Wednesday, December 13, 2017

to repair with gold


People say the love of siblings make the pain of mother heart division endurable. Your first baby has your whole mother heart, they helped you create, carry and birth your mother heart, and you in return could give it all back to them, guilt free. After adding a second baby, and each one after that, your heart breaks a little, but like kintsukuroi, I believe the cracks are repaired with heart gold and you are even stronger and more valuable for having been broken. I have felt this to be true, that somehow the group love compensates for the total undivided love of a mother that I was once able to offer. As I sat on my bed nursing Sylvia today, Norman climbed up next to us and pressed his doughy cheek next to hers and told me how much he loves her. I told him I loved her too and then he asked me if he could uggamugga her to which I said "only if I can uggamugga you." In that moment I had that realization that the reason sibling love is so sacred is that no one else can understand how you love that exact baby, one day Norman will understand a parent love if he choses to have children, but no one else aside from Bryan understand what it feels like to love Sylvia, Charles, Steele and Norman like I do. I wish someone could share that with me and look at me and say "me too," and then I looked at Norman look at Sylvia and I realized it's him, it's them. Our relationship is unque because as close as anyone else is possible, they share with me the indescribable love for not just any child, but this child, this very one, as much as anyone can they know exactly what it's like to love Sylvia, and each of them, like I do. And it is blinding and binding and compensates for any notion that my singular love was of more value than the net of all their love for each other.

I am tired. I listened to a podcast with Paulo Coehlo, he said he used to want to be a writer and told people he was a writer, yet he never wrote. If you want to be something just start doing it. If you want to be a painter, then paint, if you want to be a singer, then sing. I am not so sure I want to be a writer in so strict of definitions, but I want to have written, have documented, have journaled and have listened to the woman inside myself who has many many things to say. I want to give her voice and purpose and grow my ability to trust her and give her power. I feel impressed upon to let her out, those thoughts out. And so I choose to write. 

Tuesday, December 12, 2017

Love Chapped

Tonight while I was nursing Sylvia. My lips were chapped and burning lightly. Is it the cold and the wind that has made them chapped? Or is it my constant desire to kiss her? I can't be sure, but my lips are getting plenty of both. I chose to think they are chapped with love. I saw a post today about how mothers carry their babies for much longer than 9 months, I didn't read it but I did save it, because that's what busy moms with too many mental tabs open do, they save a million things they wish they were the kind of woman who had read such things, and maybe soon I will be the woman who has read them. My thoughts went to either this is in reference to eggs, or nurturing. I was born with all the eggs that would become my babies, so in a way I have carried them literally since before my birth and Sylvia already is carrying her own children, should she chose to have any. Or my mind looked down to my sleep nursing baby, who I carry many many hours of the day, I literally carry her weight (albeit much smaller than Normans weight, but I carried him just the same) I carry her and hold her as much as she needs, as much as any of them needed. I learned to sleep, eat, prep lunches and dress other children, I dare say there is not a daily task I have not done while holding a baby, because at times, that is what they needed. For me to carry them. In fact just tonight 75 lb Steele asked me to carry him to bed...and I did, because we carry our children for much much longer than just those 9 months. We carry them for our entire existence in one form or another. My heart burns with mother love and my lips burn with mothers kisses.