On Letting Go of Our Babies

One year ago tonight, I went into labor. My water broke and, a whirlwind nine hours later, we held our sweet son, McCoy. The minute I saw him, I felt like I already knew him. I wrapped my arms around his tiny 7-pound body and, suddenly years of worrying that my arms weren’t toned enough or my hands weren’t feminine melted away. I felt like my limbs were made for this very moment, this very purpose.

I held him on my chest for hours, which felt like seconds. When the nurse suggested I give Chris the opportunity for a little skin-to-skin contact, I thought: but he’ll be so far away from me.

And that’s how I’ve felt at every turn this year. A run without him? A half day away? A new babysitter? Each one stretched me, pushed me. My sister, Ashley, wisely told me this: know your limits. Some mamas need weekends away to be refreshed. Some just need nap time and a babysitter. There’s no right way to practice self-care besides knowing what’s best for you.

This year has stretched me to new lengths in so many ways. I didn’t know how great our capacity to love was. I feel like my heart has quadrupled in size. I also didn’t know how lonely new motherhood could feel or how out of control moments could be. I have to practice, daily, to loosen my grip, opening my hands just a little bit more.

I had no idea that McCoy’s joy would become mine. Or that his laughter would be so healing. Truly like honey to my soul.

I also had no idea how much the thought of the Earth without him would terrify me. It takes my breath away. I can’t imagine this world - the one I knew for 31 years before him - without his smile, his laugh, his precious face. It feels unbearable to even type that sentence.

Sometimes I want McCoy and Chris nearby because I think I can keep them safe if they’re within arms reach. It’s an embarrassing belief in myself, in my own control. I think if we can just maintain enough control and care and - perhaps - are good enough, bad things won’t happen to any of us.

But I know it’s not this way.

I realized early on that the practice of putting him down in his crib each day, away from me, would serve as a form of faith. He is no longer in my arms or under my watchful eye. I must trust that he is OK by himself. Someday, he’ll go to preschool or kindergarten and we’ll practice it again. And friends’ houses. And ride in cars. And go to college.

And I’ll be on my knees, each time, knowing that every bit of it is weaning him from me in a new way. It’s making me stronger in my faith and more inclined to trust the growing space between us.

So here we are, on the eve of his first birthday. I am overwhelmed with gratitude for 365 days with this precious soul, this beautiful face, this tiny mohawk. Our marriage is stronger with him in our life. Our love as a family has only grown deeper. And this world is brighter with him in it. I feel so honored to get to watch him grow.

Photos by the lovely Kristen Finn

A Few Thoughts on Anxiety

In high school, a girl in my grade passed away suddenly in a car accident. We were juniors. She was the first person our small-town grade lost. I think almost every single student attended the heartbreaking service. The funeral made me see, for the first time in my 17 years on Earth, that death wasn’t just for the elderly and the sick. Death could come at any moment, its arms grasping anything within reach.

It was the first time I realized death could make me feel claustrophobic and panicky. The idea that you will never again see someone’s face or hear their voice settled heavy on my chest. It felt like a grey Midwestern day, when there is no cloud break in sight: just grey skies and flat, grey roads and wintery, grey ground all around you. Will it ever lift?

When my mom told me the news that she had passed away, I fell into her arms and wept. I didn’t know her very well, but the reality that someone could be here today and gone tomorrow, without warning, seemed so unfair. She had no time for goodbyes or last wishes or bucket lists. If I’m being honest, this was the loss that taught me to fear death.

I believe in God. I believe in Heaven. I believe it will be better than what we have here on Earth.

But I fear death.

Not my own.

I fear living on Earth without the people I love. I fear not being able to hear their voices every day. I fear never seeing their handwriting again, which is probably a silly thing to say. But sometimes, when people write me messages - little ones - like “I love you” or “don’t forget snacks!” scribbled on a sticky note, I save it, just so I always remember their quick, every-day handwriting. My mom wrote “Welcome home Saxon family of 3!” on a sticky note the day McCoy was born. She left it on our kitchen table and I put it in his baby book. I want to always have that perfect, quick note with her handwriting on it.

In college, my sister told me she hoped she’d die before me. Oh no, I’m going first! I told her. Neither of us were being selfless. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve begged/prayed, telling God I couldn’t live even one day on Earth without one of my siblings or parents. The simple thought of not having one of them in my daily routine makes my chest tighten.

Falling in love and having a baby is the best thing that has happened in my life. Without a doubt, though, it has created higher stakes. It’s more people to love, more people to worry about losing. Sometimes, they go to the grocery store and I pray they come home safely. The grocery store! I check on Mac every night before bed and pray his tiny chest is rising and falling, just like it was when I put him down. This love - so long and wide and deep - can become an all-consuming chasm of fear and worry if I let it.

