Post-Baby Body Zen

“Between stimulus and response there is a space.  In that space is our power to choose our response.  In our response lies our growth and our freedom.”   -Victor Frankl

Another mama friend and I were pushing our strollers through the Japanese garden at the Botanical Garden. We wondered out loud about the things we fear as parents--sleepless nights, public, inconsolable meltdowns, any number of perceived maternal failures--and how we could possibly be more "zen" in our parenting. I mean, isn't "zen" allowing things to be without attaching emotion or response to them? Meaning, all things in the universe are just there. They have no inherent meaning until we attach meaning to them.  Example, in verse:

Look there. The clock says 1:32 a.m.

The baby is wailing.

I reinsert the pacifier.

Silence.

Retreat to bed.

Pull up covers.

Close eyes.

The baby is wailing.

Look there. The clock says 1:37 a.m.

Emotional response? What emotional response? There's no reason I should be emotional at this moment!!

The wise old Gavin Rossdale of the most distinguished Bush was correct when he musically philosophized (in his super-attractive gravelly voice), "Everything zen/ I don't think so." (As an aside, he also said in the same song, "I don't believe that Elvis is dead." This discredits him a bit, but no matter.) The point is, it is ridiculously hard to experience life with your own flesh and blood and not be deeply, inarguably emotionally responsive. Baby wakes for the fifth time tonight, you watch the numbers on the clock tick by, your internal clock says sleepytime, your external clock (ahem, baby) says wake time, and you start fearing the moment you actually have to get up for the day armed with fewer and fewer minutes of rest. Popular emotional responses to this are exasperated tapping of your partner resulting in a harshly whispered argument, tearful rocking of a tearful baby, oft-uttered curse word(s), or the wailing and gnashing of teeth. Anguish!

It seems like babyhood inspires a big ol' stress monster to wander into your sleep-deprived noggin and take up residence for the next couple of decades. I find it easy to commiserate with other mamas about frustrating baby situations. I can coach myself, especially with the help of some girlfriends and Riesling, in responding more healthily to an external factor, such as my children's behavior. However, what if my most stressful parenting issue has very little to do with my kids at all? The stress monster and I have engaged in many-a sword fight, but no battle inspires as many wounds as the one that takes place in front of the mirror postpartum.

Here are things that produce an emotional trigger in me: ripply stretch marks swirling around my abdomen. A belly button that went from being surprised [o] to being sad [(]. Skin hanging limply over the elastic waistband of my shorts. A size number that's bigger than what I already decided was too big. Creases or dimples in once-smooth surfaces. The term "baby weight." Weight numbers. Tugging on clothes that used to fit. Full body photos. Full body photos from 20 lbs ago. Other hot moms.These are things that cause a big, fat stress response in me.

I wonder what it would be like to live one whole day and not care about these things. To be zen about it. I wonder if I would believe myself if I said, "These things are simply these things. I don't have to be ______ (sad, angry, ashamed--fill in emotion word here) about them." Because it's true. But, I bring ALL the feels (but, like, mostly the bad ones) to the mirror every day. Probably every day since I was about ten years old, actually. How does one dig oneself out of a body-shaming hole one dug oneself? How does one become zen about one's lumps and bumps?

I have no idea. I guess as a woman, my appearance has always been integral to my identity and ultimately my perception of how lovable I am. Family members always called me "cute," until that day in fifth grade when my grandpa told me I had "fat arms." And then when I went through puberty one summer, I shed what was referred to as my "baby fat" and my dance teacher couldn't stop talking about how good I looked and that she didn't even recognize me. And then boys were obsessed with boobs in junior high, ergo so were all the girls (to stuff or not to stuff?). Some boy at camp said I had "nice tits" (by the way, I had "no tits" at the time). On and on and on, until in college and beyond, social media became both the instigator and antithesis of loving your own shape. Just below a post catering to the trends in body positivity will be someone's selfie that they spent at least five minutes perfecting--head tilted just so, slightly downward angle, right eyebrow slightly raised, lips slightly pouted, hand on hip, one leg slightly in front of the other. Photography tricks. I know this because I've done it. I cover up not-beautiful feelings with carefully controlled beauty. However, controlling how pregnancy impacts your body is damn near impossible. A body out of control breeds stress when below the surface, feeling unattractive means feeling unloved.

