A Wild 'Hare'- Listen to Your Mother

Sometimes we do things for ourselves as Mothers. Rarities. It mostly involves sacrificing sleep or exercise or the full 2-minute cycle on the sonicare. But every once in awhile I'll get a wild hair and think: "I should do that." Last year some Mommas from co-op brought a national show to our little Spokane. Listen to Your Mother. Where women get vulnerable and silly and serious about the triumphs and tribulations of motherhood and read their very personal stories in front of an audience. And I thought, I'd love to do that. If only... If only there was time and a story to tell. And the story found me. And I took the time. And I cried when I wrote it and cried when I read it and jeez-oh-man I got a wild hair and I'm going to audition. And perhaps I won't make it, but the reflection and emotion that the journaling evoked made me miss my little blog. My sentiments. My reflections. My me-time. And when I discussed it with Ben and Will and told them I was scared and unsure and they said "you should do it," and "what happens if you don't make it" it was all too obvious. I needed to try. For myself. And then Tyler ran by, and threw of all THE toys, his stuffed rabbit at us. A Wild Hare. The stuffed rabbit "Formerly-know-as-Cooper" flew through the air and Ty called him "Lucky"-- (surely in honor of our dead pet rabbit named Lucky.) And hey- if that's not ironic and lucky all at the same time I don't know what is.
listentoyourmothershow.com

So here it is: My reflection- even if only for me. It's a chapter I needed to read.

The Keeper of the Nest

I don’t remember who spotted it first.  I think it was indeed my middle son- of 3 boys- [the one with glasses since age 2- - whose left eye we patch daily] He saw it. He announced its existence.  But, as any mother knows- perception and sight are altogether different.

“It’s a nest”

And my oldest son- Ten and in all his glory- “Oh! But leave it alone- we can’t touch it- The mama won’t come back…. But… Is there anyone in it?”

And so the summer started at our cabin in North Idaho. The porch we had built [“We” as in- the universal ‘we’ meaning my husband] had been roofed, but not covered yet below the beams. And high above the nest emerged on the Northeast corner support with the long summer days.

We never saw her come or go. We saw bits and pieces of our lives entwined in hers- witches moss found for “tinder” for the boys’ campfires, tarp threads, whittling carvings-- but Mrs. Robin was elusive. She must’ve worked while we were away at home, because the nest just sort of appeared. I mean, robins are big and swoopy- surely 3 boys prowling, yelling, throwing boat-coats on the porch rail proved to be too much for her. But not until after she laid 4 beautiful eggs.

But a good story starts at the very beginning…

and,  in keeping with the theme: Once upon a time, I listened to my mother. Every blessed night.

I was one of the lucky few to enjoy an idyllic childhood full of casserole dinners promptly at 6:00 and swim lessons at the neighbors’ pool down the street. Each night I was lulled to sleep by my mother with the song of a girl and her Robin friend.  A German Lullaby. “oh there was a little robin in a tree” who “sang a little song just for me.” And although I can hum the tune I can never seem to remember all the words in the right order. Bits and pieces.  In my wise age of 35 I finally made my Mom write the lyrics in her perfect third-grade-teacher-cursive-script, because-  even though I’ve heard the song 1,000’s of times- countless nights-- when I go to sing the ‘The Robin Song’ to my boys I can hum it-- but not get it all of the lyrics.  I’m not sure how that is even possible.                                                                  I sing to them sometimes- my boys, [when I have energy … When a chapter in ‘The Voyage of the Dawn Treader’ seems too long to muddle through… when rooms are picked up and my feet aren’t bleeding from Lego punctures… when prayers are said and I am feeling especially motherly.] To be honest, This mostly occurs at our sweet cabin where I am relaxed myself- high on campfire smoke and s’more goodness and red wine and can really, truly, sit and be with our boys. And it mostly involves  ‘Taps.’ The good ol’ campfire default song. “Day is done… gone the sun… It’s a cadence for boys. Somehow the girl in the Robin song just doesn’t seem to suit my boys. The story is not quite right for them. I had to find one for them that was. But, The Robin song was perfect for me. A gift I still share with my Mom.

“Birds are a sign” she says.

My mom is a devout daily Catholic mass attendee. She lights candles. She starts prayer chains. She teaches at our Lady of the Lake in Portland. She knows her signs. And a bird sighting is often an answered prayer for her. She’ll see a bird  as the answer to a question- or think it’s a loved one come down to check on us. I can’t hear a Robin’s trill without thinking of her. (Which is an answer to a prayer all on its own.) We come from the Midwest. Meaning a long-line of bird watchers and people who talk about 1/8’s of an inch of rainfall. We are so in tune with song birds, in fact, my Grandma had a bird clock that chirped a different call on the hour- which made sleeping quite difficult on her nappy, plaid couch in the summers. But regardless, it’s something engrained in me… these bird signs. So the nest was not something I took lightly.

