Trees Tall as Mountains (The Journey Mama Writings: Book 1)

by Rachel Devenish Ford

  January 28, 2006

  The other night Chinua put the big kids to bed so that I could do some writing, and when I got Kenya out of her crib the next morning, she was wearing a shirt that says "I'm the Big Brother." When I looked at Chinua with a question in my eyes, he said, "I just thought it was funny."

  We're doing okay. By okay I mean that I alternate between feeling like I can't do this at all, I'm going to go crazy and die—this meaning take care of these three little kids, in our little cabin, in the rain that pours down day after day without ceasing—and feeling like I am a superwoman, I can do anything, I'm so extremely ecstatic about life and yes I feel great. This type of flip flop is something I plan to work on in this Year of Freedom.

  I experienced fairly intense depression after having Kai and Kenya. I've read that postpartum depression is more likely to occur if you have a history of it. Mine has generally lasted the entire time I've breastfed my babies. I got pregnant with Kenya when Kai was ten months old and still nursing, so there was no break there, and then, after weaning Kenya, I suddenly felt like myself again! The old Rae, the one who doesn't become overwhelmed easily, doesn't fall into despair over small things. I became pregnant with Leaf about two weeks later, and hormones once again flooded my life.

  Looking into the coming year has had me feeling scared to return to the way I felt after having both of my other kids. That's why I have been inspired to name it my Year of Freedom, thinking that maybe walking beside God through some of the battlefields of my mind will have me freer at the end. I've learned a few tricks since I had Kenya. Like not making my husband into the enemy in my mind. Or like being silent when all that wants to come out of my mouth is a tirade of panic and distress. Or being more gentle with my kids when I am feeling particularly fragile. Or letting myself be loved by God when I feel the worst and hate myself for it.

  So rather than being so extreme, in thinking that things will either be perfect or they'll fall apart, today I'll just say that my house is cluttered and my kids are joyful and my husband loves me and I have a headache and my baby is amazing and he slept well last night and I'm tired but happy and I forgot to brush my teeth this morning, and rain is good because it makes the crops grow but boy can it be depressing.

  February

  February 4, 2006

  The Leaf Baby has found his voice. And he is using it. Rather than making sweet little grunts and squeaks, now when he wakes up he yells something in baby speak that sounds to me like "FEED ME NOW, MILK WOMAN!" I try to tell him gently to say please, but even after I remind him a few times, he sometimes forgets.

  We're doing pretty well, even though we have THRUSH. Thrush just like that, in all caps. Leaf's is pretty much taken care of now, thanks to the wonders of Grapefruit Seed Extract (ten to fifteen drops in an ounce of water swabbed on a baby's tongue works way better than Nystatin sugar junk) and my left breast is fine, but when Leaf nurses on my right breast, it feels like he's sucking out sand, rather than milk. It really is too painful to even write about any longer, so that's all I'm going to say about our THRUSH. Except that I've dealt with it with two other babies, and I know that "This too shall pass."

  He's very sweet and smells like milk. He looks like a combination of his brother and sister and someone else entirely different, whom I guess would be him, and sometimes I slip and call him by his brother's name. Today Chinua said, "Kai! What did your mama say about what you're not supposed to do when she's nursing Kai?" No wonder our oldest can be confused sometimes.

  The answer, of course, although I'm nursing Leaf, not Kai, is that the two other little people are not supposed to touch the baby while he's nursing. This is purely for sanity's sake, although there's little enough of that around here. Not touching him includes not wrinkling up his forehead or kissing his cheeks or sticking their fingers in his nostrils, and it especially includes not leaning on either of my breasts with their pointy little elbows in order to bend down and smother the baby with attention while I yelp in pain.

  The phrase most often spoken around here now? "The baby is not a TOY." Which is why you two can't rock his car seat back and forth really fast or touch his eyes or put blankets on him or mess with him at all. They really are good at holding him, though. Except for Kenya's tendency to push him away when she's had enough, (one good reason never to completely let go of the baby when you are letting a toddler hold him) or Kai's sudden freakish impulse to try to turn him upside down (another good reason) they do well. They really really love him. Which makes all my hyper vigilance worth it.

