FTP stands for Failure to Progress. It’s applied to a woman whose contractions do not bring cervical changes. I feel like I have writers FTP. Like my ability to write about my personal life has stopped dilating. I actually told Peter the other day that I want to write so bad and when I try nothing happens. I told him in earnest that I have this big ‘ole word-baby in side of me and I’m stuck at 9.5cm for 8 hours with a cervical lip and I’m siting forward leaning over the toilet to get the lip to move and it’s just stuck and if I push then my cervix will swell and well…gosh. See. You get it.
I want to write about how I had my placenta encapsulated. I want to show y’all pictures of it and how it was done in my own kitchen and how taking my placenta pills made a huge difference for me in combating postpartum depression. But nope, nothing to write about there. I’m afraid people will freak out if I show pics of placenta on the internet anyway. And who does that stuff? That’s disgusting, you may never read my blog again if I post pics of my placenta.
I want to write about how hard mothering Noah has been. How it’s been the most difficult thing I’ve journeyed through as a person ever. I want to write about how Peter and I are scared to have another child for fear that we wouldn’t be able to keep our shit together with having to face another season of what we’ve just been through and what we’re still going through. I want to write that you can love your child with every fiber of your being but not enjoy mothering. I want to write this so that I shatter the misconception that mothering is easy and angelic and that it comes out of you like soup from a red and white Campbell’s can. No, the experience of mothering can feel like Moses angrily striking the rock of your soul for water.
Leaving my community
I want to write about the struggle it was and is for me to leave my birth community behind in Denton, TX. To say goodbye to the women who mentored me. The women who caught my babies, the women who sparked my life with fire and love of this calling. I want to write about how desperately I wish I could hold a laboring mother’s hand while she breathes out her contraction. How I literally dream about it at night and wake up with a dull ache in my heart because I can’t work births right now. I am near tears as I tell you I haven’t worked a birth since March. MARCH. Oh my God. I feel desperate.
I want to write and say that Zoe gave up her paci and sleeps in her big girl bed and is potty trained and how she says “What in the what?” as an exclamation and how she is counting to 20 and knows all her letters and colors and shapes and every animal there is to name and she’s not even three yet. I want to write about how much she’s becoming her own little person who is independent and thinks and talks and how I am already having to step further back and let her be Zoe without my hovering mother heart, and that’s hard.
I want to write and say that Noah is my furry and my joy. He’s my mirror to my own heart and I’ve been humbled by mothering him and awakened to a greater level of seeing my own soul. I want to tell you that I’ve prayed in the midnight hour to ask God to help me “fall in love with my son the same way I fell in love with my daughter.” I hold his chubby frame in my arms and feel this overwhelming urge to protect him from my failures as the imperfect mother that I am. I want to write about how much I love his handsome little face, and when he smiles my heart puffs up in pride. I want to tell you how easily he smiles and laughs (far easier than Zoe ever did at this age). I want to write about how he looks at me with a cock-eyed grin that makes me think that he’s flirting with me. I want to write about how when I nurse him, he reaches up his starfish little hand and pats my face like he’s saying, “It’s okay, momma. I know. I know.” I want to write about how I hope he marries a brunette girl, because I’m his mom, and I’m brunette and I want him to love a girl that’s like me.
I want to write about how much Peter and I have been forced to grow in our relationship with each other. How this intense time of transition this year has sifted us and revealed our hearts. I want to confess that when I was upset with the place our relationship was in Peter asked me what I was going to do about it and how that knocked the wind out of me and made me think … he’s right, what am I going to do about it. I want to tell you how deep I had to dig to get honest about my own issues and really talk things through to a peaceful resolved end; till we could look at each other and really know, we’re together…we understand and we’re going to be just fine.
The Living of it
I want to write about how I am okay. How this is all normal and a part of life and that this IS what life is about. The living of it. The very living of it. The living of it. The very living of it.
I want to say I’m happy for the changes and the future in front of us. I want to tell everyone not to feel sorry for me because I’m managing and doing alright and I’m actually quite content and feeling very connected on the inside.
I want to write and say I love our new home. I love our granite kitchen counter tops and my ceramic tiled shower. I love La Grange and that I can walk to the Metra, to the library, to the thrift store and most importantly, to Trader Joe’s.
I want to write and tell you that we’re beginning to thrive here. Beginning to, not yet, but we will. Because I know us, because we’re not afraid of hard places. Because sometimes when Moses strikes the rock – water does pour out.
I want to write and tell you that I may post pictures of my placenta on my blog.