Risky Business

As Christmas approaches, this mother’s heart is humming with anticipation. All four of our kids, Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, will be spending the holiday break with us this year. As they grow up and out (of the house that is), I am learning not to take being all together for granted. Gone are the days of me hiding in the kitchen pantry, eating chocolate and trying to get five minutes to myself. Most of the time I’m lucky to have more than one of them sitting at the dinner table and last Christmas we suffered an emigration mix up getting Andrew home from his semester in Bolivia and ended up with only half the crew celebrating with us.

Earlier this week, I was listening to Megyn Kelly discussing the case of Kate Cox. If you haven’t heard of the case, Cox is suing the state of Texas for the right to abort her baby. Texas’ recently enacted laws prohibit abortion once a fetal heartbeat is detected with some exceptions. Despite the fact that Cox’s baby has been diagnosed with Trisomy-18 and is highly unlikely to survive to full-term or the birthing process, the lower Texas courts have denied Cox’s application for an exception to be made. Kelly expressed her belief that forcing a woman to carry a dying baby was a form of “torture” and condemned the Texas law as too extreme, a position I strongly disagree with but not, perhaps, for the reasons you might think.

Surely no one who hears this story can fail to sympathize with Cox, although extremists on the left would have a hard time selling their sympathy to me as genuine. Many, though not all, abortion advocates have moved well past the argument for “legal, safe, and rare” and into the space of gleeful celebration at the death of a helpless unborn child. Those on the opposite end of the spectrum should most definitely offer their condolences to Cox and her family; if you are pro-life, you certainly should seek to comfort those who face such a dreadful diagnosis. But for myself, I believe that in seeking an abortion Kate Cox is not escaping “torture,” as Kelly put it, but rather inflicting further wounds to her psyche. She is already the mother of a dying child and having an abortion will not erase that fact. Being the direct cause of her child’s death, rather than allowing her child’s life to unfold, in my opinion, will only add to her grief. The risk of heartbreak is an inherent part of motherhood and a medical procedure cannot remove this from the job description.

We, as mothers, are all the mothers of dying children and our journey through parenthood is a tortuous one. We bring them into this world knowing that one day, hopefully many decades from now, they will leave it. Not only do they face certain death, we also know there will be many pains and traumas along that path. We hold our breath from the moment we feel that first stirring deep inside our wombs, through their first tottering steps and watch with anxiousness as they are off to school and have their first disappointments and heartbreaks and failures. As their worlds widen, our fears only increase. As they grow, so too do the dangers they face.

But so too do their joys. And through them, our joys increase as well. As they say, with great risk comes great reward. There is no joy in mothering without the sorrow; to love is to venture heartbreak. There is no escaping the tortures of motherhood, whether it be carrying a baby you know is destined to die early or carrying a baby you know will face untold perils as he or she grows. Just as in the throes of labor there is no escaping the pain of birth; all you can do as a mother is grit your teeth and know you are giving birth to something worth the pain.

Years ago in my early days of parenthood, I was complaining about not getting a moment to myself, and a friend wisely shared an insight that pierced my heart. He looked down at one of my toddlers and said “If I had known the last time I held my son or daughter was the last time, I would have held them five minutes longer.” We never know when that last time will be so we should cherish each time as if it is the last.

From the news reports I have read, Kate Cox won’t get that last time, or a first. She has pursued an abortion in another state. For that loss, I grieve for her. I’m sure that this Christmas will be a challenging and sad time for her, to say the least. I will certainly pray for her to experience repentance, forgiveness and healing during the season which celebrates not only Jesus but also his mother Mary. Not only Mary in the stable but also Mary at the temple, dedicating her baby to God and being told by Simeon, according to Luke 2, that He would do great things but at the cost of a sword piercing, not just His side, but also her soul. I think of Michelangelo’s Pieta. Mary holding her son for just five minutes more; the pain of His death and her sorrow bring us who believe the greatest of joys.

Snapshots

Brief comments on film by Amy.
Some old, some new.  Domestic films and foreign too.

Motherhood: I don’t know why I often rent movies fully expecting to dislike them. I totally expected to hate this film but was pleasantly surprised. That’s not to say that I will be casting my Oscar ballot in its favor but I won’t be sticking my tongue out at Uma Thurman should I bump into her sometime. I was curious to see how the topic of motherhood would be handled. Usually in Hollywood films it is either condescending (“Look at the slaves laboring in vain, changing diapers and thinking their lives have meaning.”) or, well, condescending. I didn’t fully buy Thurman as the stay-at-home mom trying to balance raising two kids whom she genuinely loves and maintaining her own identity as a woman, writer and wife. Still, it was a nice flick to pop in while this slave was folding the laundry.

