Five weeks ago this minute, I watched the delivery room fill up with people. A flurry of nurses and specialists called down from NICU to make sure my precious girl could breath properly on her own. Normally, this would have caused heart racing panic, but I was calm and unaffected. I knew she would be okay because I had been told in a blessing the night before that she would be. And indeed moments later I held her against my chest and felt her breath on my skin. My daughter had finally come.
And life with a newborn commenced…
One of the blessings of sleepless nights is extra consciousness during which to gaze at my sweet new one. It also serves as an unrelenting opportunity to evaluate my life as a mother and wife. During such recent reflections I have thought considerably about one particular trait that I’m not sure I’m very fond of.
Perhaps due to growing up as the middle of seven siblings, I tend to have an overwhelming desire for independence. I seem to always be the last one aboard the social/political/fashion bandwagon.
If something, anything, becomes instantly popular it suddenly becomes an aversion to me. 80’s neon is back…Barf. Super comfy, patterned leggings with over sized sweater? Nope. The word “uber”…Never will you hear it fall from my lips.
Of course, once I am thoroughly convinced of the value of an in vogue product, thought, or trend, then I often eventually shed my layer of resistance and embrace it. But consistently my instinct is avoidance of anything that everyone else is a part of.
Also, I feel great satisfaction when I am able to do something entirely by myself, and I am very much fueled by such accomplishments. Conversely, I feel equal frustration and discouragement when I must rely on other people, circumstances, or products in order to complete a task or achieve a goal.
This is one major factor in my choice to give birth naturally. My boys have never understood this logic. They can’t believe I would choose to go through pain when there are options available for relief. For me, however, I feel like I have simply allowed my body and my will to perform the ultimate task for which it was designed.
Parenthetically, when it is finished and my child is brought to my breast, the feeling is incomparable. Amazing. Not physically; everything below my waist feels a bit like I jumped over a landmine. But mentally and spiritually, it is as though creation, power, and celestial-like love have combined to form one perfect moment suspended in time and space.
As gratifying to me as this intrinsic independence I have described may seem to be, unfortunately it also represents one of my truly poignant weaknesses, one that has been burgeoning most glaringly these past five weeks. Because as every mother knows, postpartum is essentially defined by a loss of all independence and personal control over…well, everything. Nothing is really ours anymore…our time, our sleep, even our bodily fluids (sorry, male readers). It all just sort of goes.
For someone like me this poses a particular challenge, one for which I attempt to eschew by grasping at whatever bit of control I can manage. And so, the moment we return from the hospital my priorities become two-fold: getting baby on a sleep-feed-awake schedule and getting my body strong and healthy again, both of which I know are the keys to allowing me to be in control of my domestic life, to be mother again to all of my children.
I so love the surrogates who fill in during my absence. With each new baby I am overwhelmed by the kindness so selflessly bestowed upon our family. But the thought of not being able to manage my life as a mother and wife on my own is a bit panic-inducing for me. Thus begins my fight. That internal battle between my will and my circumstance, my thrust for normalcy and order and the chaotic milieu that has overtaken it.
Like all battles this one has seen its share of carnage, mostly due to what I have affectionately coined “stress bombs”. Husbands, you may be familiar with these. They are generally detonated unexpectedly, perhaps after an innocent attempt at offering to finish making dinner so your wife can attend to the rest of the children who all seem to be needing something at once. Or maybe after breakfast you find her in a melted heap in the bathroom a few feet away from the scale, its digits apparently not having changed in seven days.
My most recent explosion occurred just last week as Seth and I knelt down for our prayers before getting into bed. A tiny squeak came from the baby monitor a few minutes after I had just put Clara down for the night. A barely audible interference. But with the combination of sleep deprivation, a home in disarray, a half dozen children not getting enough of my attention, and considering this was following several days of sleep schedule struggle and a relapse of the progress she had made previously, this was all I could take.
I just knew it meant she would not fall asleep all night. The result? Stress bomb. Poor Seth listened patiently through my sobs as I expressed my perfectly-rational-at-the-time feelings of absolute failure as a mother and my insistence that I should never have been entrusted with children as I recalled every mistake I had made that day..the past three weeks…the past 15 years!
I stayed on my knees for a long time that night. I was utterly defeated and in desperate need of reinforcements. I always begin each day with prayer, asking God to send His strength and grace to help me accomplish my tasks and to be a good mom. It has been a part of my daily supplications for years. Why now, when I needed it so desperately, was I struggling so much to receive that strength? What did I need to do to acquire it? How was I to proceed?
Morning came all too soon and with it another chance to get baby girl back on the sleep schedule that had been so discouragingly derailed. So also came an answer to my prayers and subsequent shift in my entire approach to the day. It didn’t happen in any seemingly miraculous way. Rather, it came quietly, subtly, unremarkably.
In fact, it had been there all along, written in chalk and perfectly framed, as if meant to be a permanent motto for my personal journey through motherhood. As I was doing some mundane task that morning, and walking past the wall on which our family scripture of the month was displayed, the thought came to me to pause and actually read it.
“And if men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness. I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my grace is sufficient for all men who humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them.” {Ether 12:27}
As I pondered those words I quickly remembered that a few days earlier I had been reading in the Epistle of James, chapter four. I had been particularly struck by the clarity and truth of his counsel and it had been on my mind periodically ever since. “God resisteth the proud, but giveth grace unto the humble. Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you. Draw nigh to God, and he will draw nigh to you…Humble yourselves in the sight of the Lord, and he shall lift you up .” {James 4:6-10}
I don’t know how I missed it the first time, but that was it. There was my answer.
I needed to surrender.
My desire for independence had been ruling my heart instead of a recognition of my complete dependence on Him. In my pride I was resisting, and so He resisted. I was holding on, so He withheld. Yes, ironically, miraculously, the only way to win this fight was to surrender. To let go. To trust. To submit my will and let Him take over.
Clara is now one month old. As I have reflected on her growth and development this month, I have also been reminded of just how weak and incapable I am. And that is okay! I cannot be discouraged by that because I have also been reminded that I have a Savior who makes up for all that I lack. He is my strength. And someday, if I can just keep that white flag held high, I will be strong too.
And I must, because…
Her.
This perfect one.
{ Photo Credit: Heather McDonald Photography }