Heaven Help Me!

An appreciated experience at the local grocery store is responsible for this blog post. We live just around the corner from Angelo Caputo’s, the family owned Italian marketplace, that has become known for Italian specialties and “always good food – cheap”. One usually hears Italian spoken there, oftentimes it is from the older couple arguing over lemons and fresh basil in the produce section. Today, as my two sons and I were en route down one of the pasta aisles, there were two older gentlemen humming out that familiar language. Suddenly, they stopped, pointed at me and said,

“You – Sicilian!”

“Yes,” I replied, (I can explain the technicalities of that one in a moment), while trying to deflect the attention to my sons who really are Sicilian.

I am actually mostly German and Irish. However, some recent research says that since giving birth I am part Sicilian, too. The idea is that fetal cells, being made up of mom and dad’s DNA, tend to linger in mom’s blood for a long time after baby is born. Since I have given birth six times, I am Sicilan X 6.

One study, written about in Volume 13, No. 2, of the American Academy of Pediatrics News, says that these fetal cells have been discovered up to 27 years after a mother giving birth. This supports mothers having a physical tie to their children:

“Through fluorescence-activated cell sorting and polymerase chain reaction, male DNA was detected in 13 of the 19 women carrying a male fetus and in four of the 13 women carrying a female fetus.”

Another study by NPR (February 8, 2006) reports that these lingering baby cells stay with the mother and – like stem cells – may help repair damage when mom gets sick for the rest of her life.

A third study in the November 19, 2008 edition of the Pittsburgh Post Gazette puts a name on this “cell-trading” process, fetal microchimerism. The researchers at the Western Pennsylvania Cancer Institute at West Penn Hospital have found that fetal cells that mothers got from their sons may protect them against cancer.

So, when I answered affirmatively to the Italian speaking gentleman’s question, I was technically correct.

I am Sicilian, by marriage. It’s in my blood.

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Husband and I have always been interested in what makes a successful marriage “tick”. When we were newly engaged, we played out different scenarios in our minds about who would stay home and who would go to work. We mutually hyphenated our names when we got married. We knew the flexibility of modern marriage did not confine us to certain roles.

In practice, it turned out I was not destined for a career outside the home, as I immediately embraced staying home when our firstborn son was born. I was “into” cooking and cleaning and caring for children and found great fulfillment in it. I loved reading the children stories for hours on end, playing with blocks and making birthday cakes. Changing diapers wasn’t all that bad, as long as I got to do these other things, too.

Throughout the years, marriage and the idea of a “good wife” has been “reinvented” multiple times. This is the focus of an article written by Lisa Belkin in the March 22, 2010 edition of the New York Times, entitled, “The Marrying Kind”.

All this redefinition has become possible as women have been given more choices. While some of it has been helpful, as a fairly traditional woman who stays home with my children, and tries to make a home for my husband, I have found some of it a maze to navigate. My impression of what makes “a good wife” has been subject to society’s influence over time, particularly when I was young and forming these ideals. I believe I had the “perfect mother” – she tended to my two brothers and my needs with extraordinary devotion and care, in a way I’m quite afraid to admit that I am unable to do myself today. Dinner with all food groups represented every night at 6:30pm, Sunday brunch without fail, meticulous attention to detail when we were sick. Although I have twice as many children as her, and my life choices have dictated that I won’t be able to pull off motherhood with as much careful concern as she did, a part of me still wishes I could. At the same time, I am grateful that the standards aren’t so perfectionistically high that this type of care come solely from me (my husband is just as active in it).

However, the “osmosis” education that my peers and I received to become a H.I.T. (Homemaker in Training) was conflicting at best. It tooted the benefits & supposed freedom of being a ‘supermom’, who could “bring home the bacon AND fry it up in the pan”, just like the Enjoli perfume commercial said. In other words, we were told we could be a mom just like my mom and a career embracing feminist, as well. In high school, we had a home economics class (one of the most popular classes!) in which we all donned aprons and baked apple pies during school hours. When that class ended, we were whisked off to the next class, “Business Economics” which encouraged us to have skills for a successful career outside the home. Confusing? I’ll say. And most of us still don’t know how to make homemade gravy from scratch.

