White Wine in the Sun

I'll be honest. This year stressed me out. Lilah of course wanted to invite her entire preschool class. Being sensible, I limited her to 4 boys and 4 girls (cousins included). I had heard that you should allow the same number of child guests as the child's age, plus one (so, 5 for her this year). I figured if we invited 8, only 4-6 would actually be able to make it. There were just a few flaws in my plan. One, all could possibly attend. Two, at 4 years, most children would feel uneasy without a parent present. Both of these possibilities turned into actualities. Including the adults who love her and wouldn't miss her birthday for anything, the family members who hold first place in her heart, and the school crowd who all RSVP'd "Yes!", the total was nearly 30. My math skills are not the strongest, but when I divided 850 square feet of house by 30 people (9 of them children), I surmised that some of them might have to hang out in the laundry room or the occasional closet. By Thursday afternoon, I was literally short of breath with stress.

By Friday afternoon, something terrible happened at work. I'd spent most of my week coordinating many, many tests, procedures, and appointments for a mother and we all had our fingers crossed for the best possible outcome for her son. Every time I spoke with her she was calm, matter-of-fact. Her voice never broke, never wavered. The little things about my job, the runny noses, the school forms, fell by the wayside and piled up. Normally that would make me anxious, but I was so focused on getting the good news I was sure would come, I didn't even care. I optimistically worked with the boy's doctor and tried to ignore the mother's fear that was so powerful despite her strong voice, it seemed to seep through the phone and grip my heart. I'd seen her face when she left the office earlier in the week and her eyes clearly betrayed two conflicting emotions - the paralyzing fear that her worst nightmare would come true, and the wild animal that would claw and fight for her child. Friday afternoon, her doctor had called me crying. My optimism drained away, feeling like it had been a charade all along and I was just now realizing it.

My "stress" over Lilah's birthday party felt hollow. Even if 50 people showed up at my house, they were there because they represented a community of people who loved her, a community she could rely on if she needed anything. They would share her joys and griefs, laugh with her, cry with her, pray for her, hold her in their hearts. I felt a bond with the mother at work. She was drawing from a well that was ancient. I had always assumed that as a mother, you did what you'd been taught, what the examples in your life had set into motion. The moment my baby was born, I knew that was wrong. To be a mother, you had to be inducted into an order. The price was blood, tears, and inexplicable joy. You had to make peace with placing your whole heart in a tiny, fragile body and sending it out into the world. When you were exhausted, impatient, frustrated, there was this place inside you could draw upon that you always forgot about until you needed it. I've heard it called the Goddess, intuition, or just motherhood. It's how mothers lift cars off their kids and go months without sleeping. It's unconditional love and self-sacrifice and still feeling like you're not giving nearly enough. A new study showed that mothers who nursed sons made fattier milk so the babies could go longer between feedings, but nursed daughters more frequently. Yet the calorie content of the milk was almost identical. The evolutionary purpose was that sons had to go out into the community, while daughters were kept close and nursed often. This astounded me. Even while feeding our children, our bodies are preparing them for the life ahead. Empowering sons, cherishing daughters, creating a new generations of amazing little people on the foundation of our hearts, souls, and bodies.

I'll post about her party another day. It'll be a post of fun and happiness and possibly some people eating cake in a laundry room. But at 8:55 on March 24th of 2009, my heart left my body and is getting bigger every year. The song "White Wine in the Sun" (even though it's technically a Christmas song) summed up how I was feeling as I rolled out a  "Delphinian Blue" fondant mushroom cap last night, and I put some lines from it up on Facebook. "And you my baby girl...you'll be handed round the room like a puppy at a primary school. And you won't understand, but you will learn someday that wherever you are and whatever you face, these are the people who make you feel safe in this world, my sweet blue-eyed girl. And if, my baby girl, you're 21 or 31 and you find yourself 9000 miles from home, you'll know whatever comes...your aunties and uncles, grandparents, cousins, and me and your mum will be waiting for you in the sun." Let 100 people come to her party. Let her know that the whole world loves her and she's never alone. As she grows, let her draw from the strength and beauty of all those people who love her and let her blossom into the little woman she's already becoming.