I wasn’t prepared for the boredom and confinement of bed rest either. Big adjustment. The only things I could do were sleep, eat a little (my stomach had relocated in my throat), and watch television, which, after a while, will drive you insane. This pregnancy was before the vast array of digital options available at our fingertips, but I don’t think I could’ve Tweeted even if I’d wanted to. I did take some clumsy selfies of my Easter-egg belly and our toddler with my first iPhone. Hurray. Being on bed rest may be the closest I’ll ever come to any quiet, contemplative life in a religious order. These changes in my daily routine may sound minor, but they weren’t for me, since they were moving me closer to an epic identity crisis.
Here’s the worst part.
After I delivered the triplets—all healthy boys—I had trouble breathing, actually taking in air. I was soon back in the hospital with a cardiologist standing in front of me, wondering aloud if I should be intubated. He didn’t just say that, did he? I was in cardiac failure, a result of a virus that attacked my heart during pregnancy. I might improve, stay the same, or get worse. No one could predict.
Carrying that reality with me, I lived between bouts of crying and pumping breast milk. Looking back, the pump needed to go; but for nine weeks, it was a way of controlling a situation beyond my belief and acceptance, as well as bonding with my preemies. One of my spiritual growing edges will always be letting go. And you will never hear me say, “Let go and let God,” because I like to argue with God. I think God likes it too. Check out those conversations with Abraham or Moses or that sassy Canaanite woman who challenged Jesus to help her daughter. Just like a mom.
By the time I was home, little of my life seemed familiar to me. I had one toddler and three infants, no pastoral work, an unhealthy and rather wrecked body, and zero privacy because—guess what—I needed every hand on deck I could possibly get.
My motherhood story may be on the extreme end of personal dislocation and stress, but that very same experience became a way to examine the losses and change in the light of God’s grace.
Identity Change Is Scary, but There Are Ways to Lean into It
As might be expected from a pastor type, I’m going to throw out some obvious reasons that new motherhood—and being a parent forever—forces us to look at ourselves realistically, check our needy boxes, and reduce the fear and trembling. Most of the great God-people relationships in the Bible are about this sort of reckoning. Grab a double-shot espresso or your favorite tea and gather round. It’s confession and communion time.
Give in to This Time in Your Life
I know, I know! There are so many moments, when it’s all new, that you can’t imagine ever souring on motherhood or the precious lotion-slathered bundle in front of you. I felt the same way. Sisters, all it takes is lost sleep, a chemical imbalance, too much advice from anyone and everywhere, perfectionist tendencies, and the tedium—yes, tedium—of being with small children every day to question who you’ve become. Often, I spend more time worrying about what might happen. Isn’t that just like a trusting Christian? No wonder Jesus spent a lot of time trying to tell us that worrying our brains out won’t help one single bit and that God will offer us not what we want (our old body back), but what we need (Luke 12:22-31). Then there are the days that the whole shebang goes off the rails. Way beyond tedium.
By the time we got all the babies home, Victor needed to return to work in DC, with a new Congress in session and a new president. My timing has always been fantastic. Thankfully, I’m sister-blessed. It’s a fact. All of my brothers did extremely well in the selection of spouses, and therefore I have stellar sisters-in-law, real keepers. Aunt Becky volunteered to spend the night the Sunday night before Victor caught his mid-morning flight back to DC. In the wee hours of Monday, we sat around the nursery on the twin bed and in rockers, arms full, occasionally whispering. Aunt Becky casually mentioned this was going to be a great birthday. What? My sister-in-law chose to celebrate her birthday in our chaos. I should probably say she gives great gifts, like that mini lava lamp for my church office.
Next morning, as soon as Dad-da was out the door and headed to the airport, our toddler began to throw up. It was not neat either. Projectile. I was completely undone. I needed to protect the babies, clean the mess, stuff the soiled clothes in the wash, and get the sick one to the doctor, but there was a lot more to do at home with three infants. Becky sent me off anyway. I took my breast pump and my kid to the pediatrician. Yes, I did that.
