Shortly after 6 a.m., my 3-year-old's arm fell onto my stomach. What time is it? When did he get here? Where's the baby? Phew. My eight-week-old baby fits snugly into the curve of my C-curls, his milky breath warming the skin of my chest. From my other side, my brother's hand pushes, slaps, and crushes my stomach. “Mommy, your belly is so squishy. So fluffy. I love you, Mommy. Thank you, tummy, for our baby.'' Tears come to my eyes. Perhaps the fact that I talk kindly to my body and pay attention to it has left an impression on me. I shift a little to my back, wrap my arms around my boys, and my heart, like a patchwork quilt, breaks a little wider.
During this second postpartum season, I am working on small, concrete things to help me accept my new body shape. My 3-year-old son was thrilled when he named the still bright red stripes on my stomach, hips, and thighs “tiger stripes.” Click “buy” on jeans you've never seen in your closet with an elasticated waistband and a number on the tag. Participate in yoga even when you're feeling light-headed. I've been here before. I know I can find balance again without shaking in table pose, and I know that by the time this baby takes his first shaking steps, those tiger stripes will fade and turn silver. I know.
But what about the new shape of my heart? Just as the fibers of my body are being woven together, so too is my mind being reorganized into new shapes. Someone who can love not just one but two little boys infinitely.
Like many second-time parents, I was worried during my pregnancy about how this transition would affect my relationship with my first child. I put up a declaration in my delivery room that said, “My ability to love myself and my children is growing.” Logically I believed so. Of course, this second baby of hers will also be showered with plenty of love. People take care of multiple children all the time. I have 4 stepmothers! But growing the mind is not a neat process. In fact, it turned out to be as troublesome as human growth.
The second time, my bones are just as rattled as the first time. On the third day after giving birth, you will start tossing and turning, your hormones will drop, and your butt will fall out from underneath you. I'm floating in a lagoon of something: a little sadness, a little joy, a little homesickness. What is this feeling? A feeling that the entire universe is imbued with divinity and that your abilities are being stretched to be a part of it. My feeling of gratitude is so great that it almost swallows me whole. I don't know what it is, but my face is wet with tears and my heart feels like it's going to break. Then, splat. The bottom returns to normal and you start running as fast as you can. How do I feed my baby or help my toddler use the bathroom? How do I manage preschool drop-off and pick-up? Bedtime? What happens when you go back to work? And my heart breaks anew with the realization that although love may increase, there is no time for more. My oldest son doesn't love me less, but overnight he gets less of my time. This precious blue-eyed newborn will never get the afternoon face-to-face with his mother that I first had. My gaze is often averted by the cry of “Mommy, look at what I made!”
My heart doesn't grow to a new size smoothly and seamlessly. Rather, it seems that repeated small heartbreaks create the space necessary for this vast love. I imagine a patchwork quilt, a maze of stitches made of precious scraps of cloth joined by rainbow threads. It doesn't break my heart. It's badly damaged.
When I was little, my mother would say to my sister and me, “I love you more than lollipops, applesauce, and taters.” This fun memory evolved into a game I played with my toddler during quiet time. Me: “I love you more than snow, coffee, and campfires!” Him: “I love you more than Elsa's castle. And marshmallows!” and so on. This week my big one told my little one I love you more than Lake Superior, and seeing my firstborn's love for my newborn made my heart just a little bigger again with a swell of joy. became.
It's dark again now. Both boys are asleep and my body longs to be with them. But I found my mind wandering. Perhaps it's the game of “love me more”, the sweet milky breath, or the strong little hand that found me in the pre-dawn darkness, and the effect an elastic waistband has on my body. It does the same thing to my aching, distended heart. A small and easy to accept approach. I am reminded that when I take a break, I make space for more love to enter. That way, when your heart feels like it's about to break as you swim in a sea of hormones or try to pour infinite x2 love into the limited hours of the day, know that it's not just broken. You'll remember. It's badly damaged.
