I can't pretend that I have ever been made of tough stuff. I used to cry at matric dances (even when I was just the 'plus one'), more bereft than the actual classmates who were about to leave the school that the their bonds of friendship were soon to be torn asunder. All it takes is the opening bars of 'Spirit of the Great Heart' to set me weeping about the glory and tragedy of living in Africa, the wonder of family, the sad death of Jock of the Bushveld (all unrelated. But still).
Since becoming a parent, things have escalated and now, it really is a case of every teardrop being a waterfall. At least seven times a day, I wonder at the marvel of actually making it alive through a solid 24 hours when their are cells waiting to mutate, germs waiting to attack, reckless drivers lurking, acts of G-d waiting to take place...
Knowing that I have to protect Leya from each of these eventualities is just such a vast task. It's overwhelming. The very fact of her is overwhelming...the fact that every day she continues to grow, to become, to astound me with her vitality and smartness and sheer force of life.
And every day I am struck afresh by how very, very, very fortunate and blessed I am. When I was pregnant, we were told that there was a chance she might have Down's Syndrome, and I guess because of that, I just feel like I can never quite grasp the completeness - I want to say perfection, but hesitate because of the implication that I may have loved her less if she were in any way less than she is - of her. Whenever I see a child with Down's, I can't stop staring at them. I wonder what it's like to be their mother - to experience the anticipation of counting your child's fingers and toes, staring at the seashell ears - the very clichés that are used to describe the wonder of every new baby. And I think that it doesn't actually matter whether your child has a sandal gap in their toes or weak muscle tone or heart defects; the love you feel must be even more fierce, simply because the battles your child has to fight are harder.
And that's why I hate the Huffington Post Parents blog. I signed up for it in that moment of connectedness that you experience as a brand new parent; that feeling of finally understanding why we're here, that feeling of sharing the greatest secret that's actually known to all humanity: how wonderful it is to love so utterly, so all consumingly. And because of that subscription, every morning I read stories about parents whose hearts are rent by the love they have for their 'imperfect' children. Today's was a plea from a mother whose son's facial bones have fused due to a rare disorder - she begged other parents to reassure their children that her son is just a little boy, just like every single one of them.
For some reason the picture of this little boy flashed through my mind when I was lying with Leya before she fell asleep tonight. Above the picture, his mother had written: "See? How can that face, covered in Twinkies, be at all frightening?" And I was reminded once more of how motherhood flays your heart.
I've just taught Leya how to say prayers, so every night we say "thank you G-d for everything we have" - and what I'm really saying thank you is for the massive privilege of being this precious person's guide through life. And I'm saying thank you for sparing me the heartache of having to work extra hard to protect her, because every mother's sadness really is a reminder that 'there but for the grace of G-d go I'.
Since becoming a parent, things have escalated and now, it really is a case of every teardrop being a waterfall. At least seven times a day, I wonder at the marvel of actually making it alive through a solid 24 hours when their are cells waiting to mutate, germs waiting to attack, reckless drivers lurking, acts of G-d waiting to take place...
Knowing that I have to protect Leya from each of these eventualities is just such a vast task. It's overwhelming. The very fact of her is overwhelming...the fact that every day she continues to grow, to become, to astound me with her vitality and smartness and sheer force of life.
And every day I am struck afresh by how very, very, very fortunate and blessed I am. When I was pregnant, we were told that there was a chance she might have Down's Syndrome, and I guess because of that, I just feel like I can never quite grasp the completeness - I want to say perfection, but hesitate because of the implication that I may have loved her less if she were in any way less than she is - of her. Whenever I see a child with Down's, I can't stop staring at them. I wonder what it's like to be their mother - to experience the anticipation of counting your child's fingers and toes, staring at the seashell ears - the very clichés that are used to describe the wonder of every new baby. And I think that it doesn't actually matter whether your child has a sandal gap in their toes or weak muscle tone or heart defects; the love you feel must be even more fierce, simply because the battles your child has to fight are harder.
And that's why I hate the Huffington Post Parents blog. I signed up for it in that moment of connectedness that you experience as a brand new parent; that feeling of finally understanding why we're here, that feeling of sharing the greatest secret that's actually known to all humanity: how wonderful it is to love so utterly, so all consumingly. And because of that subscription, every morning I read stories about parents whose hearts are rent by the love they have for their 'imperfect' children. Today's was a plea from a mother whose son's facial bones have fused due to a rare disorder - she begged other parents to reassure their children that her son is just a little boy, just like every single one of them.
For some reason the picture of this little boy flashed through my mind when I was lying with Leya before she fell asleep tonight. Above the picture, his mother had written: "See? How can that face, covered in Twinkies, be at all frightening?" And I was reminded once more of how motherhood flays your heart.
I've just taught Leya how to say prayers, so every night we say "thank you G-d for everything we have" - and what I'm really saying thank you is for the massive privilege of being this precious person's guide through life. And I'm saying thank you for sparing me the heartache of having to work extra hard to protect her, because every mother's sadness really is a reminder that 'there but for the grace of G-d go I'.
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