On Spoons

We had our use, we delighted in our job! We fed the hungry! We satisfied a need! And when all was said and done, although we were abandoned, we remain pleased with the knowledge that we have done our jobs well.

Willow

I had always assumed that my last baby would be easy for me to hand off to others, leave with a sitter, drop off in the nursery at church... Boy, was I wrong!! I am more attached to Willow than I have been to any of my other kids, and suffer separation anxiety when she's not with me. Little girl, you don't know how lucky you are. Your mommy simply adores you.

our family feels a little bit broken with you gone...

did i abandon you there? are you feeling homesick or sad? would you tell me if something happened to you?
walking into your cabin and seeing all the bunkbeds brought back a sickness inside of me... i smiled for your sake, because you were excited... but inside i felt like something was dying.
you didn't want to hug me "good-bye"... you just wanted to get on with all the fun of camp - don't worry, i understand. i never want to put my feelings onto you, to cause your excitement to fade... these are my own demons, and i fight them always.
i wonder if you know how very much i love you - i would kill for you, my oldest son, my joy, my hero. i would die for you.
our family feels a little bit broken with you gone...

baby in africa

after hours of silent labour, accompanied only with the quiet murmurings of women in a dark hut, nestled in the scorching heat of a village in africa, a baby pours forth in a hot rush onto the dirt floor, landing sprawled between it's mother's feet.
the cord is tied with a bit of hand-spun cotton, and one of the women attending begins to saw against it with a dull knife. when the separation is successful, the squawling infant is lifted up from the dirt and wrapped in a cloth - the same cloth it's mother has used as a skirt, and sometimes as a shawl to ward off an occasional chill in the african night. the cloth has found another use - swaddling the tiny, caremel-colored infant.
when it comes forth, the placenta is whisked away to be buried near the entrance of the family's compound - it's purpose - to ward off evil spirits.
one of the women lowers her mouth to the infant's nose and sucks out the mucous, spits, sucks, and spits, until the breathing is clear.
in the darkness of the hut, the mother and infant lie on a straw mat near a fire that someone has stoked - for more than a week they will be confined to the hut, amidst the constant smoke from the fire, dirt, heat, sweat and darkness.
the smell inside is strong - blood, burning wood, body odor - they all mix together and sting the eyes.
the infant tastes of the mother's milk, tastes the salt of sweat on her skin, tastes the first taste of salt from tears shed. it lies naked against her, warm skin on warm skin in a sweltering place. the heat from outside is just africa as africa is - the heat from the fire is meant to cleanse.
the mother massages the oil from schae nuts into her infant's skin - it glows in the flickering light of the flames.
all the everyday noises and activities from outside are muted in this room. when women come to visit, or bring food for the new mother, they speak in hushed voices. their bare feet make no sound on the dirt floor.
the infant opens it's mouth in a yawn, and someone touches an index finger against it's lips, then the bridge of it's nose, then the forehead where thick, soft, black hair curls damply - they do this special touching to insure that the infant's soul stays within it's body.
on the eighth day, a celebration is held. the whole village attends, drums beating, feet stamping, dirt flying, women singing and clapping in a circle around the mother and infant.
a goat is slaughtered, and it's blood is caught and mixed with water that has boiled in a black cooking pot. village women form an unpenatrable wall around the mother, and she is scrubbed furiously with the blood-water and a course loofa until she gleams.
it's the infant's turn now - an old woman hikes up her brightly-colored cotton wrap-around skirt and sticks her long, thin legs straight out in front of her, her calves forming a cradle on which to lay the naked infant.
it cries lustily as someone scrubs in the same way the mother was, and when the tiny one is held up dripping to the village, everone murmurs their approval.
a witch doctor mutters a blessing over the baby, and then out of nowhere, a grey razor blade is produced. the infant's head is shaved, all the soft, black curls falling to the ground. the hair is collected by the witch doctor to be properly disposed of, in case someone wants to use it in the making of a curse against the New One.
the razor blade is dull, like the knife used in the original separation of baby and mother, and blood blooms in places on the infant's hairless head.

finally, the infant's true name is whispered into it's ear - then, the whisperer turns to the waiting villagers and announces a different name out loud - the name that the infant will be known by.
after only eight days of living, the infant has experienced the tears of it's mother, the sting and scratch of pain, the image of slaughter, the smell of blood, the sound of drums and blessings. after only eight days of living, the infant is old.

dreams

i had so many dreams last night - i think that willow and i suffered the same dream at one point - we were both crying

babylove

what gives people the right to decide for me how many kids i should have? this is something that has been bothering me for ages, and due to a recent comment from someone related to me, i'm feeling it all over again. it's my life, my family, my body, my decision. how could anyone say that having a baby is a *bad* thing? i guess it's something that i'll never understand.

you were hurt too, my dearest - my lady. you were told to trust, to follow blindly like a sheep, and your trust was trampled on, your heart was shattered.
each time you gently unentwined your children from you, uncurled the fists that clung to your skirt - each time you held yourself straight up, forcing your mouth to smile as your children walked away from you sobbing - each time you waved until they were out of sight, high in the sky - each time they flew from you, your fragile smile crumbled and your hand shivered to your heart, and you cried so many thousands of tears - you could have jumped into them and had a warm and salty bath...
you suffered too. i cannot protect you from your pain, and i cannot begin to heal you - that job is for Someone greater than all of us, and above all of our injuries. it is a job for the Great Physician.
and that Physician has given me a job, my dearest. it's a huge one, and sometimes i feel it is more than i can bear. i am questing for an answer, for repentance, and for action. i can not stop until it is finished, and i am sad that it might hurt you somehow along the way. i have my own children now, and for their sakes, and for the sake of all little children who are under the Physician's care, i trudge onward with this task.
it is not an easy road that we are told to follow, but there is a promise of Something Amazing at the end of our journey.
my heart is hurting for yours, my dearest. this thing can not remain silenced forever, and when we face it, it is terrifying, and we might even feel like it will kill us - but facing it is the beginning of our Great Healing. facing it is brave. facing it is the only right choice that we can make.
forever and ever love to you, my dearest of ladies...