In the aforementioned article, Ms. Belkin highlights the latest “twist” in the redefinition of marriage and what it means to be a good wife: the fastest growing subset of cohabitating couples today are over the age of 50. These women, having been previously married and lived out the “ideal Mrs.” – having wanted nothing more from life than to don the apron and be married -now scoff at it. These women, who were enmeshed in that rejection of the “old ways”;  ”housewives” protesting they were not married to their houses, began calling themselves the more respectable title of  ”working moms” instead. Gradually, we have realized since then that “Supermom”, due to its unattainability, is more comic than reality. Seeing the old guideposts gone, what impetus is there to follow?

Women today are not what they were and as a result we are probably much more relaxed and reasonable. It is perfectly fine to enlist the help of a device to do housework, instead of scrubbing each square of bathroom tile with a toothbrush like grandma did. With the constant redefining of our roles, it will be interesting to see the scenario play out.

On that note, I am off to eat a wonderful meal, home-cooked by my husband, who is a five star *Mr. Mom*, doing all the cleaning and homekeeping while I recover from birth. In the “old days”, it might be unthinkable that Mom or Mom-in-law would not be at my side for two weeks, so hubby could get back to work since he was clueless when it came to running a home. However, this is not the case for us, nor for many women today. Due to this redefinition of roles for women, our mothers, *too*, have the freedom they earned themselves thirty years ago.

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As I sit here cradling my less than 72 hour newborn son, I am reminded of the previous births of my children – (and the one birth that I hoped would happen, but didn’t). Thomas is as perfect as it gets – he’s blessed with good health, a nice ruddy glowing Sicilian skin tone like his siblings, a peaceful disposition (he fusses, but he hasn’t cried loudly yet!), great baby noises and all the rest.

I couldn’t imagine myself in this position almost exactly one year ago. One of the most dismal days of my life was when my obstetrician told me my baby had died spontaneously in my womb sometime in the past week before seeing her. So many plaguing questions filled my mind: What did I do wrong? Had I done too much (fill in the blank), etc., etc.  If I had gotten there a day earlier, would she have been able to save him? As she broke the news to me that his heartbeat had stopped, I soaked the hospital gown and ultrasound table with my tears. I went through weeks, no months, of thinking I would never have the privilege of conceiving again. Seeing a happy pregnant woman was a harsh sting.

After I checked in at the hospital’s registration, someone took me up to labor & delivery. This person assumed I must be excited about being in labor that day, to which I responded, “Actually, I’m just plain relieved”.

Relieved that I could finally get my hopes up that this was happening! That my baby was past the point of viability! That now all we had to do was get him out safely and we’d be home free!

There is a reason and a time for everything. I am grateful to have had the privilege to bear another child. Perhaps I would not be as much so if I hadn’t experienced the fragility of life before. It is not easy to conceive a child, carry a pregnancy all nine months to term, and give birth to a healthy baby, as a simple Google search with the search terms “infertility crisis’” illustrates. We speak as if it is so easy to do so, but the truth is it just isn’t.

If you are one of those who it isn’t easy for, my thoughts & ardent prayers are with you. May all that is good be yours in His Majesty’s good time.

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The weirdest part  about being pregnant is the delirium that can accompany it. This is one of the few things I argue with God about – that is – I tell him this aspect of pregnancy is a very, very bad idea.