Up in the Air: The theme of this month’s Snapshots could be “Movies I thought I would hate and ended up almost liking.” Key word: almost. I haven’t cared much for George Clooney since he stopped wooing nurses and saving lives on ER back in the day. He completely throws off my suspension of disbelief, and I find that very frustrating. So I can’t remember the thought process behind picking this one up (probably nothing else in the Redbox and nothing but foreign films and self-help left at the library). What surprised me more than my mild-to-moderate enjoyment of Up in the Air was Jim’s moderate to heavy enjoyment. He even compared its atmosphere to that of films directed by a certain native New Yorker we all know with bad hair and a less than positive outlook on life. The topic (the consequences of living a life detached from all commitment) could be a real wrist slasher, but director and co-writer Jason Reitman seems to have a gift for treating heavy topics lightly while still taking them seriously. The ending is a bit of a disappointment, but overall the film is worth watching, especially for the performance by Anna Kendrick whose Golden Globe nomination was well-deserved.

The Hurt Locker: I don’t have too much to say about this one simply because I hate to nauseate readers with glowing reviews. This movie is among the best I have seen in a long time. The casting was flawless; the performances perfectly understated; the plot completely absorbing. It’s not for the faint of heart, due to the bad language and violence that isn’t overly graphic but still incredibly intense. Tuck Grandma in early and then prepare to be transported. I can’t believe the Academy actually got one right.

Honorable and Dishonorable Mentions: Did You Heard About the Morgans?: Watching this movie is like being followed by an annoying neighbor through the grocery store, then the checkout line, and into the parking lot. Trust me—get in the car and drive away, tires squealing. Ponyo:  I didn’t actually watch this one but the kids gave it a thumbs-up and I don’t know how you can go wrong with director Hayao Miyazaki (Castle in the Sky, Kiki’s Delivery Service and, my fave, Spirited Away).  Where the Wild Things Are: How can you mess up this book? Ask the dolt who wrote this screenplay.  Sherlock Holmes:  I am not a big fan of this genre but if you dig that sort of hybrid action-period-cheeky film, you could certainly do worse.

A Case for Motherhood

There are some phrases that you are destined to hear countless times over the course of your life. I certainly have a few, and sadly none of them involve people pointing out my striking resemblance to Fiona Apple. My birthday is December 23rd, and I usually follow up this announcement with a quick, defensive “Yeah, it is really close to Christmas, but I don’t find sharing my birthday with the season in which we celebrate the birth of our Savior the least bit annoying. Thanks for asking.”

Being a stay-at-home mom of four kids has added a new set of rhetorical questions to the public’s repertoire:  “You’ve sure got your hands full, don’t you?” “You sure are busy, aren’t you?” (People sure are sure of things, aren’t they?) I usually smile wryly and answer with some platitude, depending on how well the kids are behaving. But there is one phrase lately that has begun to rub me the wrong way. I will be standing in line at the grocery store, trying to act like I don’t know those children who are methodically destroying the carefully crafted displays meant to turn them into avid materialists by age two (not that I’m bitter), and the cashier will strike up a conversation in hopes that I won’t notice the overpriced total for my groceries (not that I’m bitter) and then ask if I am a stay-at-home mom. I swallow my scathing reply that “No, my children are off at daycare. I just like to pick up children at random and let them slowly torture me through the aisles of this lovely establishment.” Instead, I say “yes,” smiling and trying to look fulfilled and content. The cashier will then smile condescendingly and shake her head, saying “I could never do what you do.”

Perhaps I am not the most rational creature at this point in the day, after having traversed myriad aisles chanting, “Don’t touch that. Put that back. No, it’s not on the list. Don’t touch that. Put that back. No, it’s not on the list.” But nonetheless, this seemingly complimentary phrase acknowledging the difficulty of my vocation feels more like a backhanded insult than a compliment. What I hear sounds more like “I would never want to do what you do.” And frankly there are plenty of days I would share this sentiment. But there are a lot of other days when I think my job is pretty cool and has more than a few fringe benefits not offered in other professions. For example I can show up for duty in my pajamas and remain that way for most of the day. I am the dictator of my workplace; our entire schedule is determined by me including our activities and menu. I spend the day with four very interesting people who think I am really great (except when I am making them brush their teeth, clean up their room, or do their long division).

Beyond these obvious advantages, motherhood is highly spiritually profitable, though more for myself than for my kids, I fear. There is method in the madness of the daily grind of sharing of yourself, your time and your energy (not to mention anything that might look good on your plate or any drink you were really looking forward to consuming). What I find frustrating about being a mom is that often people seem to put you in the category of saint, just below Mother Theresa and Saint Francis but definitely on the road to perfection. I don’t do this because I am some unearthly creature without selfish ambition or pride. To put mothers in that category demeans the sacrifices they are making. We aren’t called to be mothers because we are without fault; we become less flawed because we are moms. We aren’t the making of motherhood; it is motherhood that makes us.

When I started out in this whole mother business some nine and half years ago, I must confess that I thought Jim and I had a great deal to offer anyone fortunate enough to be our offspring. I had all the theories of discipline and nurture worked out and was frankly quite surprised that others hadn’t been able to figure out the mysteries of producing perfect children long before now. I am not sure when all that pride fell away in shriveled heaps, but somewhere between that first blessed smile and that first toddler tantrum I had my first lesson in humility. I have had many since and am sure more are to follow. So with Mother’s Day approaching, be sure to appreciate your mom and her hard work; not because she does her job perfectly but because she does the job despite her imperfections.