Ruth Stoops

Here comes a rant.

I am SICK of people trying to convince me that my birthing experience was hard, traumatic, awful, excruciating, THE WORST THING EVER.

So, Dear People Who Think They Know:  Were you there?  Did you hold my hand as I accomplished my dream of bringing my child into the world in a calm, peaceful manner?  Did you see my pride, exhilaration, and unmeasurable joy when I pulled my son up to my chest?  Did you see me confront my fear, stomp it to the ground, and claim my right to my birth, my body as a powerful, capable woman?  No.  Because you weren’t invited.  Birth is intimate and personal.  You have no more right telling me what my birth was or wasn’t than you have telling me about my wedding night.

Haven’t you heard me say that my birth was transformational, empowering, and beautiful?  Do you not believe me when I say that I loved it?  Do you think you understand my experience better than I do?  Quit looking at me like I’m crazy.  Quit contradicting me.  Quit trying to put words into my mouth, pain into my memories, and weakness into my body.

I will defend my son’s birth.  I should not have to.  But it is too precious, too valuable to tarnish with your petty stereotypes, cliche words, and misinformed assumptions.  Yes, there was pain.  Blood.  Tears.  How much more beautiful the prize?  How much more confident the mother?  How much more glorious the ending?  November 7, 2009, was the day I touched my son and the journey to meet him was filled with mental, spiritual, and physical breakthroughs and triumph.  Shame on you for telling me it wasn’t so.

To all the women who have birthed, I am not trying to define “birthing” in general.  Your story is your own, and you have a right to it.  I cannot claim to understand your experience, so if you say it was awful and terrible, I believe you.  And to all the men who think they know enough to tell a woman what birth is like?  You don’t.

I don’t want to be an angry vigilante, but it has been downright hurtful that people - especially people who love me - doubt my story and don’t rejoice with me.  I am just thankful that I have a husband and a handful of dear friends who understand me.

Thus ends the rant.

Layne’s out of town for a week, and to avoid mass loneliness and overwhelmed-ness, I came to Montana to stay with my folks for a while.  The first revelation was that I had not driven home by myself in a long time (ever?).  Landon was with me, but he slept the whole way - THANK you, son - so he didn’t really qualify as a travel buddy.  I had a lot of time to sing to myself and think.

The next revelation came as I rounded the corner onto our road.  It just hit me like a ton of bricks that I was coming home as a MOTHER.  That’s the place I rode my tricycle, and, oh, I’m a MOM.  Totally surreal.  I feel pretty normal and adjusted at our home in Spokane, but my “home” here seems so different.  Like I am experiencing it from a great distance.  It is such a beloved place, and it is a bit sad that if feels foreign to me now.  On the other hand, I am satisfied that I am adult enough to feel like my “real home” is with my husband and son.

The sociological concept of home really intrigues me.  Post-industrialized Western culture has left a lot of people feeling displaced.  We scatter our lives over several locales and very few of us maintain lifelong communities.  Multi-generational home arrangements are taboo, and people who live with their parents past the age of 18 are labeled as losers.  Our Nepali friends think it’s weird that we separate so drastically from our parents and refuse to pool resources in the name of maturity and independence.  They have a point.  Economically it makes sense to utilize the social capital of families.  The presence of grandparents in the home spreads the load of home labor and raising children while giving purpose and dignity to a population that is in many ways abandoned in our society.  It is especially difficult to explain/justify putting our elderly in nursing homes.  What a way to thank those who changed our diapers and gave us our start in the world.

But I’m all talk.

I still want my own life, in my own house, in my own town.  I think…  Mom’s cooking combined with the whole “why-don’t-I-hold-the-baby-while-you-nap/shower/breathe” thing is pretty tempting.  But we’re not ready to move into the basement quite yet.

If Another Woman carried my child,

Knit him together,

Gave him life and birth,

How would I regard her?

I would love her.

Thank her stretch marks,

Adore her new, changed skin.

Bless her altered body,

Praise her womb.