There’s nothing to be done for rotavirus, a gastrointestinal infection that causes horrible diarrhea. It takes three to eight days to run its course. I got home, shared the diagnosis, and moaned something like, “This is my worst nightmare.” I tried to keep the sick toddler away from the babies (nearly impossible), their room, and their bottles. If I had gotten it, then where would the universe be? I was already obsessed about having hand sanitizer everywhere, insisting everyone have a squirt, as if I were offering a plate of bruschetta.
Smiling, Aunt Becky said, “Well then, you can check that worst nightmare off your list. That’s happened and you can move on.” This sister has stuck with us through thick and thin. She’s like spiritual Gorilla Glue.
It was true that my sweet sister-in-law would walk out the door later, but she was with me then, lovingly reminding me that all this chaos was my life right now and that it wasn’t the horror film I was imagining. (By the way, Aunt Becky has reduced my tendency to exaggerate, and I love that she tells me the truth I need to hear.)
Take Sorta, Kinda Breaks
One of the reasons I’m crazy about Jesus is his clear and deep desire to get stuck in the middle of our stuff. Whether our stuff is a food shortage with a lot of mouths to feed, bringing wine to a wedding, letting snotty-nosed and stinky kids crawl on him, or eating with outsiders who have been shamefully sidelined by polite, religious society, Jesus immerses himself in the chaos of human life. In Jesus, God shows us how wonderful it is to enter fully into this life and that sharing ourselves is what we are meant to do.
But let’s put that in perspective. Jesus also got tired. He wasn’t pretending. He needed some peace and quiet. People, Jesus slept! Have mercy! Remember the time the Lord fell asleep in a tiny cramped boat with a storm blowing and disciples screaming at him that he must not care one whit about their bohunkuses (Mark 4:35-41)?
Sound familiar?
First, that chicken on the sea story reminds me that caring for people 24/7 is exhausting. Amen! Second, our Bible story sadly illustrates that those of us who need all the help we can get frequently tell God, “Oh, you can’t possibly understand! I’m sinking here.” And there is God, right in our old rickety boat, maybe rolling his divine eyes at us. Thus and finally, our story says even the God who is with us, who became human to be with us, knows full well our momma-type exhaustion. Not only that, but God gives us a great example. Take a break. Snooze in a boat if you like. But find some way to disconnect, recharge, and reset.
When my boys were tiny, the cardiologist told me to start the exercise thing again. This wasn’t about weight; it was about heart health. “Walk,” he told me. While family or another helper watched the other three, I took a baby for a walk. In more than one way, it was healing. This almost-solitary walk in nature helped my heart beat a little faster and did wonders when there was absolutely no way to get out of the house otherwise. At first, we didn’t own our van, the only vehicle in which you can really get four car seats. But no sane person leaves her house with a toddler and three infants anyway, not without backup.
Another respite strategy involved spreading blankets in the front yard as spring approached and sitting outside the house. It was soul oxygen. Often, Sister Gayle (my bio-sibling and second mother) or other helpers and I would sit on a quilt or two with babies kicking, and talk and have a front porch experience or a short stretch of lazy visiting. That’s where Sister Gayle came up with our first family Halloween costume. “I know,” she said, “they can go as the Big Bad Wolf
and the Three Little Pigs!” We howled with laughter, but that is exactly how I dressed my sweet four for their first Halloween. I have the pictures to prove it to torture them later. Laughter works as a stress reducer. We memorialized our version of Beach Blanket Bingo by taking pictures too. We looked for ways to celebrate anything. Our first long-term babysitter for the boys—a funny, sweet, and spicy redhead—bought all of us Saint Paddy’s Day shirts and Onesies for a casual photo shoot! For a time, no holiday passed without theme clothes. I’m in recovery now.