  February 10, 2006

  I had a lot of big ideas about how much writing I would be able to do once I gave birth to my baby. Being pregnant made me so tired that by the time the kids were in bed it was all I could do to drag my sorry self to the Big House and blog for a while. And it took up so much creative energy to form a little person that I lost all inspiration for writing the novel that I've been working on for about a year now. Or, I should say, was working on, until I was about three months pregnant with the Leaf Baby and just couldn't force myself to work on it anymore. With every pregnancy, creativity has gone down the drain. And then, as soon as I have the baby, I'm overflowing with ideas and inspiration again. The only problem is, well—let me put it this way: when I get around to brushing my teeth regularly again, I'll let you know. Right now I'm typing this with one hand while I jiggle a fussy baby with the other.

  That said, I still have a ton of hope for future writing. I've actually started thinking about my book again—the characters, different things I want to change, and either all the awards I'll win when it's published to great acclaim, or how humiliated I'm going to feel when no one wants to publish it and I have to pay to get one miserable copy made at Kinko's. Yes, I flip-flop a bit. (No more flip-flopping, Rae, remember?)

  The other day, Chinua and I ran away with the kids for the day in our new van. We drove out through the redwoods to the beach, and it took us hours and hours because of having to stop to feed the baby and change the baby and feed the kids, and oh we need gas, and finally we made it to the beach just in time for the magic hour of light that turns everything into gold. And all I wanted to do was write about it! On the beach we met a kind dry-humored man with an English accent who invited us over to his house to see the rammed-earth structure that he had in his beautiful garden. We took him up on his invitation and made a new friend, we saw his garden, which was filled with all kinds of sculptures. And all I wanted to do was write about it!

  The fact that I feel inspired is worth so, so much to me. One day I'll figure out how to combine inspiration with time-management and then I'll really be cracking. Until then, it's almost enough to sit and daydream about painting and stories while I nurse my baby and enjoy it, remembering that he won't be this small for long.

  He's pretty amazing. Today some of my friends had a little tea-party/welcome-baby party for me and we had tea and scones and itty bitty yummy sandwiches. There were two other gorgeous babies there, and it really struck me how amazing it is that God formed a mother's heart to be captured by her baby, because no matter how cute I think those other babies are, I really have eyes only for Leaf, and he's the one who goes everywhere with me, so of course that's the way it should be. And I know it's the same with the other mothers there. No matter how much we ooh and aah over other people's kids, in our hearts we all know that ours are the best.

  February 15, 2006

  I fell off the wagon yesterday. Backslid a bit. The thing is, lately I can almost feel my will to even move flowing out of me along with my milk. I can feel a swirl of hormones from my toes to my eyeballs, sweeping my sanity along with them. I stare off into space without seeing. So, I broke a few rules yesterday, about not making Chinua the enemy, not speaking when only toxic waste will come out, and not beating myself up for small things over and over. It was a terrible day.

  It probably was sparked by the fact that Chinua forgot it was Valentine's Day. Big deal, right? I mean, he's not known for his memo
ry for these kinds of things. I know this. I was pretty sure that he wouldn't remember, but I didn't remind him, because part of me was hoping that maybe he had some big thing planned, or some great gift to give me. And I felt like I needed something like that. Life has been a little hectic lately. But I have no call to feel like a tragedy queen over my husband forgetting Valentine's Day because 1. I was almost positive that he would forget. 2. I married a man who is forgetful, and it's not a crime to be forgetful. 3. I chose not to remind him. And 4. I know that he loves me.

  See, I do know, because I have friends who remind me, that I have pretty much everything I could want. I'm working at meaningful things in a community I love, I'm surrounded by good friends and I live in a beautiful place, I'm married to a superstar who loves me, and I have three great kids. I know this, I really do. I know that I'm not lonely, I know that Valentine's Day doesn't even matter because I'll never spend another one alone (though I did spend yesterday bickering with the love of my life). But man, what I wouldn't give for a little loneliness sometimes.

