Pouring From an Empty Cup
It's almost 5:30 when he walks through the door, and I have to mentally chastise myself for counting the hours he has been gone in my head. Almost 12 hours. 12 hours he gets to wear real clothes and talk to grown-ups and drink coffee that hasn't gone cold. It's not his fault that I'm jealous, it's my own sense of isolation and I've been down this road twice before, but...still.
"I have to run to the store and grab a couple of things, " I say as I shove the just-fed baby into his arms. It feels like running away, and maybe in some small way it is, if only for 30 minutes. I grab my keys and purse and mentally go through the playlist of songs I'm going to blare at potentially auditory-damaging levels as I speed away in search of eggs and bread.
And then I hear, "I wanna go with you!" from my 11 year old and turn to see her lacing up her shoes. I'm instantly met with two very distinct and conflicting emotions: sadness over the loss of the time I was going to have all to myself. The time I was prematurely relishing in my head. The thoughts I won't be able to think through to completion now. The songs I won't be able to play as loudly, because I have to protect the ears of those in my charge. And then comes the mother guilt, that old hag. I feel shame for wanting to be alone. For the fleeting thought I had of telling her no, when her face is lit with joy at the prospect of spending time alone with me. I'm a hot commodity these days in the under five feet crowd. So I tell her ok and we jump into my little convertible and I play the songs at a reasonable volume as we drive to the store.
She's 11 and precious and full of life-changing ideas and wonder and on the brink of knowing the hard ways of the world, but still so full of innocence and whimsy. I love her so much, sometimes it feels as though my heart will burst from my chest. But during that car ride all I can think is "I wish she would just stop talking for five minutes. Just. Five. Minutes." But she doesn't and the mother guilt returns and my heart hurts for wanting things I somehow feel I don't have the right to anymore. Things you never appreciate until you don't have them, like time to yourself and the freedom of choosing who has access to your body.
As I drive I look over at her, she's telling me about her plans for the future and her eyes sparkle and her lips never stop moving and like a brick to my stomach I realize I am a planet that her world orbits around. Mother. Such a precious and weighty job, full of requirements and intangible needs no one can prepare you for. So I take a slow, deep breath and blow it out, releasing my expectations of this time and this moment and I listen with everything I have as her dreams spill from her mouth and heart like a river.
The thing about motherhood that no one tells you is how much is will require of you both physically and emotionally. You will no longer, or at least for many years, be an autonomous being. Your body will spend almost a year growing and sustaining the life of your child and then, even after they are born, you are connected so physically and intimately that simply the presence of your body and touch can bring them comfort and peace. You will have given your blood and your body to make them and keep them alive, and there will no doubt have been tears added to the list of human liquids involved in the requirements of being a mother. It is THE hardest job and there are days when you will feel like you have absolutely nothing left to give after you have given your sleep, your arms, your ears, your eyes, your breasts until they are at times cracked and bleeding. And then, more will be asked of you.
Remember, you can't pour from an empty cup.
But, how can you fill a cup that's seemingly always on "E"? How can you give any more when you've already given all you have?
For me, there are two very distinct ways to refuel an empty spirit.
1. Memento Mori, in Latin it means "remember death". It may seem rather morbid, but the premise is that life is so very fleeting and our time here can be cut short at any moment. So, when faced with the insurmountable task that most modern parents face of doing ALL THE THINGS and feeling like an absolutely overwhelmed failure, I step back and remember that life is short. And I imagine myself on my deathbed surrounded by my children and their children and I ask myself what in THIS VERY HARD moment will I remember then? And it most certainly will NOT be wether my house was cleaned, or wether my children had stain-free clothing, or wether I ever managed to lose that last five pounds or if I got to play my music really loudly. No, those things will fade from my memory like a polaroid picture in reverse, forgotten in the blackness of time past.
What I WILL remember are the moments that often, at the time, seem insignificant: a walk to the park holding hands, a conversation about boys who would make good husbands, watching a baby smile for the very first time, rubbing little feet that I can still hold with one hand, and conversations around the dinner table every night, even if we did eat off of paper plates that day. All of these moments add up over the years to our one beautiful, messy, and love-filled life. And so, as I ride along in the car, listening to my child babble on about slime and boys, and I know when I get home the tiny body of a little boy will need mine to give him life from my own and it all seems too much, I stop and remember death. And I am filled with gratitude for this precious gift of motherhood, hard though it may be at times. Somehow, being thankful and remembering the brevity of it all, fills my cup.
2. Deuteronomy 33:25 ...As your days are, so shall your strength be.
This one is easier. It's not so hard to refill an empty cup when you can draw from a spring that runs eternally full. I believe that the Bible is full of promises that are like checks you can cash. This one is very dear to me and reminds me that before the day ever arrived, there was a portion of strength set aside for me. Just what I need for the day, one day at a time. And so, when I am awakened for the third time in one night by a baby who needs me and I start lamenting how I haven't slept in weeks, I remember that my strength draws upon supernatural reserves and I silently pray and ask for what I need to get through that day and the long night. And I do it again and again, one day, one night at a time. Miraculously and mysteriously, I'm filled up and I make it through each rotation of the Earth, one day after the next, until years have passed and babies are no longer babies, but children with a head full of hopes and dreams that they want to share with me.
As we walk through the aisles of the store, me feeling avocados and reading labels, and her still chittering like a gregarious squirrel in my ear, I remind myself that in a blink of an eye eight weeks have passed since our son was born and in another blink two years will be gone and this child will have likely have moved on from making slime to other, more hormonally-induced interests. I remember being a very new mother and walking through a similar grocery store with a two year old and infant in tow and feeling similarly depleted as I had been earlier, when an elderly woman stopped me and admired my two precocious bundles of energy.
"Cherish these days, dear" she said, "they pass so quickly."
I smiled and rolled my eyes inside my head wishing they WOULD pass so quickly. And now here I am, almost forty with a new baby, reliving these hard and beautiful days all over again, but this time I have the wisdom of age and years behind me and I know with a bittersweet pang in my heart how very true her words were.