Holding Beatrice Rose on Mother's Day

This is my Mother’s Day post—which is a couple weeks late. It’s late because at my house we are very busy mothering. My daughter and her family have been staying with us for the Covid season, and she recently delivered a baby: little Beatrice Rose is three weeks old, and, believe me, she is the sweetest little seven pounds you will ever hold. 

 

And hold and hold and hold. Beatrice loves to be held. There’s a theory that all human babies are born premature (because of that pesky big head we have) and the first three months of a baby’s life are really the fourth trimester of gestation. The sweet little things just want to be back in the womb, all snuggled safe and warm and getting food whenever their tiny tummies feel empty. 

 

Luckily, we have four sets of arms to hold Beatrice, and two more sets just down the street at Krystian’s house. (This is why Mary is still here—so great to have lots of support with a newborn.) But even so, my left arm is feeling the muscle fatigue of the long holding. I’m remembering the techniques of getting things done with only one arm free: opening the fridge, fixing bottles, spreading peanut butter for big sister’s sandwich, turning pages in the book I’m reading.

 

I have a photo somewhere that Paul snapped not long after my third child was born. We are in the bathroom. Anna, age 3, is in the tub. Emily, age 18 months, is balanced precariously on the grown-up potty. I am supporting her with one hand. In my other arm is nestled tiny baby Mark. When I look at this photo, I have two questions: 1) How did I ever do it? And 2) why was Paul taking the photo and not helping?!

 

I have another memory of holding a newborn. This time all the other children are asleep and Paul and I are watching a movie on TV while I hold and nurse the tiny baby. It was a war movie, I think, one of those movies where lots of gun fire is exchanged and dozens of people are killed.  I tended that tiny little soul in my arms, soothing the cries, patting out the burps, rocking and cooing. Here’s the soundtrack of our family room that evening: 

“Wah! Wah!” 

“There, there, little sweetie, you’re OK.”

 “Kapow! Crash! Pew-pew-pew!”

 

At last, I couldn’t take it anymore.  I cried out over the gunfire on the screen, “How can they do that? How can they just kill people like that? Don’t they know how hard it is to get any person even born? Don’t they know how hard it is to keep a little baby alive after they are born? Don’t they know all the sacrifice and hard work, and pain that is invested into every single living being? How can they just snuff a life out with a pew-pew-pew!”

 

Paul, I think, turned off the movie and probably blamed post-partum hormones for my outburst. 

 

But really, just think about it. Humans are designed so that someone—a mother-- has to suffer for them to be born. Just carrying that little fetus/zygote messes with your body almost from the moment of conception. My daughter Mary suffers from hyperemesis—really brutal morning sickness. She started throwing up before the positive pregnancy test, and then spent the next three months vomiting so much she had to stay in bed with an IV. That is sacrifice.

 

Then, once a mom stops vomiting, the sweet little one has grown so big she is taking up all the space normally reserved for vital organs. The baby doesn’t care if mom can’t digest or breathe. 

Baby is the priority for the body for the nine months she is growing. 

 

When Mary was so sick she couldn’t eat anything, we worried if the baby would be affected. The doctor blithely replied, “Oh no. Your body’s priority is to feed the baby. You will suffer, but not baby.”

 

Let’s not even talk about childbirth. When my husband had kidney stones, the doctor said, “Now you know something of what your wife went through with childbirth, but this is not as bad.”

 

Then there’s the whole keeping-baby-alive-once-they-are-born challenge that we have already discussed.

 

And then as baby grows, teaching them to be safe, and kind, and responsible. Just think about that for a minute

 

So—what are the takeaways here?

 

If you are alive, you have a mother to thank. If you are even a moderately functional adult, you probably have a mother—and a father, and many other parental figures-- to thank. 

 

Also, when you look at any person--even people you disagree with or people who have hurt you or people who do wrong things—remember that person had a mother who sacrificed to carry him/her, who gave up sleep and self-care in order to keep that person alive. Recognize the value of that person, even if you just think about what the life cost in human sacrifice and effort.

 

So, number 1, thank a mother.

 

Secondly, value the people around you. Judging by the effort that got them here, their worth is great.

 

And, if you are a mom--even though this is late--I’m wishing you a Happy Mother’s Day. You are a hero.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Contempt, Warmheartedness, and Booing Mitt Romney

 

 

Sitting in the Maverick Center on Saturday, I marveled just to be with thousands of people under one roof after a year of social distancing. It was the Utah State Republican convention, and as an elected delegate from my neighborhood, I was there to help choose the next party state leadership team. So far, we had heard a bagpipe band play military anthems and a children’s choir sing “One Little Voice.” Following that tear-jerker were some great talks from the current party leadership and from the congressmen and senators serving in Washington. The theme of all the talks was the need for unity in the party, the need to listen to others, the need to work together, the need to be bipartisan, the need to leave anger and rancor behind. I was proud of my party.

 

Then Senator Romney stepped to the mic. The arena erupted into boos and jeers. Romney attempted to speak over the uproar but could not be heard. The nice-looking blonde woman seated behind me was booing and jeering, screaming into my ear. (As in all stadiums, the seats were almost on top of each other.) 

