The Keepers

No mother on her child’s birth day is thinking about who is going to wash the clothes she wore into the hospital to deliver. But I remember pausing at the dryer remarking at the absurdity: less than 2 days ago I was leaning down to pull out my own baby (oh yes I did) and now, those same arms are pulling clean clothes from the dryer. How could I go from something so incredibly monumental to something so utterly mundane? On her second day on Earth, everyone mentioned my daughter’s beauty, but not one person noticed we had on clean clothes. That’s because as a mom, I am the keeper of all things—even when they are invisible.

I keep: the peace, the schedule, the house, the secrets, the snacks, the routine, the hidden candy stashes, the trivial mental lists that contain an individualized abyss of knowledge specific to each need, want, and dislike. I keep everyone else’s sanity. The behind-the-scenes role of a mom is a full-time job, inside a full-time job. The very nature of behind-the-scenes implies these tasks are invisible.

The funny thing about invisibility is it makes you feel unseen.

This is why I always smile as I pass other mothers rushing and shushing their little ones along. I want to stop them and say I know all that you’ve done just to get here to this point. I know you, too, are the keeper of everything that’s invisible. I know your work, all your work, is a labor of love. We are the keepers of glitter so that they can sparkle.

The moving parts required to ensure a household stays up and running is like keeping a commercial jet 42,000 feet in the air. All that’s visible is everyone safely up in the air. But you see, mothers are the keepers of the magic that keeps our family flying.

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One of Those Mothers

As my Dad was leaving this weekend he leaned in, kissed my head and whispered, “You have no idea how proud I am of the person you are,” while tears entered his eyes. Actually, I thought, I do know. But let me rewind a bit.

My middle daughter turned 4 and just because you asked that’s almost a full hand’s worth of fingers. The guilt I’ve felt sandwiching her between her two sisters weighs heavily on my mommy-soul. There is just something about this girl, a je ne sais quoi, which sounds foreign because that’s exactly how it feels and I believe is has something to do with her middleness. Some things about her have yet to be revealed, like the petals of a flower that stay hidden even in the sun.

One thing that has always remained constant is her love of animals. I decided to throw her one heck of a 4th birthday in order to absolve my guilt in the form of live lovable animals as the sacrificial lambs (although none of them were actual lambs). The planning, coordinating, and effort to pull off a kid’s birthday party is not for the faint of heart. It seems like just yesterday I was swaddling her as a baby and suddenly it’s the morning of her turning 4 and I’m Googling does homeowners insurance cover Guinea Pig bites? As Kathy was setting up the animal enclosures 10 minutes before 40 people descended upon my house, I thought how can I be one of those mothers without feeling like one of those mothers?

Like so many things in motherhood we tend to assign negative terms and then lump ourselves or others into meaningless categories: the helicopter parent, the cool mom, or the cryptically vague, but universally understood, “one of those moms”. It’s a combination of unattainable supermom mixed with is she on the verge of a nervous breakdown? with just a sprinkling of Pinterest and sugary sweet Insta-stories.

I’d like to reclaim all these judgmental terms because there is a method to all of our madness. At the root of the root is the love we have for our kids. I wanted to do something special for Madeleine because she deserved a fuss--she has a good heart and I want her to know that I see her. I am proud of the little human she is becoming.

So when my Dad made the statement above, the thing is, I do actually know because he helped shape me, as I am helping shape her. So if by one of those mothers you mean one who cares deeply and loves consciously, then yes, I suppose I am.

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My Body and Soul

Over the past four months my husband participated in a weight-loss challenge with some of his family and coworkers. He is competitive by nature and is now the healthiest he’s ever been and currently training for a Ragnar. If you are unfamiliar with what that is, it’s essentially a group of sweaty people doing a running relay traveling 200 miles throughout California, while sleeping and following along in a van that would likely have to be fumigated and stripped for parts upon completion.

I am not a competitive person, unless it comes to challenging myself. One of my greatest attributes is that when I want something I am determined; I am driven. So, as my husband began his transformation, I thought long and hard about my own.

I remember, like I can recall spotty segments of a dream, as I was hemorrhaging newly postpartum, I stumbled into the bathroom catching a glimpse of a haggard unrecognizable being. I felt shapeless and disoriented like I was orbiting somewhere up in space, so far away from any semblance of a body that felt like my own. I’d take deep breaths and prod at the doughy flesh surrounding my middle like a life-raft, choking on the irony that no one could save me but myself. I felt overwhelmed by the task at hand. The idea that I had to remake myself after making another human felt as daunting as the process of giving birth.

I put my head down this summer and worked harder than I ever have. I counted calories, attended all the Fit4Mom classes, and my efforts were reflected on the scale, but more so when I looked again in the mirror. My third daughter has brought joy and sparked a fire inside me that inspired greatness. I’m proud to report, I have reached an all-time low and am currently riding an all-time high. See, I realize now that I am not re-building myself because that implies I’m working from the same material as when I started and that is simply untrue. Each of my daughters have changed me so completely that I can never, nor do I ever want to go back to what I was. Every daughter created a foundational brick placed at my core; a component of my soul as essential as the roots of a tree. They helped build me into my best self.

I read something recently where a woman wrote she didn’t get her body back after pregnancy because it was never lost; it was never missing. Amen. I am not seeking my 20-something-year-old-body because it had yet to experience anything miraculous. If my body is a temple, with each miracle, I have built, and built, and built. Ultimately, I have learned that my postpartum journey has little to do with my size and more about shaping my soul.