  I'm like a magnet. If I'm sitting on one cushion of the couch, nursing the baby, then I have two little friends, one on either side of me on the same cushion of the couch. No space. There are space issues in our home. I'm going to start a new show called Everyone Needs Mama. As in, everyone needs mama to hug them, everyone needs mama to feed them, clothe them, wipe the poo off their bums, and most of all, everyone needs mama to be happy and sane. I know that this is great, that it's wonderful to be needed, that I'm very blessed, but the result is that one thought doesn't follow another very well in my head anymore. I'm starting to lose brain cells. And I'm writing this at 4:00 AM because I just finished feeding the baby (who pooped all over my pajamas) and I have no time to write during any normal hours. In a minute I'll try to still my mind and go back to sleep.

  So, I was raging mad yesterday because I had been talking about how much I loved Target, and Chinua suggested that my ravings were a little, well, ghetto. Low quality. Like, Rae? Aren't you settling a little? I probably should have realized that he wasn't saying that I'm low-quality, or that I just have terrible taste or low standards, but it set me off because doesn't he realize that the things I get excited about now are diapers on clearance? When was the last time I bought clothing for myself? I think I bought a pair of pants last Christmas. You know? So, Target is a great store, because when you have little means and three children you look for bargains everywhere. On necessities. Chinua totally saw this, of course. But I still made a rabid issue out of it.

  Poor husband. Seriously. I was not fun to be around.

  Part of that was probably my stress over meeting with the surgeon yesterday, which was the reason Chinua and I were out together at all. He came to be with me at my last appointment before I have the surgery to remove Lump and half my thyroid, which is in two weeks. He is totally supportive and understanding. Even so, a little sulky part of me feels like I am in this alone, like no one really gets how hard this is for me. I'll probably write more about the upcoming surgery, since there are so many emotions running around inside me over it.

  On a cheerful note, Leaf is turning into an absolute doll. He was so sweet yesterday, giving me those great open-mouthed smiles that are almost more vertical than horizontal, with a little scrunched up nose. And Kenya peed in the potty for the very first time yesterday. My mom was the one there for the celebratory moment.

  And then even though I was such lame company all day, after the kids were in bed my Superstar Husband gave me an amazing massage with this intense cordless massage thing. My old war injury, the fracture that I have in my neck from an old car accident, was acting up, like it always does when I'm under the weather. My old war injury is very painful and in irritation perhaps the equivalent of someone slapping me in the face repeatedly all day. And then telling me to act happy. Chinua helped me out with the thirty-eight huge knots in my neck and I went to sleep blissfully. So maybe it was a good Valentine's Day, after all.

  February 18, 2006

  Kenya made a nice little poo in the potty this morning, and we had a party for her afterwards, with singing and dancing and animal cookies. On her part I think she was a little puzzled about what the big deal was. Kenya's simple like that. She said she needed to poo, and then she did. So what? Why all the hysteria?

  That's one poo and one pee. We still haven't gotten down to any serious training, we're just sitting her down occasionally if she has her diaper off. Or if she mentions that she might have to go. So today, before she got in the bath, she acted distressed and yelled POTTY and so I let her sit there while I bathed Kai in our storage bin that we are still using as a bathtub, and when she yelled DONE, I ignored her at first, and then when she persisted I poked my head around the corner and there it was: a neat little turd in the potty bowl. Ahhh… heaven.

  My surgery is set for March 1st. Chinua and I met with the surgeon the other day, and he explained the procedure again, as thoroughly as you could desire. The only new information to me was that they are going to go ahead and take the left half of my thyroid out, to get the lump out without too much scar tissue forming. Pete the surgeon says that the other half of my thyroid will do all the work for my body. This seems to be the way in many things. If you cut an inch worm in half, they go ahead as normal. If you're a mama sleeping half as much as you usually do, you just keep on as if you were getting a whole night's sleep. I wonder if the half of my thyroid that's left will get tired. Will it quit one day? I haven't yet googled thyroid surgery to research it to death yet, but don't worry, I will.