Eventually, “the babies,” as everyone called them, got big enough to venture out more. By late spring, we had a van and spent Memorial Day weekend on the banks of the Arkansas River at a music festival. We spread the babies on a blanket and parked the strollers under a shade tree with a stuffed diaper bag and cooler for bottles. (Mastery of the chaos sometimes equals exposing it in public.) The hardest part of that outing—and many more to come—was answering curious people’s questions about this large pile of infants next to us. Are those triplets? Yes. Are they natural? One hundred percent natural babies! No additives.
Although I had little time alone, I desperately needed a way to be out of the house, where, at times, I felt—and was—trapped, surrounded by too many people and an unending cycle of babies’ sleeping, eating, pooping, and playing, a routine that rebooted every three and a half hours or so. And here was a real tough nut for me to handle: going to worship in a community was basically impossible. Fortunately, I was able to baptize my babies and preach a good-bye sermon for my church family, but the loss of my ministry and that community meant I had to find Sabbath in new ways. Some days a break came as rest in a quiet reading time with our toddler. Other times I sat on the floor in a pile of brightly colored baby toys, watching in wonderment as the babies sat up and pulled up, discovering the world around them. Everything was new and gave me new eyes too. At times, I allowed myself quick getaways during which my friends took me for a pedicure and some kind person actually washed, massaged, and put ointment on my feet. Indeed, those were Jesus moments too.
You Are Never, Ever Going to Get It All Done
Momma-Sister, you are never, ever going to get it all done. Almost every woman I know has a checklist. I bet you got it all done back in the day, didn’t you? I’m with you, but let me put my arm around you. Not anymore. Stop it.
One of the great things about being older parents is that Victor and I already had established careers. We weren’t juggling little children with graduate school or new jobs and lawn care, diaper disposal, bottle-making (twenty-four had to be made up every twenty-four hours), shopping, cooking, and all that other domestic stuff. Since Victor was gone a lot in the early days, we had a nanny and tons of family who helped us, which is not always the case for families with multiple babies. Volunteers regularly came over to take a shift. Frankly, it was a bugger just to deal with the enormous volunteer chart we kept on the kitchen island. Meals were a struggle because, often, there were lots of extra people in the house. Thankfully, my angel friend Cindy sent home-cooked food on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays for six months! This was a huge help when I had several ladies holding my babies and I still wanted to offer hospitality. It’s a Southern addiction, and feeding people happens to be biblical and spiritual. Just look at all those times God appears in the midst of a good meal and fellowship.
I have this great tea towel that says: “I see all these moms who can do everything. And then I think I should have them do stuff for me!” Please notice this humor on the hand towel is funny because we know it’s not true. No one can do it all. Those of us who are older and have less to prove know for real that it’s not true.
Some things are beyond Band-Aids.
However, let me confess that I, too, have succumbed to jealousy and guilt when confronted with a version of a perfect Facebook Mom. She’s more accomplished than the lauded lady of Proverbs. This mom gets up at some ungodly hour—not judging—prepares breakfast, lunches, and snacks for activities; makes meals to freeze for later; and creates amazing birthday parties as evidenced by the awesome pictures. Did I mention her kids are geniuses? In fact, one skipped a grade. The guilt-ridden perfectionist that I am would love to hate her, but I can’t because she is soooo nice. This I know: God loves her, and I truly wish I had her spirit and energy. But I am not her. I’m stuck with me, but God loves me, too, and you. And I take comfort in all the stories of how Jesus was constantly interrupted, pulled this way and that. His ministry didn’t fit a chronological schedule. People had to wait on Jesus. He was human, too, remember? He lingered, visited with folk, and wasn’t the best at time management.
