I didn’t do a Self Portrait Tuesday post last week because this month’s theme has been very hard for me. I can’t remember a time in my life when I was completely at ease with my body. I have spent so many years trying to hide or change the parts of me that I find objectionable, so being assigned to embrace those “ugly bits” is not only difficult, but core-shakingly terrifying. I consider them secret and private things, even if it’s a part of me that everyone else can see.

Jenna left a comment on my last SPT post, saying, “What those arms must mean to your girls when you hold and tickle and snuggle them up!” This comment, quite frankly, made me bawl. I had never thought about my body before from the perspective of those who love me. I never realized that when I hold my children in my arms, they don’t judge me against the latest cover model on Vogue. What matters to them is the love they feel when they are wrapped tightly in my embrace. If I had nothing else in the entire world, that alone would give me worth.

I’ve spent quite a bit of time on this new trail of thought. At first I felt relief. What Jenna said was so true that it pierced me deeply, taking root in that most dark and painful place hidden inside my heart. But soon I began to feel shame for my vain and selfish thoughts about my body. I realized that my body is not only my gift, but my children’s gift as well. My body created them and nurtures them, and that is nothing less than heroic. I also began to feel a little bit afraid… Because without this shield of self-loathing I hide behind, I am suddenly very vulnerable. When I repeatedly criticize myself I can build up a thick emotional callous, protecting myself from any darts thrown by others. Without it I feel naked and exposed, open to an attack that is sure to come.

But through the relief, the shame, and the fear came determination. I try so hard to advocate appreciation for all women on this blog, but somehow I left myself out. And how can I teach my daughters to love who they are if the example I set for them clearly shows that I don’t feel that way? So here is my SPT photo for this week- my almost perfect lips:

That red dot is a strange blood vessle-filled bubble that showed up when I was about twelve. It drives me crazy, but you know what? It’s not what my daughters notice when I kiss their foreheads goodnight. It’s not what my husband focuses on when he bursts through the door after work, scooping me up for a facefull of passionate kisses. My lips mean love. They mean protection. They mean forgiveness, and desire, and warmth, and tenderness. My body is not a Vogue body, but it is a special and temporary privilege I need to be thankful for.

There is something about an old book. Something about the feel of the dry, brittle pages between my fingers, the worn and faded cover… My favorite thing to do at used bookstores is to browse along the dusty shelves until I find a particularly elderly looking volume. I take a quick peek over my shoulder to make sure no one is watching, and then I creak open the cover to bury my nose between the pages. I slowly draw in the stale, musty scent of age and time, feeling such respect for this tired old book. It seems like I’m inhaling its entire history in just that one deep breath. I try to picture the hands that have held this book before me. If the cover is frayed and the spine bent, was it a book that someone loved? Was it pored over time and again, the frequent midnight companion for one devoted reader? Or perhaps it was such a cherished copy that it was passed from friend to friend, enriching each life along the way.

One of the most remarkable gifts anyone has ever given me is a ragged old copy of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. Kathryn slipped it into my hands on my birthday with a note that said: I know you like them old, used and full of history. This was HER copy. This was a book she had traveled with, learned from, and loved dearly for many years. She gave this book its history- and then she gave it to me. A pitifully shabby and completely priceless gift that I will treasure forever.

Another very special gift that was given to me is the book that you see in the photo at the top of this post. It’s called The Children’s Garland, and it was given to me by my mother when I was a young girl. The year she gave it to me the book was 99 years old, and I felt so honored to have it in my possession on its one hundredth birthday. Now it has spent time in three different centuries, hopefully providing each of its previous owners with as much joy as it has for me. I was introduced to my favorite poet through the pages of this book, discovering his famous and extraordinary poem “The Raven” for the first time on page 191. Page 2 was my first exposure to the brilliance of Shakespeare, and page 183 tells the shortest and most tragic love story I have ever read.

I wasn’t the first child to be fascinated by the verses in this book, and I hope with all of my heart that I won’t be the last. I hope that my children grow to love it as much as I do.

The magic of the books I love comes not only from the content, but from the history that escapes with the whisper of each turned page. When page corners are folded or words underlined and smudged, I always spend a little more time with the book opened to that page, trying to absorb a tiny bit of that reader’s experience. If pehaps my own teardrops are added to the last paragraph of a heartbreaking tale, I like to imagine a reader in the future brushing their fingertips across the ripple… and maybe wondering about me.

The amazing paragraph you are about to read comes to you courtesy of my beautiful real-life friend R at Redhead Momma:

“I was just tucking in Noah when I swear I saw God in his eyes. To calm him, I had put on the music that I had bought for my labor with Noah, and it was dark in his room except for his Christmas lights. He was under the covers, head resting on his pillow. “I love you, Noah,” I said to him. He looked at me — our faces were so close — and then I said, “eyebrow” and traced his eyebrow. He looked me and smiled, and proceeded to do the same. He loves to get really close and point out different parts of my face. His eyes were so content, he was just pure love. He emanated something otherworldly, and the room grew even darker, and I blinked away tears. It hit me that if I died at this moment, this is the last sight I would like to see. My beautiful son, with God in his eyes.”