So, is it possible to let go of beliefs that have been anchored in my brain for most of my life? Can I really be zen about my postpartum physical self? Someone more experienced in zen philosophy might suggest I start with allowing my body to just be my body, allowing changes in my body to just be changes without emotional meaning tagging along. My body has changed because it grew three babies. My body will change again. A stretch mark is a stretch mark. Size is what it is. My body is my body. Can I make these statements and avoid mind math that states size + shape + weight = self-worth? The route to changing my emotional response is by changing my thought process, I think. Instead of "I can't button these jeans, so I'll be ugly the rest of my life," maybe I can say this: "I can't button these jeans because I just had an eight pound baby (high five, vagina!*)"

(*Don't high five your vagina.)

It would take the most concentrated, deliberate effort to catch myself in the space between stimulus and response, between mirror and horror, to nudge myself along a different path. One that's more zen and less self-deprecating. To simply let my body be, and to be free to determine a new response that is less emotional either way (which means not forcing myself to respond with a positive emotion either). I'm certain I could, if I really dedicated myself, acknowledge my body and all that it's been through without immediately determining it's not good enough. It might take some naked yoga and a lot of practice maybe. (Ok, scratch the naked yoga. Totally not ready for that. Yet.) Say it: my body is just my body. Repeat. Zen.

So let's say I become an almighty body zen master. That's all well and good, but what's most disturbing to me is that looking back, almost as far back as I remember, I've been dissatisfied with my body. Body image became this treacherous mountain before me that the world taught me to conjure out of thin air. I mean, my five month old doesn't have body issues as far as I can tell. My eight year old, on the other hand, might already have some body image associations that I may or may not have accidentally reinforced when giving my seal of approval (or disapproval) on her outfit choices, for example. I mean, I try hard to emanate body positivity to her. I really do. I resist in every way possible sharing with her how self-conscious I am about my body. I don't talk with her about losing weight. I also try not to comment on her body, even with potential compliments ("You're so skinny! muscular! physically beautiful!"). I want to avoid at all costs my daughter thinking that how she looks physically is key to her success. If my body is the first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning, then I can't afford to just be zen about my body. I have to focus on being zen about my children's bodies, too, because before I know it, I've taught them how to struggle.

I need the world to be zen about the female body, honestly. I would like to see less emphasis on physical beauty, in general, which includes campaigns in which women of all shapes and sizes are featured in their underwear so that we can all feel "okay" about our imperfect bodies. I can appreciate the insinuation that models are not Every Woman and we should celebrate this. However, we don't project a similar physical image of men on TV or in magazines so that they feel more secure. Why do we have to emphasize what the female body looks like at all? Let's make our bodies not a thing. Let's allow every woman the freedom to decide what she'll do with the space between her reflection and her heart. We'll have to work hard together to do that, to be zen mamas. But I think we're up for the challenge. We have to be, for all of us.

A Year of Not Middle School

I left my classroom for maternity leave feeling tired. Not just 39-weeks-pregnant tired. It’s the most insane kind of multi-layered tired that teachers feel from time to time.

It’s a joyful tired; it’s hours of joking with middle school kids, spending your lunch playing Bananagrams with competitive sixth graders, designing lessons and activities that are creative and fun (even though you could have just gone with what you did last year), getting hugs from former students who say they miss you.

It’s also a physical tired; it’s being on your feet for hours, running to the copy machine for last minute copies only to discover that it’s out of order and you have to run to the copy machine upstairs, postponing a bathroom or water break to finish an email or rearrange desks, it’s shelving and re-shelving books in the classroom library simply because you can’t wait to hear, “Oh my gosh, that book was SO GOOD!” Staying up late at night thinking about a certain student or parent and researching ways to help.