Moms don’t talk about this much, but I have experienced this with all my pregnancies. (If you know what I mean, please leave a comment!) I describe it as “Mother Bear Syndrome”, with hormones thrown in. My experience tells me it is worst in the third trimester, when the mother’s body is “nesting” and planning for life after birth. There is much to secure, or keep secure. Primarily, it’s basic needs, such as food, shelter, and the means to get & keep them. It can also encompass the need for support, companionship and help after baby is born. When these needs are threatened, it can cause a visceral reaction in the mother as she feels the need to fight for her own and her “cub’s” survival and ultimate well-being.

If you’ve ever seen a mother bear protecting her babies from attack, you’ll know it’s not pretty…Intruders are not welcome and food is treated as though there is some impending famine.

Humans can become very animalistic under certain circumstances. My typical “c’est la vie” attitude toward life disappears in T-10 weeks before birth.

So, my apologies to all who have been unfortunate enough to have crossed my path in the past couple weeks and witnessed first-hand that I have morphed into some oddity that I usually am not.

I’ll be much nicer after birth. I promise.

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What’s this I wake up to? I may have woke up more overwhelmed than usual with the new baby kicking inside me reminding me that he’ll be arriving soon; I am not sure. But, within minutes my mind was racing with an unending list of things to do. Which resulted in tears. Not a fun way to wake up.  All this resulted in me turning to my husband and asking for my “emergency remedy”:  dark chocolate and a large glass of milk. After a little conversation with him, I realized something: I am lacking true joy. With all that I have, I can’t believe I feel sad. It is predictable that at the end of all my pregnancies, I tend to get down. I struggled through the morning, got my kids to their catechism classes at church on time, made it to a beautiful Mass, and smiled at friends. My spirits lifted after Mass when I had completed the most important tasks of the day.

Although I can now look back on the day with joy, there is a thought pervading my mind. Why has God blessed a woman like me with depressive tendencies with many children and all that I have? Why can’t some of those women who are immaculate housekeepers and gourmet cooks, chirpy and chipper in every way, albeit infertile, get the chance to do as I am doing? The answer came to me as we prayed the rosary on the way to church, “I am not the mother I want to be, but I am the mother God wants me to be”.

The remedy for this certain darkness? As St. John of the Cross says, “What is needed is hope”.

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I check my email after writing this to find a link sent by a dear friend entitled “A Mother’s Liturgy of the Hours” written by Danielle Bean. Hmmm…my life perfectly explained. Exactly what I HOPED to hear!

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One may be surprised to know that it is a fairly recent practice in Catholic homes to celebrate birthdays. In our culture, birthdays seem integral to the celebration of a person’s years on earth; but let us not forget the Catholic custom of celebrating “Name Days”!

Today is the name day of one of my children, Teresa. We are remembering her patron saint, St. Teresa of Avila.  At the age of seven, St. Teresa of Avila wanted nothing more than to give her life for Christ. So, she ran away to Africa to attempt martyrdom amidst the Moors.  Some may say it is fortunate that her uncle retrieved her from this, or we wouldn’t have the volumes of writings St. Teresa gave us.

This morning the children woke up to the smell of incense wafting through the air, the icon of St. Teresa of Avila prominently displayed at the kitchen table, fresh cannolis and hand-dipped chocolate covered strawberries from the local Italian market.

We celebrate Name Days “in style” in our family, perhaps more so than birthdays. Lest this tradition be misunderstood, I found an excellent article on the practice of celebrating name days.

What this article says in a nutshell is that while it is not necessary to ignore or do away with customary birthday celebrations,  we should try to restore the meaningful celebration of the feast of the saint whose name was given to us in Baptism, “our personal patron, loving and helping us whether we observe or neglect his veneration”. As a parent, I have found that my children typically do not object to this practice – any chance to get treats! They also like it because it is unique to them. Every one in the family has a birthday every year, but the child celebrating his/her name days enjoys a day which is exclusive only to him.

And the best part about it is the celebration of Name Days doesn’t end with childhood. It continues for older children, adolescents, and adults for the rest of their lives. As timeless is the life of faith, is as eternal the celebration of our union with God. And this is truly something to celebrate.

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