Staying in shape as a mom is a really difficult thing for me. Partially because every day the effort of taking care of two young kids really drains me, but I think the main reason is because it requires doing something that is just for me. Everyone has needs, me included, but everyone else’s needs always seem to take priority over mine. And everyone else usually needs something all at the same time. The cats are meowing because I keep forgetting to refill their food bowl, Zibbit is whining because it’s an hour past her nap time, Babs is asking over and over and over and over to play Shutes and Ladders with me, the phone is ringing and it’s an important call from the insurance company… And that’s on a good day.

When a rare moment of quiet arises I don’t usually jump to accomplish the things on my list that I need to do for myself- although maybe I should. Maybe that’s why I end up going days without showering or taking out my contacts. I know I need to bump myself up on the priority list, but when those hushed moments come all I want to do is be still. While my kids are busy eating lunch I’ll stand at the back door watching the rain come down. If they’re content with an art project at the table, I might lie down in a square of sunlight filtering in through the window. Simple things that allow for nothing more than a chance to hear myself think for a bit. I guess for me, that’s one way of taking care of myself. I need those times to regroup and try to feel like a person again.

We have a membership to the gym down the road, but packing up the kids and depositing them in the gym daycare just so I can work out for an hour always ends up being such an ordeal. Babs is a homebody of the highest degree, and never wants to go anywhere, let alone somewhere that’s not a whole lot of fun for her. It’s always a struggle to get her out the door. Then there’s Zibbit who would rather die a thousand deaths than be strapped into the car seat. It just never seems worth the trouble, and so I never go. I finally went out and bought some of “The Firm” videos, figuring it would be easier to just work out at home during nap time. Which was silly of me, because I know full well that Babs doesn’t take a nap anymore. And she would much rather participate in the workout than watch from the sidelines as I sweat and struggle my way through.

But on the rare occasion that I am able to get through an entire video, I feel so fantastic and accomplished! My body virtually hums with energy. It feels good to have done something so positive for myself. I need to exercise for the health of my body, just like I need those times of quiet solitude for the health of my mind. It’s just a matter of keeping that in mind, and allowing myself to put me first. I don’t think that will ever be an easy thing for me to do, but I know that if I take care of myself it helps me to be a much better wife and mother. My family deserves that from me, and so do I.

Motherhood is a powerful thing. When you are fighting to protect your child, anything becomes possible. If the need arises, logic and rational thought become overpowered by the fierce instinct to do what needs to be done. Your instinct may drive you back into the flames of a burning building once you realize your child was left inside. It may send you up against a powerful animal many times your size, even if the battle seems impossible to win. You will do it. Mother-instincts give you the courage to risk your life, even die for your child, without a moment’s thought or hesitation. But what happens when you find yourself in a situation where you can’t rely on instinct alone? When you’re forced to make frightening, potentially deadly decisions, in order to keep your child safe?

Imagine you have a 16 year old daughter. Imagine that the most dangerous gang your police department has ever seen decides to recruit your daughter to help them blanket your city with crack cocaine. What would you do? Could you go undercover within the gang, risking your own life and your daughter’s, to try to bring them down from the inside? Carla Shultz from Springfield, Missouri found herself faced with that difficult decision. But Schultz felt like she had no choice- her daughter was in danger. In the news story from the Ozarks news-leader.com website they describe Schultz’s frightening ordeal:

In the summer of 1994, Shultz immersed herself in the gang. Armed drug dealers cut and packaged crack in her house before stashing it everywhere inside, including electrical sockets. When the supply ran out, she went with them to Chicago’s ghettos for another shipment. Once, Shultz said, the so-called Chicago Boys stole several guns from a rival gang and drove them back to Springfield under the hood of her car. Shultz performed dozens of drug buys for police and wore a wire to capture conversations about the burgeoning business.
Shultz, who was like a mother to the gang members, is certain they would have killed her had they learned she was a spy.
“They would’ve killed me and Kari. I know for a fact they would’ve,” she said. “But if you get pushed into a corner, you do whatever you have to do to get out of that corner.”

Thanks to Schultz’s help, police were able to arrest and prosecute the gang members that were involved in running the drug ring. Justice was served, the town was free from the most notorious gang it had ever seen, and most importantly to Carla Schultz, her daughter was safe.

The thing is, sitting here in my warm house, snuggled up in bed with my laptop, I find it easy to judge Schultz’s actions. I would never do that, I think to myself. Why didn’t she just pick up her daughter and run for safety once she knew how dangerous the situation was? How could she willingly put herself and her child in such a prolonged state of vulnerability? From the safety of my bedroom it seems like a foolish and ridiculous risk to take, and I silently vow never to put my family through such a nightmare.

But I don’t think I could ever really understand. Not until I am face to face with the moment in which I need to do something drastic in order to keep my child safe. I don’t think I have any idea what I am really capable of.

After all, I am a mother.