Disgraceland

Before my first communion at 40, I clung
           to doubt as Satan spider-like stalked
                       the orb of dark surrounding Eden
                                   for a wormhole into paradise.

God had first formed me in the womb

            small as a bite of burger.

                        Once my lungs were done

                                    He sailed a soul like a lit arrow

to inflame me.  Maybe that piercing

            made me howl at birth,

                        or the masked creatures

                                    whose scalpel cut a lightning bolt to free me—

I was hoisted by the heels and swatted, fed

            and hauled through rooms.  Time-lapse photos show

                        my fingers grew past crayon outlines,

                                    my feet came to fill spike heels.

Eventually, I lurched out to kiss the wrong mouths,

            get stewed, and sulk around.  Christ always stood

                        to one side with a glass of water.

                                    I swatted the sap away.

When my thirst got great enough

            to ask, a stream welled up inside;

                        some jade wave buoyed me forward;

                                    and I found myself upright

in the instant, with a garden

            inside my own ribs aflourish.  There, the arbor leafs.

                        The vines push out plump grapes.

                                    You are loved, someone said.  Take that

and eat it.

- Mary Karr

A friend of mine put this poem up on her blog a while ago and it has stuck with me.  Especially those last few lines: "You are loved, someone said.  Take that/ and eat it." 

Sometimes in this journey (or should we call it a quest?) to reproduce and hold a child in my arms I am struck by the fact that I was once a cell formed by my mother's egg and my father's sperm.  I was once swimming in amniotic fluid, my birth awaited with excitement and anticipation.  And then I grew up.  I drove my parents crazy staying out past curfew.  I was mean to my little sister.  I kissed boys.  I learned to drive a car.  I left for college and wouldn't put up with my family helping me move in to the dorm for longer than an hour before I sent them packing, despite my mother's tears (and it was probably the second time I'd ever seen her cry IN MY LIFE).  I graduated from college.  I met John.  I brought him home. My parents got divorced. I went to grad school.  I got married.  I moved 2,000 miles.  My father died. I got pregnant.  I lost the baby.  I moved 2,000 miles again.  And now here I am. 

That is a condensed version of the story, obviously.  But the point is that sometimes I forget that once I have the long-desired child ... then the countdown begins.  One day that child will grow up.  We'll drive each other crazy.  They will tell me "I HATE YOU!" and slam the door in my face.  They will lose their virginity.  They will accept or reject God.  They will go to school.  They will probably get married one day.  They will  probably crash my car at some point.  They will forever and irrecoverably change my life.  And they will begin a life of their own, a path that is different from mine.  Can I handle that?  Why don't I think about that?  Why don't I think of more than cribs and strollers and stretch marks?  Would anyone ever have babies if they considered that one day if you are successful at raising your children they leave?  That there is the risk, God forbid, that you will outlive them?  That someone might hurt them one day?

All the same, I love my unborn children.  I can barely wait to meet them, even though I don't know what will happen.  Sometimes I wake up in the morning, alone in bed because my husband is already at work, and I wonder if my children are already out there somewhere.  If they have been born to someone else and if they are ok.  I wonder when will they come?  The last week has been a lot of the questions: "Am I pregnant?  Is there a baby in our immediate future?"

I have to say, I'm glad God only knows.

Comments

[KATHY V]

Hey Manda,I read your blog although this one I came to via the creme. I don't remember reading this when it was originally posted though. This post really made me think. It made me think about a lot of things. You are right. I think people have this notion in general that children will be children forever. We have hopes and dreams for them but still in the back of our heads we hope that they won't grow up and they will be snuggly babies forever. It is almost scary to think about what I will face with my children later on. All the things I said and did to my parents will come back to haunt me. You are right, though I still want to go through those experiences. Thanks again for this post.

[andrea_jennine]

Wow; wonderful post. (Here via the Creme list.)

[maggie]

Love Mary Karr.

I think about those things a lot. The stuff I feel about my parents, about my in-laws, about my siblings- the ugly stuff, not the fun loving stuff. Those are all things my kid is going to think and feel about me and the rest of his family some day. He will want to be different and that will kill me. I hate knowing that. Part of it is not wanting to be a parent if I can't do it perfectly. And part of it is just life. But this, I think, is yet another reason why we have God. Right? At least, this is what I tell myself.