It’s an intellectual/emotional tired; it’s trying multiple strategies to help move a student forward and having difficulty seeing results, it’s managing a class of middle schoolers whose particular group dynamics are arguably academically toxic no matter what you do, it’s trying a new activity in class on the day your administrator comes in for an evaluation. It’s being told your lesson “was a mess” and being given a new book to read. It’s coming home to get dinner on the table before heading out to soccer practice and losing patience at bedtime with your own children.

When I left for maternity leave, I was at a place that my intellectual/emotional tired was much more pronounced than my joyful tired. And to me, a teacher and parent who is mentally tired more than he/she is joyfully tired needs to take a step back and find joy in his/her teaching, his/her kids, and him/herself. With a tiny human joining my family, I saw what I eventually determined to be a necessary opportunity to refocus and reenergize. I owed it to my students, my family, and myself. I decided to take a year off.

So today is the first day of not middle school. I’m not in my classroom anxiously waiting for sixth graders to walk through my door. I won’t have name tags set out, and I won’t walk anyone to class. I won’t give high fives. I won’t be memorizing names. I won’t be looking around the corner for my now-seventh graders who are coming to say hi after a long summer. I won’t be calling any parents, telling them that their once-nervous new middle schooler had a fantastic day. I’m somewhere between an identity crisis and a slow realization that I’ve won the lottery (only this decision to stay home this year has been very expensive). I have this feeling that I’m at an important crossroads - I’m able to explore myself as a mother, as well as put some time into figuring out what my gifts are and how to use them meaningfully. Why is it that a year off from teaching is what it takes for me to really be able to do this?

In some ways, it feels like I’m standing on a cliff of “what ifs.” As a teacher, by nature, I plan things, and the next 180 days or so are largely...unplanned. So, what if I realize that staying home with my daughter is something I’m not “good” at? What if, despite my intentions to renew and rejuvenate, I actually feel more isolated and confused? What if I love teaching so much that I have trouble enjoying being away from it? What if I love being away from teaching so much that I don’t want to go back?

I guess I have to go with what my gut is currently telling me. This time right here...it’s a gift. I know a hundred teachers who love their job intensely, and yet crave time to nurture their creativity and personal talents. They wish their buckets were more full for their families. That’s me. So I’ll put my hands over my eyes, take a deep breath, and step over the ledge, trusting that the breeze will carry me to an unseen destination where I can take root in new soil. When I get my bearings, I think I’ll look pretty much the same, but with a new view. With any luck, I’ll see that the landscape is friendly, the air open, and the fruits ripe for the picking.

To My Daughter: Divorce Happens. Except When It Doesn't.

Dear Gracie,

One night not long ago at bedtime, you asked me, “Mommy, why do people get divorced?” I had a feeling that you were inspired to ask based on the many people in your life who have experienced divorce in some way. I also felt a tinge of anxiety in your voice. I think your brain was holding onto a follow-up question: “Will you and Daddy get divorced?” I wanted to answer you honestly and compassionately without inadvertently oversimplifying marriage and divorce. It was pretty hard to craft an answer that fit my aforementioned personal criteria in the weary last minutes of our bedtime routine. I said something to the effect of, “Sometimes people get divorced because they can’t be happy together. They try hard, but they can’t make it work for some reason.”  My explanation satisfied you. I knew I could do better.

I can’t sum up for you quickly why a marriage could end in divorce any more than I can sum up why a marriage could NOT end in divorce. To understand divorce, you’ll have to understand marriage. Understanding marriage fully pretty much requires you to participate in one, and participating in marriage does not make one a marriage expert. Suffice it to say that I am not a marriage expert. The only way I can think of to educate you on why divorce may or may not happen is to speak about my personal experience.  

When you start considering what marriage might be like, I’m betting you’ll start with the dress, which will quickly evolve to flowers, bridesmaids gowns, venues, cake. The wedding day is a pretty spectacular way to celebrate the vows you’ll make to your partner-to-be. On that day, the “I do” is signed, sealed, delivered. Champagne glasses clink. But there’s an asterisk at the end of the church bells and champagne that refers to a tiny, yet significant clause: *The undersigned do understand and agree to saying “I do” hundreds of times per day, in hundreds of different situations that don’t involve flowers and cake and string quartets of happiness. “I do” will be when no one is watching. “I do” will take place in your fat pants. “I do” will smell like a sippy cup of milk that disappeared in the house somewhere last week. It’ll sound like a drawn-out exhale just outside of the laundry room. It’ll taste like leftovers. Feel like crumb hitchhikers on the bottom of bare feet in the kitchen. “I do” is an unending series of choices. Yes, Gracie--marriage is a choice, and so is divorce.

