After

            
                Raising children is like slipping into a funhouse mirror that warps time. Days can move forward at the speed of a dripping faucet and years can vanish as if they never were. The slippery hours struggle against the desire to be grateful for every minute.

             Twenty years of living create a treasure trove of minutes.

             Updating Waiting for a second edition brings me face to face with an impossible task. It is impossible not to add some word or thought about the 20 years since the birth of my older son, yet it is also impossible to somehow sum up a lifetime in a few paragraphs.

             From an empty nest to an empty nest; from waiting for children, to bracing myself for them to take flight into lives of their own, life unfurls its daily beauty. The baby I waited for with such angst, Joey, has begun college. His brother, Danny, is on the cusp of high school.

             Both grandmothers have died, as did the surviving grandfather. Two dogs and one cat spent their lives sharing our home. Rick and I have been married almost 25 years. We left our moving days behind and committed to stay in North Carolina.

             Becoming a mother changed me. In some ways, internal changes have been as life altering as those losses inevitable to simply living. Motherhood changed my faith, my psyche, and my politics.

             I thought I understood what love was by the time I reached my 30s, but I only had part of the picture. Parenting is a doorway to a fierce love like no other. And just as I was unable to imagine, prior to birth, a love like I felt for Joey, I was unable to imagine that I could feel the same way toward another child. That worry shadowed much of my second pregnancy.

             In fact, my “worry patterns” were the first of many examples of “the more things change, the more things stay the same.” What was different? Instead of worrying about a miscarriage, I worried that I couldn’t love Danny as much, or if I did,  I would be loving Joey less, and that wasn’t tolerable either. What stayed the same? That I still found something to worry about!

             Experienced mothers understood and soothed my fears. One told me that loving children is like fire. Your love for your first child lights a candle. When your next child is born, another candle touches the flame of the first. The light does not diminish, but grows only brighter. I found this to be true, as opportunities for love filled my life.

                Siblings have the potential to be gifts to one another – simply by existing. On a philosophical level, siblings create more opportunities to give and receive that flame of love. On a practical level, their mere presence frequently tests those loving bonds – but what activity isn’t improved by practice? A second aspect of the gift of brothers or sisters is what I call “spotlight reduction.” A sibling filters the glare of the parental spotlight. That fierceness of parental love can border on blinding when there is only one recipient. Finally, having at least one sibling offers some insurance that the firstborn does not leave childhood with the mistaken belief that he is the center of the universe!

             A life lesson learned in my pregnancies, and discussed in the book, is that there are no guarantees. Understanding this intellectually left me emotionally grasping for control where none exists. I continue to try to learn this lesson on the deeper levels. As the boys mature and spread their wings, I recognize again and again how little I can do to physically protect them. Baby locks on the kitchen drawers and doors may have been the pinnacle of power.

             Discovering the secret of balancing fierce mother love with Zen detachment is a paradox I’ve yet to crack. I believe achieving that apparent contradiction is a worthy, if illusive, goal.

             When I succeed in living consciously, present to my surroundings, interacting with keen alertness and an open heart, I know I have truly lived those moments. Stopping time this way is a forever gift. Perhaps it is also a door to the Holy Grail of parenting – the balance of opposites.

             Waiting for a child, or grieving the loss of a child, fills time with fragile moments. Some of these moments seem to roll on without end. “Staying present” in these times can feel like a hell no one deserves. Yet the odd fact of discovering truth in paradox is present in grief as well. Honoring your pain, by being there, by showing up, is the surest way to come out whole on the other side. Paying attention to these feelings gives you the tools you need to grow strong again. To all whose lives are touched by the ache for a child, I wish you well on the tender journey of living day by day.

Purchase the first edition of Waiting

    
Morning Coffee
Ellen Judith Reich
A recent short story.

What is she doing? Bending down, twisting her head, oh Lord! She’s trying to get a closer look. Well I’m certainly not helping her. I still every muscle, disappearing behind my eyes in the imperious way I am inclined to do. I admit it, I hide. I’ll hide physically first, and if that’s not an option I simply act like I haven’t a care in the world, calmly perfecting my icy stare. 

            This is a little more difficult at the moment. She is about three inches away and is, I believe, trying to look at the bottom of my chin. I silently stare her down. Nothing to see, anyway.

             The occasional rudeness of this woman never ceases to amaze me. I know she’s fond of me; she shows me almost daily with her gentle touch, doing the things I cannot do for myself. 
     
             It is distinctly odd, making one’s home in a beautiful place stuffed with rules. The worst is the locked access. I can never leave. At least, not by myself. And she only takes me out once or twice a year – more if I’m sick. Of course I never get sick, because I’m prevented from coming into contact with anyone or anything in the outside world.

            She seems to think filling the place with windows is good enough. Doesn’t she understand? That seeing without touching is torture? 

            I do not understand this fascination with my chin. She must have stared at it a full 30 seconds, not a word, bringing her face so close I thought she would bump her nose into me. Or maybe leave to get a flashlight. I felt so dissected! So objectified! Since I cannot speak to her she seems to forget my heart beats, my eyes see, that I sleep and dream and long for things I cannot have.

            She seems to know I love the outdoors, I’ll give her that. She always opens the shades, all the way to the top, so I can see out. And she lets me sit right in front of almost any window I want. You can see, can’t you, how childlike this existence makes me. Sit in front of any window I want! Lord. But what can I do? This is my life.

            I spend my days creating an inner peace that matches my outer calm. I look completely contented, I’m sure. Focusing on nature, mostly birds filling the feeders, staying a tantalizing time then fleeing, I meditate. My breath is still; deep, but rhythmic and gentle. I am aware of every muscle in my body. They are still, but taut, ready to spring at the slightest danger. But she catches me any time she wants to. My spring and speed are an illusion in her world. Sometimes I can hide. It’s a big enough house. I move around when she’s distracted. Then, when she remembers me, I still have a pillow of time until she finds me. But she’s good. If she wants to know where I am, I can’t move. I’ve never been able to sneak past her.

            She seems satisfied with her inspection of my chin, righting herself to a normal position. She picks up the mug, filled with warm milk but ruined with something brown and smelly. She’s inspecting the surface. Is she looking for bugs? I wouldn’t have let a bug stay in there. I mean I was sitting right next to it.

            She finds nothing, but shoots me another suspicious glance. She walks across the kitchen with the mug, picks up the paper with her other hand, and settles herself on the sofa by the best window in the house. That’s OK. She leaves the arm  - velvety green, like moss – for me. I can watch the finches while she reads.

            She never appreciates anything I do for her. I was willing to swallow some of that tainted milk, just to remove the silverfish swimming on the surface.          

The Potter and The Poet
Ellen Judith Reich

From Gershwin & Apricot Silk


They both spun the earth
He on a wheel
She with a pen.
They marveled
At the many forms
Their spinning could make

Cicrular
Elliptical
It rose into shape.
Flawed to the eye of the creator
It was gathered
Compressed
And remolded again.

They gazed with wonder
At the mysterious talents
Of the other
Giving beauty to the sand.