Hypotheticals

Sometimes you find out something you weren't supposed to know.  Then what do you do with that information? Do you keep the secret? Especially if it is a harmless one, or one that only wounds the original keeper?

Or do you reveal that you know? Perhaps drop little hints, so that the secret keeper feels comfortable to share? Especially if the secret keeper might be liberated or healed by sharing?

How often are the little secrets that we think we keep, in fact, already known to others?  How often do we keep secrets that aren't necessary to hide? That by keeping, we prevent mercy and compassion from overflowing? That we prevent the cascade of grace that comes from asking and receiving forgiveness?

More than once, our teenagers, each of them, have violated parental trust.  What seems so obvious to us as adults - that with trust comes freedom - doesn't always seems intuitive to teens. And every time trust is lost or broken, rebuilding trust takes a little longer. Why don't teenagers realize that although honesty and openness may be slightly uncomfortable, that discomfort is better than the alternative that occurs with a lie or an omission?

Why don't adults, also?

Fighting ugly thoughts

Remember that "health concern" I mentioned in the running post?  Now that we've told our parents and kids, I can announce here that I'm pregnant again - our seventh child is 13 weeks gestational age.

It has taken me some time to be able to able to admit that. Getting pregnant was not what I was planning to do in my 40th year, or anytime thereafter. Even though theoretically we've joked about a "surprise baby" when people asked about having more kids, I didn't really intend to have that baby. People had stopped asking around the time our youngest turned three or four. Now she's seven.  I thought we had NFP all figured out.  I thought I was too old.

I'm no longer a cheerleader for NFP.  I feel betrayed by it.  I am no poster child for the NFP user, accepting children if they come. I've had a hard time accepting this. I really believed I'd miscarry, and I hoped for it. I have new empathy for women who consider abortion. I've wished I had cancer.

I know that's a terrible thing to say, especially to someone who has had cancer or lost someone to cancer.  But parts of me are dying right now. And other parts I need to kill off.  I am not suffering well.  Is it in my imagination that I am persecuted?  The worst culprit is myself. I keep dwelling on how for months and years, I am going to be incapacitated by pregnancy, childbearing, and nursing.  If only it were cancer or leukemia, or some other illness, then people would feel sorry for me instead of looking at me like I'm a crazy person and a danger to society.

To add to the self-inflicted persecution, I remind myself that this condition is entirely my fault. There have been times when I've thought, "Oh no, we've pushed the limits; that was a bad idea," and we didn't get pregnant, but that didn't happen back in July.  We barely acted as if we were married while living in that tiny apartment.  I thought I read all the signs correctly. But it was a stressful time. I was having something like an anxiety attack over housing. I barely ate or slept for three days. That stress must have thrown my cycle off, a rogue ovulation.

I'm finding it hard to forgive myself. I'm angry and disappointed in my failure both to prevent this and to accept it. When I wake in the morning, for a moment I forget the heaviness in my stomach.  Or I think it might be a dream. Or it might not come true.  And then reality sets in, and my stomach aches, and I don't want to get up. I'm edgy and grim during the day. I can't focus on anything because I've got a constant refrain on rewind running through my head, "I don't want to do this! I don't want to do this!"

When I lay down at night, ugly thoughts crowd my brain. Although I'm physically exhausted, my mind runs in circles, contemplating the worst. Embarrassment, harrassment, embarrassment for my children, defects, twins, illness, exhaustion, depression.  My thoughts turn rebellious and angry and hostile.  I fear my unhappiness will seep into my blood and poison the tiny thing.

I usually try not to look to far ahead. Theoretically as a Christian and practically as a Navy wife, I know that I can't control the future. I know everything changes. I wish I could approach these new changes with an attitude of "Sometimes life throws you a curve ball." or "Life is what happens when you are busy making plans" and a smile. But these glib phrases would only be good for a Facebook post that would euphemistically refer to what feels devastating.  I did have plans for the immediate future and hazy ideas about what the next few years were supposed to look like.  All my kids are in school. I had applied for an adjunct job. I loved teaching at the community college and was finally feeling like I was improving at it when we moved. I was hoping that somewhere in the area I could find a similar position. I was thinking about working as a substitute teacher and looking into educational options for myself if I didn't get the adjunct job.