Figure Out Your Soul Thing
Since I was an older new mom of four children and was also a new heart patient and a newly not-working pastor, I had to get a new soul thing. I would love to scrapbook, and maybe I will when I’m eighty and decide to divide up all the boys’ bins. Or maybe I’ll do what one mom did. This particular creative sister saved the bits and pieces that she took out of her son’s pockets when washing his clothes, and, when he married, she put them on display in a beautiful glass lamp. I’m gushingly sentimental and have already put my oldest son’s Lamb Chop, Monk Monk, and Baby James snuggle friends in a large glass lantern because he wants them near, even if he no longer cuddles with them. I love that sort of decorating because, on a busy day, I stop, look at those worn lovies and remember.
When the babies were about seven months old, our state newspaper set up a new mommy blog. I was invited to participate. No longer writing a sermon once a week, I missed that sweet torture. Sick, huh? That regular writing became my soul thing, and I would not have that collection of memories if I had not taken the time to write my thoughts, opinions, and observations of motherhood during that demanding season.
As our children have gotten older and are in school and activities, we must do a gut check now and again to decide what soul thing we can commit to. Right now, the boys have chosen ice skating. Apparently, they don’t realize that we live in a hot, humid Southern state where ice rinks are hard to come by. I wasn’t convinced we needed to go there, with lessons and all, but one of the triplets, Wyatt, would not let it go. I thought it was the result of watching Frozen too many times. I thought he’d lose interest. On the contrary, he did not lose interest, and all his brothers decided to give it a go. Within five months of starting his lessons, Wyatt skated his first performance at a Valentine’s Day show. I let him give up tennis. Right now, ice is his soul thing.
If It Gets Really, Really Bad, Talk to Someone, Maybe a Real Therapist
Here’s an important P.S. for when we spirituality-searching mom-people are stepping on Cheerios yet want to love our parent gig: we may need professional help. One day we may find that we are pounding on the bedroom window, motioning to a friend leaving our house—actually getting in her car—that she must come back into our house right this second before we run away to Antarctica.
That’s really what happened. I was the one pounding and probably mouthing, “Don’t leave me!”
The babies were about six months old when I was informed that I qualified for a full physical disability. I quickly realized I couldn’t work with four tinies, but the doctor and people who know about such things said, “You cannot work at this time, maybe ever.” This news coincided with having the babies for five days with no paid helper, coordinating and assisting volunteers, dealing with a surprise virus, and Victor leaving me—the nerve!—to go to DC for his regular workweek. I actually called my husband’s office and told sweet Rhonda, the receptionist, that they—the people who worked for him—needed to get the Congressman home, like right now. Oh, my. I could not take one more person in my house or one more change in my life. I left him a message and told him to have his people call my people. (That is really funny now, seven years later.)
Without a shower, with hair sticking to my head, in dirty sweat pants, and probably with bad breath, I went to see a psychologist. After an initial evaluation, he su
ggested a spiritual therapist who loves purple. Bishop Betty the Best became my healer and the mentor of my own heart and emotions. (She’s not really a bishop, but she does take care of lots of people, her flock of struggling, sweet souls.)
Sometimes a pastor or, in my case, another spiritual mentor is exactly what we need. But when your suffering is deeper and existential, we must use every tool that God gives us to get whole. That’s what the Greek word soza means: “wholeness.” A bleeding heart is no good at all if it bleeds to death, right? Some things are beyond Band-Aids.
Anxiety, neediness, and identity issues associated with motherhood can be a bridge to discovery. I have more days than I’d like to admit when I’m a hot-mess momma, surrounded by clutter, yelling boys, and all the stuff they build, tear up, and spill. Embarrassingly, I can be that person who hollers angrily, “Why is there blue toothpaste all over the floor?” My neatness factor is not OCD, but it’s definitely on the radar. So neon-blue, glitter gel toothpaste smeared in the rug can freak me out, especially if it doesn’t match.
But there is another me, the me who realizes that having blue toothpaste smeared everywhere is laugh-out-loud funny. Why is there even such a thing as blue toothpaste, and why am I buying it on a regular basis if it’s being used as floor art? We have hieroglyphics, too, inscrutable pencil marks along the hall, and scratched furniture from various swords and ninja tools that missed their mark, thank goodness.
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