Motherhood

 

I remember the words "You're pregnant!" like it was yesterday. I also remember that the nurse practitioner's exclamation sounded more like a question in case I didn't think this was happy news. After all, it was the 1970s, an era of feminism and women's rights, and the right to choose hung heavy in the air; all of that was the furthest thing from my mind. I was thrilled at the news and said so with a grin from ear to ear.

I was 26. My husband and I hadn't planned to start a family, but the prospect of motherhood filled me with a sense of "shock and awe" that we were indeed at the stage in life that we could and would do so. Before I got the medical confirmation, I suspected that I was pregnant because of the subtle changes in my body. Though I had nothing to compare it to, as I never had morning sickness, somehow I just knew.  Something felt different.  With the obstetrician's confirmation, I excitedly told my husband we were having a baby!  He loved the idea.  Full of optimism for a healthy pregnancy, we announced the news immediately to family and friends.

I was a new teacher in a small school working with other young teachers, all in their twenties. There were five of us pregnant at the same time, which was crazy, but it just added to the camaraderie we had already established. We were a close-knit group. We hung out together, and a group of us became close friends. The prospect of raising families together was very cool.

By the late 1970s, women I knew were deeply vested in "women's lib." As it related to childbirth, if the woman had to be present at the delivery of her child, so did the husband. The term "we're pregnant" entered the lexicon. There was a mix of new birthing techniques and a return to "the old ways." Ultrasound was not yet commonplace, so the sex of the baby would still be a surprise. Breast milk was preferred to formula.  Women pumped their milk so the fathers could participate in the feedings. We nursed publicly, albeit discretely.  "Co-parenting" was the new buzzword. Liberated women of my time refused an epidural in favor of natural childbirth. Lamaze and La Leche were popular supports for birthing and nursing. Birthing rooms were becoming more common, but were not widely available. Midwives and home births were back in vogue.  Some women chose to deliver in water, others birthed in an upright position using gravity to their advantage.

I knew I had the constitution for natural childbirth, and, after all, my husband would be present throughout.  What I didn't know was whether my style would be that of a screaming banshee that would send my horror-stricken husband sprinting from the room or a calm and confident mother-to-be panting through her pain.  We chose a hospital setting, and I delivered my firstborn naturally with my husband by my side.

My beautiful, healthy angel was born at 5:00 p.m. on September 16, 1978, weighing in at 6 lbs. even.  We named our red-headed baby of Irish heritage Shannon.  She was such an unimaginably small and perfect bundle of joy.  While I felt that motherhood began the moment I found out I was pregnant, my newborn made me feel motherhood to the depths of my soul.  My world was forever altered with her presence in my life. The future glowed with hope and promise for my budding family.

My young, naïve self thought that I had created the perfect sidekick for my life's adventures.  I was and have always been a hopeless romantic and ridiculously optimistic, with an intelligent mind that was often overruled by my heart.  As it turned out, my dream of motherhood did not always measure up to the reality. Intermingled with moments of pure joy were sleepless nights, incessant crying, projectile vomiting, asthma, chicken pox, temper tantrums...all things typical of childhood, but things I hadn't given much thought to.

Still loving motherhood, I had a second child, a son, whom Shannon named Erik. Not long after, the dream completely shattered.  There was a divorce and abandonment. Fear of going it alone undermined the joys of motherhood.  As a single parent, I became an anxious mother: insecure, angry, scared, exhausted, worried about everything.  I eventually got my footing, but my daughter no longer wanted to be my sidekick. As a teen, she would have pulled away anyway, but she ran from me full speed in any direction but the one I wanted her to go.

It's 2015. I'm a mother of two adult children now. My daughter has given me two beautiful grandchildren. She had an epidural and knew both times the sex of her children in utero.  Birthing rooms are the norm. Breastfeeding is still preferred to formula. She never discussed alternative delivery options but certified nurse midwives have mostly moved to a hospital rather than a home setting.  And motherhood...still the same awesome responsibility it always was, buoyed by Googling the latest parenting advice on the Internet.  Some families have a strong foundation and some mothers still go it alone. There is still disparity in women's wages, with many more single parents living in poverty. At this point in my life, motherhood's sharp edges have dulled and smoothed. I worry less. I have raised my children to adulthood. And...my daughter has indeed become my sidekick. 