Now teaching in the spring is no longer a possibility.  My husband has tried to be encouraging by saying things like he's going to get up in the night, and we can put the baby in daycare if I want. But I don't really want that. My hardness of heart and selfishness aren't just about not being able to work or having to give up running for awhile or dealing with the physical discomforts.Those things are all difficult, but the real challenge is accepting another lifetime of the care and worry that come with a child. I'm afraid I'm not strong enough or generous enough to love this child. I am weak, weak, weak.

For weeks, I've been full of dread, unable to silence the refrain of I can't do this; I don't want to do this. I don't want to admit I feel this way, to reveal how shriveled my heart has been, how small my soul.

I finally went to confession last week.  I told the priest that I wished this embryo would die. Ugly, ugly, ugly thoughts. But the priest saved me. "You say you have six children and this is your seventh?" He paused.  "I am my mother's seventh child."

This is a man who is joyful in his vocation, who is reverent at Mass and congenial afterwards.  He is beloved by the congregation. His mother must be proud and full of love for this son. "Six in the Bible is an incomplete number. Seven is the number of perfection." He said this in a tone that indicated both a jest and a serious consideration. "Our development as adults is supposed to help us move from our initial psychological reaction through reason and grace to a more mature response. You can decide to accept this as a blessing or to reject it. If you accept it as a blessing, it is a blessing."

He didn't say anything really that I don't know, but his words softened my heart. The grace of the sacrament opened me up to loving this child. I can say "this baby" now.

Encouraged by seeing the face of a seventh child in the priest and by a spontaneous visit by my own mother, we told the kids the news this weekend.  My husband began dinner by reading the prayer for expectant mothers from our family prayer book.  At first the kids didn't pick up on the inference, until my third son said, "Mom?!"  I don't suppose it's motherly to blush in front of your children, but as the realization spread around the table, I felt self-conscious about my fears and embarrassment.  All of them, even the 15 and 16 year old, seem excited.  (although the seven year old cried at bedtime, afraid I would have a c-section, so she said, but perhaps also subconsciously afraid of impending changes.)

Much of my darkness has lifted. The younger kids come home from school and pat my belly, which at this stage looks bloated - like I've gained weight but still not obviously pregnant. The awkward stage. The 15 year old pats my belly and says "Goodnight, Herm" for hermano/hermana. The 16 year old, my cross country runner, pats my shoulders and asks if I'm slowing down on my runs. (emphatic yes. But still running more and faster than I did with the fifth and sixth.)

Yesterday I went to the doctor for the first time, another anxiety-fraught moment.  I had debated about what doctor to see, read countless reviews online (not helpful), driven by the two hospitals that I can chose from for delivery, calculated costs to pay a midwife and have a birthing center birth, tried to seem nonchalant when I asked mothers with little babies at school drop-off what doctor delivered their little precious bundles of joy.  Finally I called the crisis pregnancy center and asked what doctors they recommended. They offered assistance, which I declined, feeling weird about having called. "I just want to give my business to a doctor who supports you," I said.

The doctor I saw yesterday is a part of the practice of one of the recommended doctors (who was not taking new patients). She went to med school in her 30's after supporting her husband's military career. Although I was highly sensitive to being asked about contraception or belittled for being careless about having yet another child (which happened with my fourth), happily I did not feel criticized or embarrassed. Both the doctor and the nurse were congratulatory and respectful.  I did get sent to the perinatalogist right away, because I am so old and so far along that I am almost out of the 14 week window for certain genetic tests, a window that is probably defined by abortion options.  So from my initial appointment, I went to another doctor twenty minutes farther away to meet with the genetic counselor and get blood work done and a thorough ultrasound. The geneticist was encouraged by the fact that out of the 19 grandchildren on both my husband's side and my side of the family (if you count my 6 kids on both sides), there are no notable genetic abnormalities. There aren't even really any major allergy concerns out of those 32 kids (not counting my kids twice). Our parents have high cholesterol and late onset cancers that have been treated, but are relatively healthy. My husband and I have clean bills of health and all of our children are healthy and had easy deliveries. A remarkably healthy family tree.  We are blessed.

