This post is dedicated to my first born. Your loyalty has comforted me beyond measurement. A genuine gift that will always be prized. You are my shinning lamppost, greeting me ever so softly as I begin my journey into uncharted lands and glowing brilliantly as I return with new convictions.
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My second born, not-so-little bundle of joy has stretched me physically, mentally and spiritually. She has enabled me to warp into positions not accustomed too. Despite my discomfort I do not have a choice. I am pulled into new lands, deposited alone in new territories with only one option; to believe.
Celebrating the beginning of my second trimester, carrying my not-so-little bundle of joy I was attacked by pain. "This pregnancy is different," I remember thinking. My pelvic floor felt like it could and would drop out of my body at any given time. Sometimes after sneezing I would cautiously look around on the floor, wincing in pain, knowing that half of me should be all over the floor. The pressure tortured me. It hurt to walk, to sit, to stand, to lay. No comfort.
I had no choice in the pain. I carried that girl until the day she was due (and no longer). Looking back I realize that it was the most optimistic time for me, ever. "Having a second child would be no problem," I told My Love. We were always worried about our first born. Family dynamics were going to shift obviously, and My Love and I had many late night conversations.
As my body stretched, I imagined how enjoyable our family would look like with four, very rarely complained about any pain and reflexively smiled throughout my entire pregnancy.
My body achingly stretched for this child. I had no choice, you see, for I believed in this child. I believed in her life.
After our 5th or 6th Emergency Room visit in a period of only 12 months our second child's gastroenterologist confirmed out worst fear. Our not-so-little bundle of joy was allergic to soy and dairy. My Love and I, being vegetarians ever since 1998 when I unfortunately walked into a Russian open air meat market, looked at each other, terrified. The next day My Love left on work travels and I was left to deal with this conflict.
Marriages always have their ups and downs. At this point in our relationship with a one year old (that almost always was upset with tummy issues) and an almost 5 year old (that loved to throw tantrums) we were slogging through one of those down moments. This new information did not make it any easier.
Our house had never refrigerated meat (...except for the one time I did eat a steak, pregnant with not-so-little bundle of joy).
Our values regarding humane treatment of animals and our issues with the U.S. meatpacking industry had been in place for more than a decade. Even our almost five year old had never tasted meat. Over the years however, after having our first child, we had become a bit lax and did eat our fair share of cheeses and yogurts. Allergic to dairy and soy. What were we going to do?
When My Love returned from his travels I had the answer. There would be no discussion. We were going to eat meat. I felt as strongly about this as I had about being a vegetarian.
My mind hurt. It had warped itself into a new value system. Discarded my old way. Being stretched like this turned me upside down. I would stand in the meat aisles confused, dazed and ultimately alone. I did not know the first thing about buying, preparing or cooking meat. Some days still, these same feelings rush back to me.
My mind ached. I had no choice though, you see, for I believed in this child. I believed in her life.
At three and a half years old my not-so-little bundle of joy cried genuine tears. Tears of disappointment and failure. We were half way up Tiger Mountain on a family day hike. My almost 7 year old though had refused to climb any higher and we were taking a water break. My Love and I were proud. We had climbed a long way, we were satisfied and decided that heading back down to the car would not be a bad idea. Our legs ached from carrying both kids intermittently. It had already been a long hike.
And then we looked at her. Tears were streaming down her face. "I have to get to the top," she said. It only took me a split second to decide that of course we had to get to the top. There was no other way. Her spirit demanded it.
My legs were stretched to the breaking point that day as I carried her on my back the entire way down. I had no choice though, you see, for I believed in this child. I believed in her life.
Lately my not-so-little bundle of joy wants to talk about God. "What is God," she will ask and then quizzically gazes upon my answers.
I was raised in a very religious home. I asked Jesus into my heart at age 4. I went to Sunday school and even taught Sunday school when I was in high school. Something happened though along the way and I started questioning the entire notion of God. I wondered why He would never talk to me and why I never really felt His presence. Scientifically God did not make sense and it started to unnerve me that my prayers were never answered. In the year of 2000 I had an anti-climatic mountain top experience and decided that religion just wasn't for me.
I am not a bad person. I don't swear. I don't drink (ever). I look out for my neighbors and I try to live an authentic life. I'm just not religious. Science, for me, makes a lot more sense.
So when my not-so-little bundle of joy asks me, how the world was made or who God is, I want to furiously yell back my scientific answers. But I stop. I allow all the answers to be heard. I give all the options.
My spirit grapples to find the right way forward. It stretches in ways I did not think possible and I decide right then and there that if she decides to attend church, to get involved religiously, I will be by her side and I will rejoice with her, I will sing with her and I will pray with her, for I believe in this child. I believe in her life.
There is no choice.
