Grace

This one's for April.

Infertile women and women who miscarry get this a lot: "It wasn't meant to be." "Maybe God's trying to tell you something." "If nature wanted you to be a parent..."

These things are generally said by someone who apparently has special knowledge of some grand plan. It's a hard thing to hear, especially when we're wondering whether there is any grand plan. When you haven't conceived after yet another cycle, or when you've lost a deeply desired pregnancy, that's a puzzling question. It's hard to avoid the conclusion that one of three things must be true:

1. There is no God;
   
2. There is a God and He's fucking with me; or
   
3. He's not fucking with me, but He doesn't care enough to stop whatever is.

Well, hey, it all looks so good I don't know where to begin!

It's bad enough when other people say such things to you and you don't believe it. I find it worse, though, when it comes from the little voice inside my head — sometimes James Earl Jones, sometimes Elmer Fudd, sometimes Fran Drescher, which wakes me screaming in the night. Worse when I suspect it might be true.

Now, I don't believe in God, so it's easy for me to accept that there is no cranky otherworldly architect consulting a blueprint, making careful notes on the precise placement of the ottoman I'll shortly trip over. (Hey, it was funny when Dick Van Dyke did it...) But I do believe in something, some kind of universal balance, where we all eventually come out even. So when bad things happen to me, I can generally accept them as being the price for my enormous good fortune in finding Paul, in the love of my parents, in having a life that's been mostly very happy.

The circumstances of Charlie's birth jolted me out of that acceptance. I don't mean I shook my fist at an uncaring universe; I mean that for the first time it occurred to me that maybe Charlie wasn't supposed to happen at all. And that scared me. Out of something really bad — infertility, pregnancy loss, a pregnancy riddled with complications, premature birth, and a few harrowing weeks of illness, his and mine — we'd somehow snatched something really good. Charlie.

So every day I have the uneasy feeling that we've gotten away with something.

It is impossible for me to look at him without thinking, We almost didn't have you. Maybe he wasn't meant to be. Maybe, in exchange for its staggering generosity in giving us Charlie, the universe will exact some terrible payment, so that my life will maintain its balance.

But then I think of theologian Paul Tillich's profound and simple definition of grace: accepting that you are accepted.

I want to live my life with that kind of grace, without second-guessing my own good fortune. I can't assume it as my due; that's not what Tillich meant. Instead, at my best, I can be humbled by it and grateful for it, surprised to the core but still trusting that it was meant, in some cosmic non-religious sense, for me. Sometimes.

April's post made me realize that this idea applies to infertile women, too. I'm not talking about some highfalutin' pseudo-spiritual way of saying, "Relax, it will happen," or "If you have enough faith..." Nothing of the kind. It's more along the lines of, "Accept that you are worthy. You deserve to be a mother just like anyone else. Don't let others make you doubt it. Don't let the bastards get you down."

If you decide — you, on your own (and perhaps, I grudgingly concede, in consultation with your partner, whose wisdom on this point had better be positively Solomonic or I'll sic James Earl Jones on his weaselly ass) — that you don't want to pursue parenthood anymore, that's one thing. But if it's the voices of others, be it your absurdly fertile sister-in-law or the dog who goaded Son of Sam or Elmer Fudd himself, it's another.

Accept that you are accepted. Don't let those bastards get you down.

14 Kids and Pregnant Again!

This morning I watched 14 Kids and Pregnant Again! I wondered what that exclamation point meant. Surprise? After 14 kids, you'd think they'd suspect that hittin' it sideways after Sunday Bible meetin' just might lead to pregnancy. Horror? Well, I was horrified when I realized that when the current generation reproduces, there will be enough of this family to overthrow the government, an effort I would happily support if I didn't suspect they find the current administration just a little too liberal. Dismay? "Where, oh, where will we find more of that adorable floral upholstery fabric to make yet another voluminous jumper for our potential daughter-to-be?"

As I contemplated the enigma lurking within that single inscrutable punctuation mark, it occurred to me that the writers probably spent a fair chunk of time struggling with the title of the show, finally throwing up their hands in surrender and going with the obvious. I wish they'd worked a little harder, though, to punch it up a little. Everybody Loves Jim Bob? Sects and No City? God's-Will-More Girls? My Pelvis Is Made of Bubble Yum!?

The program showcases the Duggar family of Springdale, Arkansas, evangelical Christians — of course — who "decided to let God dictate the size of [their] family." Now, why do I suspect God is pacing the halls of Heaven, wearing a groove in the clouds, clawing at his snowy-white mane, muttering, "Good Me almighty, I gave you people birth control for a reason..."?

Anyway, Michelle and Jim Bob — shown here in giant disembodied head mode — met as teenagers, married shortly thereafter, and then all Hell broke loose. A long parade of children would follow, nearly one a year, all with names beginning with J. (Strangely, Jesus has not yet made the cut, while Jinger, pronounced Ginger, has.) There are two sets of twins, nine boys and five girls. The children, who frequently wear matching clothes, create an interesting but vertiginous optical illusion when all that plaid is set in motion.