The summer passed like all summers do— too quickly. Somehow I kidded myself into thinking the toxic plumes of aerosol sunscreen and light saber wars with marshmallow roasting sticks wouldn’t keep Mama Robin away. But she knew what she was doing. “Note to self” she probably thought, “next nest selection site should not include fires and screaming toddlers and plumes of chemicals to protect people from the sun.” Good call, Mrs. Bird. Good call. Perhaps some owl caught her. Or- who knows. Nature is curious. But we never saw her; and the eggs just lay in wait.

September’s quandary as we closed the cabin. What to do? I mean there were eggs there. Granted not really birds per se, but eggs are sacred, right? At least the blue ones. And they were just sitting there. Alone.

And so I became the keeper of the nest.

I perched it on the front seat of the swagger wagon and drove it home. Eggs still nestled in the mud between the sticks and twine and moss- waiting. Perhaps it’s the birds-are-a-sign mentality. Perhaps it’s just that I’m in the business of waiting for babies. I’m a labor and delivery nurse. Waiting on babies is what I do- for a living- and although these babies weren’t going to hatch I still felt this urge to take care of them. Of some sort of promise of what might have been.

And that’s when it hit me. My sign.

I’m of that ripe age we call in my business ‘AMA:’ Advanced Maternal Age. Approaching the too-old-to-have-another-baby-phase. And topic of late with the BFF’s has been “How do you know when you’re done?” Having babies I mean. For some it’s financial- - logistics- - or sanity-related. Some of us get to choose- some come to agreement with our partners- some don’t. Some accidentally have babies. Others lay asleep on the OR table while we pray that the surgeons can stop the bleeding so we can keep her uterus-- so please God! she can have another baby. It’s wild how that works.                                                                                                                                                                                        Women have told me “you know” when you’re done. Having babies I mean. I find that amazing—how could you know? Or even—how can you be done? With the baby part? I KNOW when I’m done with toddlers. God help me, I know.  Perhaps my body remembers being hyped up on oxytocin way too well; and the hypnotic blur of sleep deprivation and breast over-usage creates a trance of baby-want I can’t explain. It might be my profession itself. I love babies. I love birth. I love pregnancy- I miss it when it’s gone-- when I have to share the baby with the whole wide world. Can you explain this? No.

We don’t get to pick what kind of babies we have- boys or girls. I have been graced with 3 amazing healthy sons to be sure. Truly blessed. But for me, too, in my nest- there were 4. A loss at 14 weeks after baby 2 but before baby 4. A loss so great I wondered if I could ever help bring life into the world again.  Both at work, or in my womb. We named her Baby Rose- so sure I was she was a girl. The unexplainable loss of a daughter I never had. Again, nature and nurture are curious. A lesson learned from a biology and a nursing degree. And life.

And so, I realized, as I wove my minivan around the east shore of Priest Lake- I had a sign- a moment of clarity among the chaos. My nest is complete. For a woman who yearns to feel a baby move inside her again it’s weird. For someone whose “let down” nursing reflex persisted waaaay too long. For someone whose life work means helping to bring others into the world. I needed a sign. A good one. Apparently, an entire summer in the making.              “I could have babies forever” I told my husband. For several reasons he logically pointed out, we cannot. As mommies we pour ourselves into our babies. From the minute we hear that they will be ours. The connection grows deeper with each kick and hiccup. Until we birth them into this world. Sometimes they’re kicking and screaming. Sometimes as angels having already moved to another place. That’s the one part of my job no one talks about. Those angels. The wishes and hopes of their mothers. Gone before they’re here. So this crazy Robin’s nest- somehow-- I felt this calling to give those eggs their due- nonetheless wanted- nonetheless loved. Just not part of Nature’s plan- but still ,somehow an important part of God’s plan for me. As my mom’s lullaby says “And God listens to each word… so I told Him of the bird… and I’m very sure He heard what I said.”

So, in the end, I did what all mothers do-- Mothers with too much on their calendar… and to-do lists that rival Steinbeck’s novels… and 11 thousand digital pictures that haven’t been developed or sorted.  I took a picture with my fancy phone.            And I replaced my darling wallpaper screen-saver of 3 boys tottering down Duncan Gardens with a picture of a tattered nest with 4 glowing blue eggs. A reminder.

The nest now resides upon my upright Yamaha piano-- or mantle-- or sofa table—or dresser. I mother it around carefully.  Still watching out for those eggs.  And when my hubby asked about my new phone wallpaper because he thought it was a stock picture on my uber-smart phone I explained, “I took it…It’s symbolic.”   --            I somehow found this THING. This physical thing so tangible that reminds me in some way of this other piece of me that existed- if only for awhile. And after his quizzical glance I explain even more vaguely “I needed a sign.” --  A sign that WE are done thinking about more.  I might never be done. With babies. Ever. So I’ll welcome them into the world -- day in and day out… one miracle after the other. And each time I look at my phone I can smile as I secretly count my blessings… All 4 of them… And know- I’ll always be the keeper of my nest.