I cried for all 253 days I knew I was pregnant. I was devastated, first, by accidentally getting knocked up after successfully not doing so for all of my fertile years and, second, because this poor kid didn't sign up for this. It felt like middle school kickball and this tiny poppy seed got stuck on my team and I didn't even know which way to run the bases.
When we brought Josie Pearl home, we laid her on a tiny, white blanket on the living room floor. She was so tiny, just staring up at me. I remember this silent moment of "now what?" I had just done the hardest task of my entire life and could only think of all the missing pieces. The people a baby should have around her, the image in my head of a mother that I certainly wasn't.
You can read all the books, blogs, and manuals and still not know anything. And the moment you think you know something? It changes. Being a mom is so so so cool and also infuriating and the reason I have a punching bag in the basement.
It's the reason I do so much laundry.
And rearrange the house and marie kondo every cabinet.
And it's the reason I still cry almost every day.
I used to be so afraid of things happening to her. And this was all before people started deciding all vaccines are optional, and they found lead in my water, and I was stuck inside for nearly a year with a newborn. So the collective fears of the mothers have been amplified.
How can a 12-year-old boy make fun of her name? She has my crooked little knees already. What do I do about my water? What does a school of choice actually mean? Does she need another layer on? Is this covid or teething or a cold or allergies or cancer?
I cannot protect Jo from everything. But I can be nearby. Because at this point I have learned that if it can happen, it will happen, and it will probably happen to us.
But maybe Josie was meant to be born into this world exactly how it is. Maybe I was meant to be a mother exactly at an unprecedented time because, obviously, a normal time wouldn't make any sense for my story.
Josie Pearl has already taken her goofy, headstrong personality into this little corner of the world we have and made it so much brighter. Like when I watch her play with every friend I have who doesn’t want kids, just like me. From building a bus with her blocks for the thousandth time, this whole, soft, open, and healed person walks away. Josiann is a healer. I’ve always known it. It’s like a piece of heaven itself comes down for a moment to remind us we’re not alone.
Until I give her the wrong cup or she realizes she wanted to be wearing green underwear today. It’s tough being a toddler. It’s tough being anyone.
And so, God? Grant me the peace to hold onto these gifts gently, with my arms outstretched, ready to give or receive whatever you would have next. Also, God, this all we're going through is shitty and I am mad, and I just need you to know that. But I'm trying. Thanks for your grace. Please help me to show it to others and myself more.