Amid the uproar, I turned and tapped her on the knee to get her attention. I cried out, “We believe in free speech. Let him talk!” She shifted her gaze to me for an instant and screamed, “Don’t you dare touch me!”

 

Finally, the current chair of the party came to the mic, his 5-foot-6 frame dwarfed by Romney’s stature. But he got the attention of the crowd. “This is what we’ve been talking about. Let Senator Romney speak.”

 

What was happening? The people in that stadium were normal people, ranchers and moms and business owners. I’m sure they are kind to their families and neighbors. But what made them feel like, when it came to partisan politics, they could leave behind all the rules of civil dialogue?

 

Now, certainly not all the people in that stadium were booing—many if not most were like me, appalled to witness what happened. And, later on, the resolution to officially censure Romney did not pass. 

 

But the woman behind me clearly felt her indignation was righteous, that she had not only the right but the responsibility to speak out against evil doing. She was not just angry at Senator Romney--she held him in contempt

 

I’ve seen this on the other side of the political spectrum as well. During the presidential election last fall, a friend of over twenty years, a dear friend, wrote on her FaceBook page “Shame on Republicans. Shame on all Republicans.” I commented on her post, gently (I thought) reminding her of our friendship and my political leanings, “Do you mean all Republicans?” She responded with a curt and angry, “Yes.” 

 

Another long-time friend told me, “I just can’t imagine how anyone could possibly vote for that loudmouth, selfish, racist, idiotic, power-hungry jerk!” I somehow knew that she wasn’t really interested in hearing any other point of view. She also felt it was her responsibility to speak out strongly again evil doing. She held all those who did not see the election the same way, not just with anger, but with contempt.

 

Recently I read again Arthur C. Brooks’ excellent book, Love Your Enemies. In it he makes a strong case for avoiding the contempt that has so infected our society. 

 

Instead, Brooks proposes that we practice “warmheartedness,” seeing our adversaries as people like us, trying to understand their point of view and where it comes from, being willing to listen. He explains that such an attitude does not mean changing our own beliefs. Brooks suggests we think, “I may not agree with you, but what you have to say matters.” 

 

Here are some other suggestions from Brooks:

·      Don’t attack or insult. Don’t even try to win.

·      Never assume the motives of another person

·      Use your values as a gift, not as a weapon. Don’t call others are evil because they don’t share your values. 

 

In other words, while we may and should disagree with ideas others hold, we should still understand and care for the person.

 

But here’s the deal. Practicing warmheartedness is hard. Contempt, like all sins, is most evident to us when we look at others, but much harder to identify in ourselves.

 

So, let’s just revisit those stories at the beginning of the essay. Looking back, can you see, as I do now, more than a little self-righteousness? How can those people boo? How can my friends treat me that way? Why are those around me so filled with contempt?

 

Which is, as I’m sure you see too, a very contempt-filled feeling. I am showing contempt as well, in the very act of describing theirs.

 

Let’s go back to those stories—what would it look like to respond, not with contempt, but with warm-heartedness? This is hard. I was angry at those booing. I was hurt by my friends’ remarks. But what if I could have controlled my anger and my hurt? What if I had practiced warmheartedness?

 

Maybe when the lady behind me was booing, I should have waited. Maybe that tap on the knee was a violation. Maybe sometime during a break, I could have asked her why she felt that way. Maybe I could have shown some respect for her opinions.

 

Maybe when my friend said, “shame on all Republicans,” I could have not assumed her motivations. Maybe instead of posting a somewhat snarky comment on her Facebook thread, maybe I could have called her and asked what was behind her frustration. I could have listened. Maybe I wouldn’t agree with her, but I could listen.

 

Maybe when that other friend shared her opinion of Trump, I could have agreed with what I could agree on. Then maybe, instead of just focusing on a person, we could have talked about our differing opinions on some issues and policies. 

 

Maybe, if we can listen to each other without contempt, maybe if we can show some warmheartedness, we might just find ground we can agree on. If we can respect each other, we might just find a way forward that we can all feel good about. And maybe, just maybe, through the competition of good ideas and respectful cooperation, we might find ways to improve our country, to improve the world, together.

 

Maybe that is too much to ask. But if we are to come together as a country, it seems to me this is what needs to happen, in our neighborhoods and in our Congress.

 

After the election was called, I was encouraged to hear a Democratic member of Congress speak of his respect for his colleagues across the aisle, of his desire to work with them to govern the country. This reminded me of the way my Republican representative told me he thought his Democratic colleagues were good people who wanted to do what was right. He felt they could work together for the good of all the people. 

 

The current President won the election, but he did not receive a mandate for his platform. Nearly half the country opposes it and about half the Congress. As a country, as a government, we need to listen, learn, and figure out what is best for the whole country. We need to eschew contempt. We need to approach each other with warm hearts. We need to show the world how a democracy can govern on behalf of all of us, for the benefit of We the People.