The Giving Tree

I offer advance apologies for subjecting you to another post on martyr mothering. I feel compelled to write more on the subject because the stark reality of it all has really been hitting home, thanks to the toxic cocktail of pregnancy hormones charging through my veins.

So, it starts with a grotesquely sad story, The Giving Tree, by a strange looking bald guy. In case you were not traumatized by this story (and the giant black and white photo of its author on the back cover) that nearly dehydrated me as a child from all of the crying, here is a summary ...

Baby and sapling grow together, as child and tree mature and child exploits tree, tree, with a self destructive giving nature offers shade, then fruit, then leaves, branches, and finally its very self, right down a nub in the grass in an effort to meet the needs of its selfish man friend. The end, it is a rotting stump. Now, those of you who have ever tried to rid your property of a tree, know that this is not a true story. No, the true story begins with the tree dropping rude amounts of little black berries and dead leaves all over your belongings and scraping the side of your house with its branches that termites and carpenter ants use as elevated highways. It ends with the tree thwarting all attempts to exterminate it by producing endless shoots from its general stump area. Removal of the stump is impossible to achieve as the tree has been, from its very inception, been planning for the moment it would be brought to justice by sending out countless super human strength root lengths that, stretched end to end, would cross an astonishing distance in space. I digress.

The made up story is a beautiful illustration of the unlimited, giving heart of mothers everywhere who literally allow themselves to be consumed and destroyed by their offspring. I am not talking about spiders ... women, HUMAN women are doing this every day. It occurred to me this morning ... John and I woke up at six, while our parasitic shoots still slumbered in their beds. We walked the yard, together marveling over the miracle spring has brought to our dull gardens, drinking coffee, and feeling fortunate. We ended on the deck ... it was a rare moment on a magical, misty May morning killed by the sound of a wailed "MOMMMMMEEEEEEEEE" from somewhere in the house. I sighed and went inside while John went on to do important yard work.

I changed the soggy diapers of my two ungrateful toddlers while being kicked repeatedly in the gut by our soon to be newborn. I found clean clothes appropriate for a day that is scheduled to start rainy and end warm. I transported us downstairs, found four little shoes, and correctly applied them to four corresponding and wiggly little feet. Then we went outside. Claire ran off calling to John who I could see striding away from her toward the water. "Keep an eye on her!" I called after them and turned my attention to Ava who was reaching for something I couldn't identify on the ground. I pulled her away as she howled in protest. I sweet talked her away from it and walked to the front yard where John and Claire were mulching a flower bed. Ava and I sat happily for a moment on a nearby wall, watching the progress ... but then. Ava wanted down so she could drag sleep sheep through muddy puddles for a moment before howling to get back up in order to smear her grimy little hands on my white maternity pants. Aahhh! I yelled. No! She quickly shifted goals to wanting to climb on top of the wall to get to the dog who was perched on top, ten feet away. I was busy telling her 'no' and why (she is a PRECIOUS BAAABBBY! She can't be allowed to walk near a five foot drop to an asphalt driveway!) when I felt two little hands being wiped on my last pair of clean maternity pants. Claire, pausing from her intense work with damp, cedar red mulch, had "cleaned" her hands off on me.

I felt the intensity of hormonal anger welling up ... NO! EVERYONE INSIDE!! For those of you who have not experienced hormone anger, it is positively hydraulic. Or volcanic. It is like being in a small raft going over a waterfall into class A (or five or whatever) rapids. All there is to be done is brace yourself! Claire, my compliant little girl, headed toward the front door while Ava lingered uncertainly behind, embracing her filthy sleep sheep. I called to her again, insistently "AVA!" Nothing. John, who at times serves as lighter fluid for my outbursts said "Ava come give daddy a kiss".

Claire was at the front door waiting, I was halfway there, dressed in previously white pants, heart pounding with the effort of just being me right now ... I just wanted to get the girls inside where they would be contained and away from wet mulch and puddles. DAMN IT! I yelled. I have been adding to my swear word repertoire as life requires. Damn, while mild in comparison to some of the other gems in my vocabulary, is new (and therefore, effective). John said sorry and shooed Ava on her way.

I stalked to the house to make breakfast for the girls. I broke eggs into a pan for scrambling and bit my lip as I tried to fish out pieces of shell before they became obscured by cooked egg white. "It's not fair!" I said aloud. "No, it isn't fair!" As I was making oatmeal, limping around on my bad pregnant hip, desperately trying to retrieve microscopic pieces of egg shell from our breakfast, John was outside gardening. It wasn't fair. I quelled my frustration with this thought until he foolishly entered the kitchen, done with his important outdoor work. I let him have it ... it isn't fair! Here I am, rushing around fat and pregnant, making breakfast for your ungrateful little children on a SATURDAY while you garden (I emphasized that word with a dubious tone that insinuated perhaps it wasn't a job at all but a pleasure).

He agreed with me so I repeated myself until he was forced to come to his own defense ... something about how I don't go to work, don't administer the payment of bills, don't maintain the house or yard or the cars, don't even pump my own gas! I clarified in a sputter "but on WEEKENDS, it is so unfair!" The discussion fizzled out then, leaving me feeling adequately vented. But on I brood.

I mean, think about it ... I am rounding the bed of 150 pounds, with unsightly bulges in what used to be "non problem areas". I am tired and broken down, hobbling around with a bottle of Tums to ward off the heartburn, tirelessly explaining to C&A why they should avoid jumping on or kicking me in the belly. My poor belly, bruised by daily injections of Lovenox until this Harriett character arrives. I am no longer the knowledgeable, problem solving up and coming vice president of whatever small department in one of the world's most prestigious banks ... I am a mom and a wife.

I was just polishing off this round of self pity and the remainder of my oatmeal when Ava held her fat little arms out "carry you". I scooped her up, cradling her cool little body against mine and she lay her fuzzy head on my shoulder. We swayed together like that for a minute or two and I said "oh little one, you, my love are worth every second of every day. EVERY SECOND OF EVERY DAY" I can't think of a single other thing that needs to be said on this subject.

Happy Mother's Day!