Tonight I found myself battling a familiar anxiety. It’s
been about a month with it—a lingering doubt and tug-of-war with assurance and
question. And though the plaguing
uncertainty is a former, long-time acquaintance of mine, the subject to which I
found it is something still yet new.
I have a five-month-old baby girl. She is my muffin, sweetie
bun, and a source of complete joy. Soon after she was born, I began trekking
the road of maternal cares (that’s the complex name for motherly worry). There was a concerning day in which she chose
not to eat for 8 hours straight, the night I couldn’t tell if she was holding a
temp too high, the days she started crying a cry unfamiliar; I’m sure there are
more moments to add in which my heart would tremor and my mind began scurrying
for reassuring answers. This isn’t paranoia. It’s only the simple, crash course
introduction to the world of motherhood.
Mind you, I was not an overly worried pregnant woman. I
didn’t struggle much with doubt to whether my body wasn’t doing what it should
do to grow and maintain my baby. I knew where she was, I knew she was being fed
and cared for perfectly in the warm shelter of my womb, held and being formed
by our loving God. Enter scene: birth of baby girl. Now commenced the “job” of
mothering: identifying needs, responding correctly to needs, fulfilling needs.
Mind you, this is a very bare bones summation of the job, but there you have
it. And the challenge begins! Is she hungry? Is she teething? Is she cold? Is
she hot? Is she “dot, dot, dot”? I can hear Aladdin singing “A whole new
woooorld!”
But the most recent question of concern began around her
four-month birthday. We were attending her routine well-check at the clinic.
It’d been two months since the previous appointment, and Danny and I had jabbed
guesses at her new weight; those lingered around a predictably healthy range
for our petite little girl. After we laid our sweet baby gingerly on the scale,
the numbers popped up, first in kilograms (virtually a foreign language to us
Americans) and then came the translation. We were surprised. It seemed a bit
off from our estimations, a little lower than we anticipated. The wonder
continued as her provider came in and sat to review the charts. Routine questions
followed and then came a vote of concern from the practitioner: she should be
gaining more. My husband and I sat puzzled. Our babe was always content, happy,
and kickin’ down the milestones well. Not to mention sleeping through the night
for some time. We couldn’t understand the discrepancy we now seemed posed with.
But we took the suggestion to try things a little differently and see how she
was doing in a week.
It worked out that the follow up wouldn’t be for another two
weeks instead of one. And in that time we adjusted things somewhat reluctantly
due to how well she’d been doing in every other respect. By the second week,
things grew exponentially more difficult. Her daytime sleep became nearly
nonexistent, but rather filled with bouts of confusing fussiness. She’d then surprise
us with earlier waking hours in the morning. This was not the baby we knew. I
delved into a little research for some insight and it appeared that alongside
the changes we had made, she was very likely undergoing a common “learning
leap,” a sort of “brain” growth spurt, for her age. It would explain some of
the uncharacteristic behavior we were finding. And yet we felt pretty strongly
that the other suggested changes were held culprit as well. We knew things
needed to change to work back towards pre-four-month check-up.
After the two weeks of craziness, the scale spoke
encouragement, and we decided to readjust to what we felt would be best for her
and our family. I kept a careful eye and tried to access things as accurately
as possible. At night I’d set her down to bed with prayers for wisdom, that God
would give her everything she needed to grow and do well. These requests were
familiar throughout the course of her fifth month. And I find myself still
repeating them.
Always uncertainty. We strive to do what’s best, to trust
the Lord as He leads and the “motherly intuition” He does provide. And yet
there seems always a shade of grey. We don’t own a good scale for monitoring our
baby girl’s weight. And little things during the course of each day would cause
me to wonder, “Is she getting enough? Do I not have enough? Do we need to
change this? Try that?” It’d become a habit now: Googling for possible answers,
reading mom forums for reassurance and insight, explaining my concerns over the
phone, asking, in so many ways, “What do I do? Is everything fine?”
Tonight was filled with the “aforementioned.” But I met with
the more common result: no peace. Despite what I read—many mom’s bearing
testimonies of perfectly petite, healthy babies and many believed “myths” of
low milk supply—my anxious heart would not settle. And my hungry gut said ditch
the computer and find some dinner. So as I sat on the floor next to our coffee
table with rewarmed roast beef from the night before, I finally opened my
journal to do the one thing I probably should’ve done long before.
I cut to the chase; I knew God knew what was lying heavily
upon my heart and running incessantly through my mind, so I laid out my cares
readily (“desperately” might be a better descriptor). I wrote to Him, praying
out aches for encouragement and seeking a silence to my worry and fear. I knew
I ultimately needed Him for my peace of mind. I couldn’t find it on the
internet or from a friend. So I ate my roast and sought Him there.
I was reminded of how small our sweet girl was at birth, ten
days over due. She was small, that is, to the professionals. At the hospital,
they wanted to check her blood sugar before feedings to make sure everything
looked good. Then I thought of how small she would’ve been had she been born
“on time.” But God knew she needed longer to grow. Longer to grow…
So then I wondered, does
she just need longer to grow? Even
now, months after birth, are You just taking longer, or rather, going slower?
“Do not worry”(reference
to Matthew 6)…
You care for the
flowers of the fields.
“Do not worry about
what you eat or drink”… I
remembered how Jesus spoke of the birds, how God cares for them, how much more
so for us…
You care for the
birds… She’s my little song bird (the meaning of her middle name!)…. Oh Jesus. You give her everything that she
needs.
“He gives them their
food at the proper time” (reference to Psalms)
God, I love my
beautiful baby girl! She is my flower, my little bird. Please give her what she
needs!
Then He flooded it to memory. The verse He had given me for
Danny and I shortly after we got engaged, a promise we’ve held to these past
couple years since. The whole of the verse is Psalm 37:25-26. But it was the
end of verse 25, the main course, that He spoke then.
You’ll never see your
children begging bread.
Having remembered, I immediately sobbed. The deepest part of
me ached a different ache as I sat on the floor of my living room, tears
flowing, journal open with the conversation there. I just… sobbed. Thanksgiving
rushed with my tears. And a comfort from
being held close, understood, and given understanding. He spoke so perfectly
and knew so well my “mother’s heart.”
He promised.
I can give my sweet girl the “bread” of my milk, but I want
her further nourished on the bread of Jesus’ life, His promises, His life in
me. I want to give her not just what’s good, but what’s best. He alone is best. He has what’s best. And He causes her to
grow.
I love my baby girl with something at the core of me, the
unfathomable love of a mother, and the perfect love of God that casts out all fear.
And just leaves me sobbing, speechless, and overwhelmed.
Thank You, God. Thank
You for knowing.
Less than an hour ago, I climbed the stairs to my baby’s
room, lifted her from the crib, and sat in the little wooden rocker. Her hand
gripped tightly to my shirt as she sleepily nursed. My heart filled the dim
room. There was peace.