I like the feel of my baby’s tummy against mine as he nurses. He reaches up and grabs my nose, or sometimes bats at my cheek over and over. Occasionally he’ll fall asleep nursing: his little body grows heavy, and he dozes and eats at the same time. It’s good to hold him and rock, just rock.
As his mother, I hold him in other ways, too. Yesterday I held him down on the doctor’s table as the nurse sewed a stitch in his eyelid. He fell during Relief Society”“I was eating my Mother’s Day treat, feeding him some too, as he walked between the folding chairs. He stepped on someone’s purse and fell, cutting his eyelid on the chair. It bulged with a bluish lump of blood, and I held a napkin to it to staunch the flow.
At the doctor’s we kept his arms and legs and head still as the nurse poked a tiny needle in his lid, threaded it through, tied the knot off. I watched. After the nurse finished I picked him up and loved him.
He’s the first of my kids to need stitches. And maybe it’s a little melodramatic of me, just one stitch, but it made me think about how fragile he is, and how fragile I am. And how we need to hold each other.
Arlene Ball’s poignant essay “O My Sons” describes the death of her two sons. She cared for and held their bodies once their spirits had departed. I realize that holding my baby still on the doctor’s table as he gets one little stitch is far removed from preparing your child’s body to be buried. But I love how the essay honors the way mothers care for their childrens’ bodies from birth until death, and I experienced a little of that yesterday.
Read Arlene’s essay here, and share with us your experiences of holding your children and honoring their bodies.
I had neglected reading Arlene\’s essay until today. Of course, I\’m crying now and I\’m not sure if I can write how I feel.
My husband and I are moving to Vienna this Fall. The only thing holding us back is the medical clearance for our youngest son, the one with EE and Celiac. The State department doctor just told my husband that she was not going to approve him previous to speaking with me last week. That somehow, what I said changed her mind. And I wonder, what are my motivations? I was relieved to know that someone else was making this decision, but it looks like I had/have the decision in my control. Am I being reckless with my son\’s health? Is it better for him that we move or is it just better for myself and my husband?
And how in the world am I supposed to know, really know?
My heart aches for Arlene\’s sons. For Arlene. For every mother who is both inadequate and responsible all at the same time.
I loved Arlene’s essay. My heart aches for her, too.
Whenever I leave my kids for a few days, the thing I miss the most is the physicality of them– just simply holding them and feeling their slight heft against me.
It’s the same in the sense of when my babies get older, and the things I miss most are those fleeting things of their young flesh: the sweet smell of babyness, the abundant rolls of cute chubbiness…
I too love nursing my baby and feeling her hands grab at my shirt or chest. Seeing her eyes look up at me and letting me hold her hand while she eats. When I found out I was pregnant I wanted to get rugs for our little apartment with wood floors because I was so afraid at the thought of dropping her. Oh her little body. . . I love our nightly baths and just looking at the wonder that is her. Clutching her hands against her chest while I keep pouring the water over her tummy. Also when it’s time for naps and bedtime as she falls asleep on my chest while we rock back and forth.
That was a beautiful article. My friend lost her baby boy to a car accident a year ago, and she was able to hold him as his spirit left his body. She is one of the strongest women I have ever known.
I have missed nursing my little girl, that closeness we shared. I hate the first day of my children’s time to be weaned. I ache for that closeness, of my child being a little baby that I can cuddle. She hasn’t nursed for two months, and she isn’t often cuddly–she’ll give quick little hugs, then she’s off to explore and run and play. Today, though, I held her straight-jacket style for 20 minutes until she would calm down from an enormous temper tantrum enough to stop crying. It was funny–even as she was screaming her lungs out, I was just enjoying the closeness, with my arms around her, as I watched her thin and delicate skin under her throat move up and down with each big breath. I was almost glad for her tantrum, just so I could hold her and cuddle her again, despite the kicking and screaming.
Ahh, thank you all for your great comments. Mara, I love that wording “inadequate and responsible at the same time.” Brooke and Miggy, I like the “abundant rolls of cute chubbiness” and the bathing baby image. Amy, I remember once at church when I was holding a struggling child, a sister commented to me that she missed just being able to hold her kids during church. I had never thought of it that way, but it seems you have.
Maralise–we had incomparable medical care when we lived in Vienna.
I’ve never had stitches due to injury. Just a few days ago I had to talk to my preschooler face to face as they sewed 16 stitches into his foot. It made me sad that they had to restrain his little body so completely. I’m nursing his little brother at the moment. I love watching his body grow knowing that I’m responsible for it.