recite the Lord’s Prayer over and over.

Tonight, for the first night in weeks, I have stayed up after Madeleine fell asleep. Michael and I talked and laughed as I baked date squares and wore an exfoliating mask — two things I have been hoping to do all week but did not have the time. I read in Red Book last night that staying up later than the baby can thoroughly exhaust you enough to sleep. My stepmom suggested tumeric so I am sipping a cup of vanilla steamed milk with a dash of it thrown in. Red Book also suggested writing out your thoughts and worries.

God, I need to write out my worry to you.

I worry I won’t be able to sleep.

I worry I will think too much and it will keep me up.

I worry I’ve lost the ability - THE GIFT - of lying my head down on the pillow and falling asleep.

Madeleine.

I want to write about her but words fail me, and even writing that seems cheap. I adore her. Her eyes are orbits. A kind of muddy, deep blue, grey, green that stare right through you. She is inquisitive, happy, full of wonder.

The truth is, I worry that I won’t be enough for her.

That’s the true worry.

She has so much. IS so much. She overwhelms me. I want to show her everything in the world and also hide her away from every dark corner. I fear for her. Dream for her. I am overwhelmed by her. I know she looks to me, at this time, for all things. I am her world and I fear I’ll fail her.

Just today my mom and I spoke about the disappointment she feels with her family. She is hurting and recognizes her need to heal, change and grow. I don’t want Madeleine to have to heal from her childhood, her parenting. I want her to BE WHOLE.

I want to give her the world… to break open every mountain and molehill for her. I want to get out of her way and stare into her eyes, forever, at the same time. I want this impossibility. I want her to live with an impossible spirit - believing in everything - truth, beauty, love - and knowing nothing, NOTHING, is impossible with God.

I want her to know you, God — now. I bet she knows you already. She does. You visit her in her dreams. You take her to Saturn and back and you whisper your love for her in her ears. 

Like you do to me. Like you did. Like you want to.

Take us to Saturn together. 

Help me to understand, to experience (for this is the only true understanding) how you can love me and care for and see me so fully when there are billions of other people in the world. Help me to stop feeling like I am a fly and help me to start feeling like I am an ocean.

You see me. 

Help me to know it. Know your love like I know it with Madeleine. Show me in a million different ways. Give me eyes to see it, hear it, feel it. Every day. Begin tonight as I dream…

Bring me to rest, God. Nurse me in your arms, as I nurse Madeleine. Staring eye to eye. Staring into love.

The worst thing in the world is for me to look away from Madeleine. Sometimes I have to so she won’t wake up too much in the middle of the night. She gets too excited to see me.

My face makes her come alive. 

She searches out my eyes. Mommy, do you see me?

Daddy, do you see me? Let me see your face that I might live.

There are poems that I fumble through and poems I receive. This one was the latter:

Expectancy

Me, at nine months. Photo credit: Avital Kline.

You, my child.

your hands, as webs,
reach out to touch my insides.
“mommy, i am here.”

you knit my womb and heart
together with strings.
your smile already my companion.

angel,
you speak to me through your rumblings,
coursing blood, water, tears
out from my fingertips.

:::  read the rest of the poem here. published last week in catapult magazine.

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To view more picture of our little munchkin, click here.

My latest column exploring fashion and theology is up in Comment Magazine. Madeleine was my inspiration as I considered ‘The advent of personal style.’ Enjoy!

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Also, speaking of fashion, the following invite arrived in the ‘ol inbox this morning. Paul Hardy presents at Vancouver Fashion Week tomorrow. I can’t wait! Paul’s shows never disappoint. 

I hope to bring you back pictures…

Dear One,

I feel like I am in a holding pattern. Waiting for you. Waiting to see your face, smooth as milk. Your almond eyes, bright as the sunset, blue.

The heat is unbearable. I spend my days finding creative ways to escape swollen ankles, upset stomach, sweaty brow.

I wish we were together, you and I. Sitting by water’s edge. My feet dipped in the shore. You, nursing. I long to know you, my dear one. The longing calls out from the bowels, deep. I feel my womb, groaning, to birth you into the world. The thought of it calls me to tears.

Believe me Dear, I have all the love in the world for you. Your eyes will be my treasure, forever. I fear ever letting you go, ever letting the world reach out its blackened hands to touch you.

I imagine your tiny fingers curled, clasping my pinky. Your gentle eyes combing my face. Pure joy. I long to meet such innocence. To meet you, my dear one. Our angel.

We are reaching out our hands. Won’t you come to meet us?

Love Mama

– July 30, 2009

I’ve decided to give my typewriter a place of prominence in our home: on our coffee table. Part aesthetic and part practicality, I think it is a lovely statement of the centrality of words in our world. Many more letters will be written this way, I think. 

A side note about our home: We are moving. But not far. We are selling our condo but are staying the neighbourhood. We have worked so hard to make this area feel like home. We are falling in love with our new little church, we run into more neighbours each day, and we’ve developed a rhythm here in our little neck of the woods. Speaking of woods, we will be living closer to the ravine where Madeleine and I take our daily walks!

Stay tuned about the details of our new digs…