  There is only one major risk with this type of surgery, and even it is not so major. The nerve that controls my voice box is right behind my thyroid, and there is a chance that they could damage it. Pete the surgeon says he's never done it. But if he did, and there's always a chance, he pointed out, my voice would be a little damaged. "Damaged?" My Superstar Husband wanted to know. "How so?" "Well," said Pete the surgeon. "Have you ever seen the Godfather?" He left off, with a meaningful pause.

  Right.

  So, if the thought of having a scar that looks like I've gone over the deep end and slit my throat isn't enough to bother me, then the idea of sounding like a female Marlon Brando might. If I would even sound like a female Marlon Brando. Maybe he was saying that I would sound like Marlon Brando as he is. Male. And old. Maybe I'll keep my fingers crossed for a sexy husky damage, rather than a Godfather damage. Or maybe no damage at all. Just not a pathetic, I can't call my kids anymore or yell at them, so they get away with everything damage. Not a people falling to the floor laughing at my silly rasp damage.

  The next step during the surgery, after they remove the left half of my thyroid with the lump attached is when they rush it off to pathology to look for cancer. Then, if they find no cancer, just meaningless lumpage, they sew me back up and I get my scar for keeps. And the right half of my thyroid. But if they find cancer, So long, right half of my thyroid! I will be thyroid-less. And I will have to use Synthroid. Which is not a big deal compared to cancer. The only problem is that I will have to go for four to six weeks without any thyroid medication at all, so they can check me for more cancer. In Pete the surgeon's words, I will be miserable. He said that Chinua would crawl to him on hands and knees asking him to put me out of my misery. Or something to that effect. He said that my brain will be screaming for the Synthroid. And that I will be depressed and gaining weight with no energy. It sounds a lot like pregnancy to me. Times a thousand.

  This worries me.

  I mean, I'm not going to cross that bridge until I come to it, but if you tell a girl who's already struggling with her emotions and low energy level that you might have to take away her normal hormones which help her with feeling even as good as she does, she might worry. Just a little bit.

  But, all that aside, I'm not that anxious. The biggest thing I worry about? My dread of receiving an IV. I think I will faint, I think I will punch the nurse, I think I will throw up. I am such a wimp over needle
s. And a small part of me does want to throw myself to the ground and refuse to do anymore anything because don't you know I might be DYING?

  February 23, 2006

  I watched "Born into Brothels" the other day and was taken right back to India. It was an amazing movie, a documentary shot in Kolkata about a woman who gave cameras to the children of prostitutes living in the Red Light District. She taught them how to take photographs, and they took beautiful and haunting pictures of things around them. They were so wise for their years. Wise and innocent in the worst of situations. Some of the footage was the best I've seen of India, capturing the chaos and beauty that exists there.

  It made me remember the first time I landed in New Delhi and the way I immediately felt overwhelmed by the problems of India. I was eighteen and had never been outside of North America. Everywhere I looked, there was sadness, people...babies...with hands outstretched. My friend Christy and I decided to wash the feet of some of the street kids one night, right after we arrived, on the streets of Delhi. We bought a bucket and some soap, probably for a few cents, and squatted next to the gutter to wash some of the dirtiest tiny feet that we had ever seen. We eventually had to leave because some men were bothering us, but feet washing became one way we had of breaking our sadness wide-open and doing something that caused people to wonder. Jesus washed his disciple's feet before he died. He must have been overwhelmed by everything he saw; sick people, angry people; and so he made a statement by making dirty feet clean. In India, where bare feet are cracked and dirty, it meant something like what it would have meant to the disciples. It's not much, but it's care, it's touch, it's tenderness. Sometimes tenderness is the last thing people receive, but something they need desperately.