My fears were further allayed by the ultrasound. There is the tiny heartbeat pounding rapidly. Only one - no twins, although I had thought that twins would keep each other company. The alien face. The hands and legs jerking about. "Your baby is so active I can't get a good picture," says the ultrasound tech.  Too early to definitively discern gender but its nasal bone is visible. Its neck is not too thick. The indicators of certain abnormalities are not evident.  So far, so good.

I sleep a little better, although already I have to get up at night to go to the bathroom. I've started to glance at flyers for sales on baby items. My mom brought me some maternity clothes from my sister that I want to hide in the back of the closet, except for a cute skirt and blouse.  We went into the luxe baby boutique, and ohhed and ahhed, but know we'll buy most of the baby stuff at the thrift store. (Not long ago I gave away the baby jogger and portacrib, of course. All we have left are the high chair, some handmade baby blankets, and the cutest of the infant clothes.)

Slowly, the refrain is fading.  The kids want to talk about names and how we'll arrange the seating in the car and who will get to hold the baby first (the one who rubs my feet the most).  I still am looking into online jobs.  Last night I went to an information night about applying for college financial aid and spent much of the evening wondering what life will be like for this child who will be so far behind his brothers and sisters. They'll all go off to college soon. I still feel a sense of loss, but my other kids are helping me to think of this baby as a gift.

Kinda cute little munchkie, isn't it?

First Confession

Last Saturday my second grade daughter made her First Confession. She was nervous for weeks until she had her act of contrition memorized – I think she was afraid the confession wouldn’t work unless she memorized it. So she must have been a little disappointed when the priest didn’t ask her to say it.

This is the third church where we’ve been for sacraments. Actually, seventh, if you count baptisms. (After the first three boys were baptized at three different churches, we had the other three kids baptized at my parents’ little country church, so that if we ever lose our baptismal certificates and have to locate them for First Communion and weddings or perpetual vows, we’ll know where to find them. So it is interesting to note how each parish does things a little differently.

Our oldest first went to confession at a parish that had a big reconciliation service with a formal liturgy and about half a dozen priests and cake and punch afterward. At the church where our second and third boys had First Reconciliation, families signed up for specific time slots, then 2 or 3 families would gather on a Saturday afternoon, the DRE would lead a brief reflection, and then everyone went to confession with our pastor. At first I thought this was anti-climactic for a “celebration”, but the more I thought about it, the more I believe it helped ‘normalize’ confession, because it more closely resembled what going to confession is like.

This most recent celebration was a mix. Although all the kids were there with their families, and something like 9 priests, about half of them Irish, since this used to be an Irish mission destination, the ritual lacked the pageantry – music, reflections, candles lit after each child finished confessing. But it would have had some of the contemplative feel of the second, if the people behind us hadn't been carrying on a conversation. Some of the children read scripture or intentions, after which our pastor gave a homily in which he thanked the fathers for coming. He was making the point that fathers need to be spiritual leaders, but I wonder if he made a misstep by mentioning Jewish and Muslim fathers as good examples. I’m not sure some in the congregation would want to emulate these patriarchal communities – you could almost hear the hackles rising. But I applaud him for encouraging fathers to take a more active role in their families’ faith lives.

After his promotion of fatherly spiritual leadership, he led the children in an examination of conscience. “Is it wrong to steal?” he asked.

“Yes!” they all answered.

“Is it wrong to lie?”

“Yes!”

“Is it wrong to fight with your brothers and sisters?”

“Yes!”

“Is it wrong to miss Mass on Sunday?”

“No!”

Clearly, some more catechesis is necessary. 


But on the positive side, a number of parents went to confession after the children. And there was time for all of us to be shriven before my husband’s departure. So he departed with a clean conscience a couple of days later, although I suppose he experienced more than one moment of parental frustration between Saturday and Monday. Fortunately, there is a chaplain assigned to the base where he is stationed. Not every base has one. The chaplain corps is always recruiting. And they seem to attract good men.