My story doesn’t begin as one of
regret; few stories do, but rather it begins with a twinkle in the eye of a
twenty-two year old dreamer.
I first put words to that dream as
a senior in my historical research class when the professor asked each of us
about our plans following graduation.
I confidently expressed that I would be going on to get my masters and
PhD so that I could expertly write historical fiction or write anything, really. When he told me that I could skip the
graduate degrees and just begin writing, I decided it was another Texan male
letting me know that my place wasn’t in academia or in publishing. After all, wasn’t it the reflection of
that pretty little diamond on my left ring finger creating the sparkle in my
eye? And don’t all good southern
girls pine away, desiring to get married, create a home, have children?
A few weeks later when I got a
letter in the mail offering my graduate school experience tuition-free, I
smirked thinking, “I’ll show you, mister.” Of course, I had to turn down the offer as my soon to be
husband and I had already mutually decided that upon graduation and marriage,
we would move to California to pursue his graduate studies. Still, I longed for the day when he
would graduate, get a job, and I would begin in hot pursuit of my dreams.
I got a “for now” job, preceded by
several “this is all I can find and we don’t want to go into debt” retail
jobs. So I taught, because what
else would a girl with an undergraduate background in English and history
do? Along the way I did the best I
could, surrounded by teachers who were living
their dreams. Meanwhile, I was
living between my ears, ruing the day I had given up the fast track to my
dream, but knowing I would be next.
All this time, working at least two
jobs, I was suffering daily pain from endometriosis, a condition which can
inhibit fertility. At twenty-four,
we were told if we ever wanted to have a chance at biological children we
needed to begin trying to conceive.
The doctor couldn’t promise positive results; in fact, if I were to get
pregnant she predicted a six to twelve month period of trying with medical
intervention to up my hormone levels.
A little less than thirteen months
later I was sitting in a hospital room holding a tiny stranger, who had made my
body his home for the past nine months.
Though I loved my son, mothering did not come easy or naturally to me …
it is laying down your desires, your time, your personal space moment by moment
to care for a little being that is entirely dependent on you. It is hard.
Five weeks passed and I tearfully
dropped him off at his first childcare provider’s home. One year later, I found I was pregnant
with our daughter. Returning to
work after her birth, I discovered the once unfathomable – I loved being a
mom. After much discussion, I
decided to teach part-time the following year.
In this is a conundrum – I love my
identity as mother. It gives my
life such purpose and I would not trade the experience or my children for
anything in the world, but for years I allowed underlying tension to fester in
my relationship with my husband.
In moments of frustration, in the midst of complaining about his
abandoned socks by our bedside or my favorite coffee cups left at his office, I
would throw my disappointment in his face. “I gave up my education and my dreams for you – for
this. To work a job I don’t love
and to come home to pick up after all of you, wipe poopy bottoms, and forever
smell like spit-up.”
We can feel things and never
express them, but thoughts verbalized can never be taken back. For ten years I have lived, first
patiently waiting, then persistently working, now begrudgingly missing out on
my dream of being a well educated, well dressed, impressive at least, admired
at best author of best-selling historical fiction.
My journey out of disappointment
and toward wholeness marches on from a few days forever etched in my mind. March 18, 2009 found me staring at two
pink lines. Anyone who has seen
those lines knows that brief moment encapsulates much – surprise, joy,
promise. The evening of March
twenty-first found me staring at a pool of crimson and in like fashion
innumerable emotions coursed through me – fear, pain, devastation, loss.
In the months that followed,
leading me from that fear-filled precipice into this journey of valleys and
mountains, I came to know that my dream was holding me prisoner, deeming me
incapable of truly living. What is life if it is not spent
realizing the wonder of moments all weaving their threads into the beautiful
tapestry of an individual’s existence?
Since that day in 2009 I have been
privileged to see those two pink likes two more times (plus a half dozen to
make sure this was indeed happening) and bring home another baby boy and
another baby girl. After
previously delivering naturally three times, it took having a necessary
c-section last February to understand first our loss and then how amazing these
four children really are. Not only do I have endometriosis on the exterior of
my uterus, causing much pain, similar scar tissue has ravaged its
interior. Most women with both
conditions are unable to conceive, let alone carry a pregnancy to term.
The discovery of this miracle was just one more step in my
process of recovery and rediscovery.
Sometimes the dream we are clinging to is not the dream we were
destined for.
I am now at stay-at-home,
home-schooling mom and full time manager of this little family of six. We are living what once I would have
dubbed a bohemian dream in the heart of Los Angeles. I will admit that every day is not pastoral and many are
peppered with “what ifs” but I am striving to find little flashes of blessing
within the chaos of raising, educating and loving four kids.
This journey has taught me so much
about who I was and am, but more importantly it’s unraveling the mystery of
dreams and becoming. When I look
back at that twenty-two year old, slightly feminist girl in a lecture hall, I
want to tell her “Just try to be breezy … you really don’t have it all figured
out.”
If I could talk to the twenty-four
year old teacher, I would tell her “This might be your ‘for now’ job, but these
teenagers are making a mark on your life more than you can imagine. Continue to invest in them. This is part of your
story. “
Were I to visit that overwhelmed
first time mom, I would say “Relax.
Savor this. It is one of
the few times in life you will ever be unconditionally loved. Give the same to him, always. The
other stuff, you’ll learn together.”
To that mourning mother alone in
the cold, sterile hospital room, I’d whisper, “You don’t have to grieve in
silence. This baby will forever be
in your heart and is a part of who you’re becoming. You will think of her often. Allow yourself time to heal.”
And to the frightened mom who has
known loss and is hesitant to be excited about the next two pregnancies,
wondering/knowing something will go wrong, still dreaming about what might have
been, I’d say “These babies will bring you more joy and fulfillment than you
ever thought possible.
Collectively the four will cause you to re-evaluate, re-imagine and
re-discover a new realm of possibility and potential.
What I’ve learned about myself is
that my dreams, like my life, are fluid and that by holding on to one
perspective, by using lost dreams as arguments’ ammunition, by not being
present in the here-and-now, I am not
dreaming or living at all.
It is only in relishing life’s
simple graces, by marking and being marked by others, in flexibility and
adapting to life’s beautiful surprises that I truly dream.
"We know that all things work together for the good of those who love God: those who are called according to His purpose" (Romans 8:28 HCSB)