When I was exactly your age, my parents called me into the living room of our two story house. My dad sat on the beige recliner and my mom lay on her side on the couch, shiny wet lines on her cheeks. Dad lifted me onto his lap and explained they were separating. I suppose it was partially my naivete, and partially shock and denial, but I began to cling to the idea of having two of everything like the main character in the book series I was reading. I remembered that chapter two of every book in the series featured the character sharing about her parents’ divorce--notably that she lived in two houses, had two pairs of roller skates, had a cool new stepdad, and a new stepsister who was running a bad ass babysitter’s club. Separation sounded okay to me, but I didn’t understand why my parents were doing this. It was easier for me to focus on twice as many presents at Christmas than it was to know that my parents at one time had promised to be a part of a family with me, and then had determined by their own choosing that they had to break it apart for reasons unknown to me. My parents actually chose to not choose each other. They chose not to choose us. I never saw it coming, and inside my soul, there’s a part of me that won’t fully recover.

My parents’ divorce didn’t stop me from choosing to marry Daddy, though. But to tell the truth, in the beginning of our marriage, I had the same question you’ve asked hiding inside me. Why do some people get divorced? Will it happen to me? I suffered real anxiety about my marriage to Daddy vanishing into thin air one day without warning. When I finally had the courage to confess this to him (multiple times), he wrapped me in a tight hug and told me that he loved me and that he’d never leave. Never. He repeated this to me as often as I needed it, until his words became part of my inner voice. Daddy reminded me that marriage is a choice, and he will always choose me. What’s silly about this is that he told me this in so many words on our wedding day. But I had to hear the “I do” every day for awhile to really allow his commitment to be my truth.

“I do” is our lifestyle. It’s our creed. And it’s not always easy. We choose “I do” by going to the grocery store and scrubbing the toilet. We choose “I do” by washing the dishes when we’d rather be watching TV. We choose “I do” by saying “I love you” every night before bed, even if we’re annoyed with each other. We choose “I do” by fighting fair and owning mistakes.

Except when we don’t. The reality is that every potential “I do” is accompanied by an equal and opposite potential “I don’t.” Sometimes Daddy and I choose the “I don’t.” We choose convenience over consistency, or selfishness over service. We choose egos over humility. Really, it’s the “I don’ts” that test the character of the marriage.

I’ll repeat that I’m not a marriage expert. I feel I am an expert in Daddy and me, though. We’ve made it to ten years of marriage because we pay attention to the “I don’ts.” We don’t pretend that our marriage is free of them. When “I don’ts” start piling up, we choose to repair rather than retreat. We choose to love each other despite the “I don’ts.” We make sure that all of our arrows are pointing to “I do” eventually. We refuse to give in to “I don’t.”

So why do people get divorced? They choose it. For their own reasons, they choose it, and sometimes they are happier for it. Sometimes not. Sometimes choosing to divorce is heavily influenced by a partner who chooses an emphatic “I don’t.”  I feel immensely blessed that I can sit next to you, look at your brown eyes, and tell you sincerely that I chose to marry a man who chooses me day in and day out. It’s a true gift that I can tell you with confidence that Daddy and I will always be together, that I can redesign the story that started in my two story house when I was eight. We can rest in the comfort of knowing that I’ll never have to tell you that our family is splitting apart. Daddy and I have chosen each other, we’ve chosen our family, and we’ve chosen to shape the future together into something of which we can’t quite conceive yet. I pray that when it comes time for you to consider marriage, that you do it prayerfully and take seriously your power to choose. Choose with conviction, and know that Daddy and I will be in support of you.

Love,

Mommy