I know my relationship with worry and death and loss and fear is, simply put, anxiety. I know it is a love so deep, it is manifesting itself in an unhealthy way. I know that gratitude expunges these worries, which is why, when I fall asleep each night, I outline Mac in my mind: his round head and big eyes and little ski slope nose. The way he laughs when I laugh, even though he doesn’t know why something is funny. The way he claps when I clap and is learning to high five. The way he sings da-da-da-da in his crib at night before he falls asleep.

I recall every bit of him, memorizing the here, the now, trying to stay present in gratitude and not be swept away in fear.

I like to wrap life up with a bow. I would love to tell you something sage about death and worry or about the things I’m learning in this season. I’d love to tell you’ve I’ve overcome this entirely, fully releasing my loved ones to the Lord, no longer anxious at all. But that’s not true.

Right now, I’m sometimes overcome with worry. It’s better now than it was when Mac was an itty bitty baby. I barely slept in the beginning, so worried about him in the bassinet. When we moved him to his own room, I got a little stronger. Each time we got a babysitter, I became a little more empowered. When I’d go for a run without him or leave him in childcare at the gym, I slowly and surely got a little braver.

I’m learning now it’s a combination of taking action + practicing gratitude + speaking back to the worry + getting on my knees and praying through it. So I guess the truth is, it’s a bit of all of these things that works for me. It’s not a bow. It’s not a solution. But it’s the truth. It’s a little of this and a little of that.

I’m wading through this first year of motherhood, understanding I’ll never be perfect, but I wasn’t ever aiming for perfection, anyway. I’m striving, instead, for a life of love, gratitude, honesty and wholeness.

It’s not a perfect answer or a solution or the control we sometimes yearn for. But it’s here and now. It’s nine months into McCoy’s life and I have no doubt I’ll continue to learn along the ever-changing, beautiful path we’re on.

Managing Anxiety During Life's Big Events

Leading up to our wedding, I was embedded in anxiety. I was worried Chris was going to get a rare, fatal disease or into a car accident. I stressed constantly when I said goodbye to him, hugging him a little longer, cataloging how he looked in that moment, just in case. Running my hand through his hair, holding eye contact, squeezing him extra tight. I was convinced we'd never make it to the altar.

I was certain this story was too good to be true; that it wasn't mine to be lived. 

And so, I dress rehearsed tragedy, convincing myself that if I thought through all of the painful scenarios enough, I could keep them from happening. 

My therapist explained that the reason our brain does this, which is an attempt to reach for control, is actually a form of fight or flight. It is preparing for danger, but, in an overactive way. Our brain thinks it's being helpful - keeping us from harm - but, of course, it's not. 

A few weeks ago, I began doing the same thing with pregnancy. As we neared the end of this road, it started to seem impossible that we were actually going to get there. I started worrying about all of the awful, awful things that could go wrong between 35 weeks and holding a baby in your arms. I began to worry about something happening to Chris again. I began to agonize about what could happen on the drive home from the hospital. My mind played out scenarios in slow motion, over and over again. 

I was positive, yet again, that this season of life was too good to be true. 

These moments, for me, are a mix of two things.

1. I don't think I could possibly deserve this much good in life. Not because of insecurity, but because after years and years of waiting to have a baby, it feels impossible that it would be coming true. Honestly, it feels like a fairytale in a broken world.
2. My fear is bigger than my faith. My fear begs me to control. I say I trust the Lord with everything. I say I know He can redeem even the most painful of events. And I do believe these things! But my mind yearns to control - to prevent any potential pain. Because pain hurts, y'all. It hurts so badly. Why would we want to feel that?

One of the most difficult parts of life is that bad things do happen. Daily there is inexplicable heartache and heartbreak. Bad things happen to good, amazing people who we love. It doesn't seem fair and can leave us feeling unsettled, shaken and worried. 

I'm learning, lately, to lean into my faith with greater ease. I'm remembering that this baby I'm carrying is God's to begin with and there is a big, beautiful plan for its life. I have no idea how many years the three of us will have on this Earth together. I pray, daily, for many, many years to come. But if I spend each one stressing, I am squandering them away.

So here we are, less than one week away from my due date. I am approaching the next week with open hands and a prayerful, thankful heart. I'm savoring the days, knowing change is coming. I'm looking at anxiety like a wave in the ocean: it can come find me standing on the shore, but I will watch it go right back out to sea.

I will not be swept away, but will stand firmly on the sand, bidding it farewell.