Walking Down A Country Road

While visiting my brother in Colorado, I took a long walk down a country road one morning. My memories bubbled to the surface like a fresh water spring and I was in touch with my inner country girl again.  I became aware that a rural setting always sets my spirit free. As I gazed across the wide open spaces, I was reminded that I felt more relaxed and peaceful in this setting  than anywhere else.  For miles there is nothing but prairie. The expansive landscape is dotted by small clusters of tidy farms, horses and cattle. The air smells clean. Wild sunflowers and lupine grow along the side of the road, haphazardly and untamed.

I guess you could say I was raised a city girl. For the most part, I lived in a small suburban town in north Jersey with the Manhattan skyline on my horizon. My father moved my brother and me to a city in Connecticut for a brief stint but it was in the NJ suburb that I lived for most of my formative years. But I always had a country girl spirit.

As a child, I played cowgirl...a lot!  In my suburban yard there was an old garage with a water trough and a hayloft with hay dust still covering the floor. I was convinced it would be perfect for a pony and so I asked for one for my birthday or Christmas. I argued that I wanted just a small pony I could keep in the garage since we had that trough. Sadly my parents never obliged.

There would be the occasional trip to the country to visit my father's cousins and a vague memory of visiting a farm with my grandmother. I became aware of a growing desire to have a different life away from the confines of a city.

As soon as I was able, I acted on my desire. At the beginning of my junior year of college, I moved off campus to a small farm. For the next thirteen years of my young adult life I chose rural environs to make my home.

The most remote location was a seven acre property in the Adirondack region of upstate NY.  In the mid '70s, my young husband and I raised sled dogs for amateur racing. We heated the house with a wood stove and I tried my hand at organic gardening, baking bread and preserving the meager harvest. We tapped maple trees and cooked our own syrup. I took long walks in the woods.

I haven't spent an extended period of time in a remote country setting until now. Back in touch with my inner country girl, I am reminded that this is where I need to be once in awhile...to relax, regroup, be inspired and creative. It is here that I have gotten back to writing and I realize that it's no coincidence.

Well-Worn Shoes

It's the first day of school in Broward County, Florida, and I'm on the other side of the country in Elbert, Colorado, visiting my brother and his wife, Shannon.

I feel elated as a retiree. I'm relaxed and staying in the moment. Got nowhere I need to be and content to be right where I am, sitting outside with a view of the Bijou Basin and writing my first blog.

This August I have not had to suffer the first-day-of-school blues nor the inevitable night-before anxiety about the unknown demands that await me in the morning. In contrast, my ultra laid back mood is exquisitely sublime.

In my relaxed state, I ponder the root cause of years of anxiety on the eve of the first day of school and on every Sunday night before the work week began. A simple analogy would be to liken it to the dread one might feel turning over the role of driver, and therefore the control of one's life, to a speed demon, wreckless and insensitive to this passenger's white-knuckling grip on her seat. I would no longer have control of the speed or the destination, nor the way we got there.

More recently, this anxious feeling has arisen more  from my role as a member of my school's leadership team than in my role as autism coach. In my role as a school leader with this latest principal, I would finish the first week of teacher preparation feeling like I was careening down a treacherous, mountain road in a blinding rain. The year's expectations would be gloriously presented to attract buy-in but I long-ago learned that the path was littered with minefields.  To his credit, this  principal had high expectations for my school's special needs population. I took no issue with his desire to set lofty goals for a new school year but there would be an ominous underpinning of his message for the administrative team shivering both literally and figuratively in the meat locker he called his office, behind closed doors. 

It went without saying that I would be expected to tow the line, get out the principal's often unpopular message and uncomfortably admonish my peers when asked to do so. While the leadership team's opinions were expressly welcomed, the spider lay in the center of the web waiting for his prey to take the bait. This man did NOT like to be challenged! Inviting discussion was an empty gesture, forgotten as soon as it was offered. My often critical, brilliant but calculating, and combative principal saw no need to motivate or inspire, as he felt he was not responsible for employee morale and said so frequently.  Ultimately, the staff would do the job they were paid to do or suffer the consequence of "progressive discipline."  Feeling a sense of unease, I would toss and turn Sunday night and limp to the starting gate on the first day of school Monday morning.

It's a different school now. There was a mass exodus of old timers; seven this past year and several more during this principal's tenure. I'm part of that past and I knew it was also time for me to leave. It was a good run and I've been deeply satisfied in my role as a teacher - of students and adults. No regrets. Now it's somebody else's turn to fill my well worn shoes because I'm back in the driver's seat. Today I am a retired educator and as I drive off into that proverbial sunset, I look over my shoulder and give a wink and a nod to the past.