I would not be ashamed of her mothered figure,

Full, transitioning, worn.

For it housed my most precious love,

The dearest child,

My son.

But it was not Another Woman.

It was Me.

Why then, does shame infiltrate?

Why try to hide the bump that I used to wear with pride?

Why shed tears of fear over my sexuality,

My beauty,

My worth?

No more.

I will thank, bless, adore, praise this body.

The One which did the work.

The One which still sustains my baby.

Lovely, able, weathered me.

I was writing an update email to one my dearest friends and decided to, in the name of energy conservation, copy and paste.  If it’s worth saying once, it’s worth saying twice, no?

My life still revolves around men, even at this stage in my life.  (I know, Landon’s not quite a man, although he seems to be heading there much too quickly.)  Especially during this maternity leave phase, my sun rises and sets with these Stoops men.  More than I am comfortable with sometimes.  But I think it has taught me some valuable lessons about myself, as relationship usually does:

I am selfish. In the past, I have prided myself with being a servant (not sure that pride and service mix…ha), but the whole sleep deprivation, I’m-The-Only-One-With-The-Boob, life-altering role change thing really opened my eyes to how central I am in my world.  It has taken WORK to grow up and be this kid’s mom.  There have been countless times where I am whining in my head…..”Who’s gonna take care of ME?….I’m tiiiiiired…why can’t someone else be his mom tonight?”  It’s pathetic, really.  There’s a little girl in me who is resisting responsibility, and I have to spank her everyday.

I fell in love with Layne snowshoeing on the top of a mountain.  He dug me a seat and laid out a delicious picnic in the bright winter sun.  A million butterflies hatched in my stomach.

But that *love* doesn’t compare to places down the road.  Maybe I fell in love with him when he held my hand in the waiting room, the day I confronted my illness and was diagnosed with depression and anxiety.

No…maybe it was when he knelt down (hard to do in a carriage), asked me to be his wife and exploded my world with joy.

Or was it three years ago, today?  When I looked into his teary eyes and listened to his promise to love me…cherish me…respect me, for the rest of his life.

Maybe it was sometime during the first year of marriage.  Making up from a fight, experimenting in the kitchen, figuring out how to live out our vows.

Or when we lost our first baby.  We had to figure out how to put our lives back together, piece by piece.  Maybe that’s when I really fell in love with him.

I fell in love with him as he walked through labor with me, breathing, encouraging, believing.

I saw him hold our son for the first time with such wonder.  Such pride.  I fell in love with him then.

Every time I think my love for him has maxed out, I am caught off guard.  I cannot imagine how large this love will grow.  I am blown away by its depth, its richness, its strength.  Every storm we weather affirms its merit.  This man is a pillar of hope,  light, and joy in my life.  I am blessed to know him, let alone be chosen by him.  He is good, honest, and trustworthy.  His compassionate heart and sharp mind bless people every day and I am proud to be his wife.

…and I still can’t find my words.  Believe it or not, my lack of writing during this time has had less to do with time, and more to do with brain capacity.  But I want/need to try.

Motherhood is INTENSE.  Intense joy, frustration, loneliness, connectedness, love.  Sometimes I feel so clumsy, fumbling around in this new identity with no clue what to do.  Other times I am confident and feel full of maternal grace.  This is my baby.  I know what he needs, who he is, and who we are together.

It has been difficult for me to try and summarize this time.  Do I include the darkness I have experienced?  The ugly, wrenching, exhaustion that left me in tears so many nights?  The doubts, anger, and fear that entered into my mind?  I want to be honest.  I want to be true to myself and my experience.  But I feel guilty saying that it has been hard.  Why?  Because I want everyone to believe - and *I* want to believe - that my love for my son is such a bright sun that no speck of darkness could survive in our home.  It’s not true.  I am a human.  With limits, finite fuses, and needs of my own.  I am finding that the way through this tricky dance is to embrace myself and my son, moving together through this precious and intense time.

