I determined to make every single decision based on what was best for him, it didn’t matter how difficult those choices were. From diet, to sleep schedules, to early education, I committed to hard, good things. I gave up money, relationships, rest hours, I bowed my dreams, my ambitions, my body down to this enormous task of maternity.
Sometimes I got so tired I didn’t think I could do any more, but whenever I was tempted to waver, I remembered that miscarriage. I remembered how fast it could all be over, and I recommitted to doing my part, even if it killed me. Besides, my son was a wonder. He was bright, funny, strong, deep, wise beyond his years. He shone like the sun. What could I want more than his good?
AND further down:
In my imagination,
there is a room in some transcendent realm where mothers of teenagers pray. The
walls are open through arches, and there are thin white curtains hanging down,
and the breeze snaps them. A collection of tired mothers kneels together in this
room, scared, tired, palms up, asking for what we finally realize that we don’t
have. And the prayer we pray is also a sort of repentance, which is odd, after
all we have worked to do that felt like goodness but was never
That prayer goes
something like this: “Oh, Lord. I see now. I see that all my work was small. I
see now that I was proud to think my strength was enough on its own. My
striving, my sustenance wasn’t ever what kept these children alive. You were
here all along. You were chasing them. You were loving them even more than I
did. My everything was too much like Eve’s everything, I was trying to be like
You. At times, I was trying to even fight You for them. Forgive me. Forgive me
for talking about faith while living in fear. Please heal any wounds this
mistake has damaged. Show me how to take a few steps in faith. See how still I
am now. Here is my resignation. As my children carry their questions now into
the clash and clatter of the cities, please do what I could not for all I tried.
Please meet them in their listening.”