It turns out there's a name for women who give birth to more than ten children. (No, this is not the setup for a joke, but, hey, feel free to make up your own.) It's great-grand-multipara. It's also mother of the year, at least according to the Arkansas legislature, who honored Michelle for her contributions to the local grocery store's profit margin the rhetorical arsenal of Zero Population Growth the hallowed ideal of motherhood, which apparently involves a cascade of pre-Raphaelite hair and a charming high-waisted frock topped with a white collar the size of a dinner plate. The show closes with the birth of the family's fifteenth child, another boy. According to Michelle, she'd happily have more children.

I can see it now. I am setting the TiVo even as we speak to catch the inevitable premiere of 15 Kids and Her Uterus Exploded!

For my next trick...

On the heels of my most recent post, which ended up being more controversial than I'd expected, I am contemplating what I'll write about next. Some possible topics:

• The surprising results of my comphrensive tests on which brand of vodka best alleviates morning sickness (which also appeared in last month's Consumer Reports).

• Charlie's endearing fascination with the menthol smoke rings I blow to distract him during diaper changes.

• Charlie's dry, hacking cough of unknown origin.

• A rhapsodic appreciation of how angelically Charlie sleeps when nestled prone in a mountain of fluffy feather pillows.

• The fact that not only am I supplementing my pumped breast milk with formula, but as soon as Paul gets back from the grocery store we're gonna purée us up some Lunchables and give Charlie a real treat.

• A thoughtful treatise on spanking, including a helpful diagram of the most effective target areas and the detailed plan for behavior modification I will enact if Charlie doesn't put on those mittens right now. Hey, my parents spanked me and I turned out all right, didn't I?

Um, didn't I?

: )

I had a rare and pleasant conversation with Tertia yesterday. Unusually, we were each able to type with both hands instead of conversing in the kind of abbreviations Prince would use if he ever had cause to refer to lactation — "u pumpn rt now? know how u luv it." "i h8 2 pump, a-hole." "hor." "anus." "shut ^." "no U shut ^!" Et cetera.

I could type with both hands because Paul was taking care of Charlie. She could type with both hands because she'd sent Adam out for a pack of smokes or something. I told her how hard the early morning had been. I believe I referred to my well-loved small son as an asshole.

Yeah, he was that bad.

I told her that his reflux has been especially acute lately, and that during feedings he cries and arches away in pain, making it very difficult for him to eat even though he's ravenously hungry. I told her that he'd screamed for much of the night, wanting to feed but hurting when he tried. I described the way I'd felt, that night would never end. I repeated what I'd crooned to Charlie in soothing, motherly tones, directly into his shell-pink ear: "Whaaaaat. The fuuuuuuck. Is wrong, my boy?" I told her why I had finally snapped and gone to wake Paul — it happened while I was changing a terrible diaper. I'd carefully moved his clothes out of the way so they wouldn't get smeared, and was holding his tiny ankles in an iron claw to keep his feet from kicking against his poo-slick bottom as I went through wipe after sullied wipe. I was so careful, and was doing brilliantly, until the little asshole — yes, I said asshole — decided it was time to pee, drenching the footie sleeper and onesie I'd tried so hard to protect, and my nightshirt that he'd already spoiled several spit-ups ago.

"Did you spank him?" Tertia wanted to know.

"Well, his pants were conveniently down at the time..." I admitted.

That's when I went to get Paul.

...

Watching Charlie struggle with reflux makes me feel better about not nursing.

Every time I put him to breast, he'd end up screaming and wriggling away. I took it hard, feeling that if only I'd built a better milk supply, or put him to breast more often, or taken the time to shave my armpits, or had a nice-looking rack like Ashley Judd instead of the terrifying mammarian shelf that threatened to overwhelm his fuzzy little head...if only I'd done something different.

I felt better once I'd given up trying. I felt better about pumping, too, easy in my mind that by not trying yet again, I wasn't missing out on some idyllic interlude — Their eyes met across a crowded bra — but instead was avoiding yet another painful confrontation. And lately, I'm feeling even better: watching him struggle against the bottle makes it clear that it's his own body he's fighting, not me.

...

It's hard taking care of a newborn under the best of circumstances. In many ways, we have those best circumstances: Paul and I are both around most of the time, since we work at home. We can switch off when one of us has had enough; we can nap during the day as the situation permits. And we love Charlie deeply, always aware of how fortunate we are that he's here and he's healthy. That knowledge makes it easy to be patient most of the time. Most of the time. But it's still very hard. It's relentless.

In other ways, we have the worst of circumstances. The parents of a typical newborn face the same challenges, the lack of sleep, the constant demands, the arc of pee in the dark of night. But one day they wake up after yet another night of broken sleep, and their baby smiles at them. Here we are still waiting.

By all outward appearances, Charlie doesn't like things yet. Parents I know will say things like, "Oh, she loves her bath!" or "He's so happy in his bouncy seat." Paul and I say things like, "Hey, he doesn't scream as much when you change his diaper now." He doesn't like; he tolerates. At worst, he hates things; at best, he seems fairly neutral.

Charlie doesn't smile. And of course he will. But so far, Paul and I have been enduring the difficult parts of being a parent without the payoff. Parents of full-term babies endure maybe six weeks or so of toil before they get the feedback and the feelgoods of a big gummy grin. At this point I am desperate for there to be something that obviously gives him pleasure — I need to know from him that we're doing something right.

We're coming up on fourteen weeks, and I sure could use a smile.