Indeed, I need to include the beautiful and wondrous in my summary.  This child, this perfect little being, is such a joy to me.  What a blessing children are!  Even through the endless diapers, spit-up, and late night crying, the gravity of this gift sinks deep.  I want it all - the identity crises, the physical exhaustion, the re-shaping of my life, my marriage, my self.  It is GOOD.  And while I know that I do not need to enjoy every second (who could handle that pressure?!), I am determined to not lose sight of how wonderful this all is.  Losing a child opened my eyes to see my son for the treasure that he is.  I am doing my best to soak him in and eat him up.

But I am too sleep-deprived and overwhelmed to put any of the past two weeks into a coherent string of words.  We’ll keep it short.

The birth was beautiful.  Perfect.  SO hard, and SO good.

Life back at home has been sweet, sour, and everything else.  Right now I feel like there is no distinction between day and night, which makes for a lot of discombobulation and yawns.  But *they* tell me this won’t last forever!

My whole life is so new, but I’m half asleep.  Can’t wait to wake up.

Soooo….he’s still in there.  Contractions got stronger, 3 minutes apart, yadda yadda, but when we went in, I hadn’t progressed at all and they started to slow down.  Prodromal labor.  Luckily for me, the contractions slowed to a stop and I have been able to rest.  Some women do this thing for weeks without a break!  Trying to be patient, drinking tons of water, resting, and enjoying these last days of pregnancy.

Is this it?  Steady contractions for over 12 hours, increasing in number and intensity….sounds like it might be.  I still have my doubts.  It might be another 3 weeks!  I can still talk through the tightening, they aren’t really consistent, no plug, show or water.  But in case this really is the beginning of the end, here are my thoughts:

What a blessing it has been to carry this boy.  My pregnancy has brought so many gifts.  I have had to learn to love myself and my body, because I love this child that is so interconnected with both.  My thoughts, diet, rest and movements have affected him each day and my awareness of this has changed the way I treat myself.  I am more gentle, patient, and balanced.  Despite all the raging hormones running rampant in our house, Layne and I are communicating better than we ever have.  I have learned to trust God to do the impossible - with our finances, with my marriage, with the constant battle for peace in my mind.

It is a good thing that the past few weeks have been so uncomfortable - otherwise I would not want this to end!  I LOVE feeling my son move.  I feel honored to carry this big belly full of baby.  This has been a precious time, full of wonder and joy.  When I feel that overwhelming sense that I am not “ready” to be a mother, I remind myself that I have been Mother to this child since his beginning.  The transformation in my heart and life will continue, and I have been given all that I need to move into this new life with our boy.

I cannot wait to meet him.  Come soon, baby!

My thoughts have been so scattered these past weeks.  Anxious, impatient, hormonal, excited, at peace, ready, unprepared…words that run in and out of each other at a mind-boggling pace.  Just yesterday, I spent much of the morning sloshing around the house, feeling exhausted and entirely overwhelmed.  I just wanted a break - not as Pregnant Ruth, not Mother Ruth, just Ruth.  And I knew that even though the end of the pregnancy is rapidly approaching, that it would not be an end so much as a beginning.  There is no lull, no recovery time between giving birth and caring for this new life.  No breaks.  No return to normal.  Just tag team craziness.  Can my body handle it?  Can my mind?

Well, of course it can, Ms. Drama.  People have been having babies for a long time and most make it out alive.  *Insert Pendulum Swing Here*   Around dinner time last night, I got a surge of energy.  Thank the Good Lord for nesting urges!  I made a big dinner (for myself - Layne was working late), cleaned up the house, got a lot of “work” work done, and did it all with a smile.  I felt so empowered, waddling around the house being crazy-productive.  My thoughts switched from Eeyore to Tweety Bird (shout-out, Waldens) and I just knew at that moment, “I can do this.  I WANT to do this!”  Which is good, considering that I have to do this.

I knew I would get hormonal at this point, but nothing has prepared me for the visceral speed at which my mood is changing.  Watch out, world.  Who knows what’s coming next!