Part 2: Beauty is a Woman Named...

Beauty is a woman named

Sharon Forsyth. 

          I know this woman. She is a cleaner, an organizer, a card player, a family woman. She is a daughter, a sister, an aunt, a friend. She loves history and genealogy, is civic-minded, and enjoys an occasional hike through the woods. She has an incredible green thumb and raises dogs and humans (chickens, horses, cows, cats, and goats, too.) This woman is a giver: time, money, advice, sweat, tears...she'll turn it all over to you, whatever she has for whatever you need. Her mind is the trifecta: common sense, intelligence, and wisdom. She laughs and she cries; she yells and she whispers (mainly she yells because she is slightly deaf.) Her name is Sharon, and she is my mother.

          My mother is a force. She is opinionated and strong-willed, loud and occasionally abrasive (see, I come by it honestly.) She was born in the South and raised in the North; her heart is all Belle, but her mouth is Yankee tried and true. She's one of those people you either love or hate; with her there is no in-between, and I don't think she'd have it any other way. She is an all or nothing kind of woman, and her ALL is the all that moves mountains and breaks barriers. She is an overcomer, a pusher, a mover; she doesn't stand still, and she won't back down.

          My mother, like many other women, has a story to tell. That story belongs to her, and I won't lay it out here for all the world to see (although maybe one day...,) but I will say that pain is her headliner. The things my mother has seen, the things she's experienced, the secrets in her mind and the anguish in her heart, these things would crumble a lesser woman. These moments, these memories, they would bring most people to their knees. Yet my mother stands. She stands, and she sings, and she smiles, and she plays, and she lives. 

          My mother is the bravest woman I know. She is the strongest woman I know. And she is the softest woman I know. She is the one who brought me apple juice and spoke in hushed tones to soothe my worries. She is the one who cried every time Little Ann and Old Dan died (because we only read Where the Red Fern Grows 15 times when I was a child.) She is the one who drove to the Girl Scout hut early on a Saturday morning to help me find my troll I left behind. She's the one who so patiently tried to help me write the number eight. She is the one who brought my pet goat to school for show and tell. She's the one who baked cinnamon rolls for after school snacks. She is the one who let me try to rescue a hurt bird. She is the one who looked upon the lifeless body of my classmate, so I wouldn't have to share the burden of the sight alone. She is the one sat down with me every Friday afternoon and did my hair for color guard, making sure to hide the bald spots from where I'd pulled it out. She's the one who wiped my tears when the first boy I ever loved broke my heart. She's the one who taught me to look at things from others' perspectives when life-long friendships were torn apart. She is the one who padded my bank account in college, so I didn't have to eat pb&j every day for the last week of the month. She is the one who made pounds upon pounds of spaghetti to feed my wedding guests. She is the one who has loved my husband like a son since his own mother passed away. She is the one who sat across from me in a Burger King in Birmingham while I waited on the call from my doctor telling me my first pregnancy wasn't viable. She is the one who listened as I cried words of heartache, words dripping in the world's injustice, words of a mother's despair, and all she said, all she needed to say, was, "I know." Because she does know. She knows it all and then some.

          I spent this afternoon beating my mother at Canasta, and as the two of us sat at the table with my aunt, my grandma, and my son, I couldn't help but wonder at this woman, this one who carried me not just in her womb but through so many pieces of my life. Despite every hurt, despite every wrong, despite every pain, despite every tragedy, my mother still smiles. She still laughs. She still plays. Despite every act of hate and every unfathomable circumstance she's experienced in her life, she still chooses to love. Every day, she gets out of bed, and she chooses to love, and she chooses to live. I know it can't be easy. I've seen it in her eyes, the way it hurts sometimes. But my mother is a fighter. She fights for love.

          On this Mother's Day and every day, I honor the woman who gave me life. There isn't a woman on planet Earth more beautiful to me than she is. When my mom looks in the mirror, her eyes deceive her. She sees aged exhaustion, a body worn down and weathered by life's storms. When I look at her, I see a warrior; I see hope, dignity, and strength, a mighty woman who doesn't bend to circumstance. Her battle scars are stunning - the evidence of a life lived with valor and coated in love. I only hope that when my son is 30, he sees the same thing in me. 

     I love you, Mom, today and every day. Thank you for being an example, for being a rock, and for loving me in every way you know how. Happy Mother's Day. 

Women Who Count

          Today, ladies all across the nation filled church pews, restaurants, and homes with their children by their sides and smiles on their faces, proud to be a mother and thankful to be honored by their family and their friends. Their hearts were full of love for their babies (no matter how old) and gratitude for the blessings that have been poured out on their lives. People flooded them with hugs, kisses, cards, flowers, phone calls, praise, and well-wishes, and these beautiful, strong, selfless mothers truly deserved every gift that reached their hands and every kind word that met their ears. 

          Today, in the middle of all the celebrations of the women we cherish and hold dear to our hearts, there were ladies who filled church pews, restaurants, and homes who felt anything but thankful, anything but honored. These women smiled though they didn't mean it, struggled solitarily  through the comments, the questions, and especially the silence, and bit their tongues when words that were less than kind met their ears. I know because I was one of them.

          Today, I was bombarded with many empty comments ranging from, "You can celebrate next year," to "I don't know if you count." You see, I am currently seven months pregnant, and for some reason unbeknownst to me, there is much confusion as to my maternal status. The problem with the whole situation is this: I have been a mother for a year now. It was a year ago, after all, that I first watched as a little, blankly white screen produced a clear blue plus sign, and my whole world changed.

           In one moment one year ago in the tiny bathroom of my rental house, I became a mother. I can't explain with precision of language exactly what happened inside me or how it happened, but in an instant, I was no longer a young woman alive for myself and my happiness. Instead, I became consciously aware that my position in the universe had shifted; I existed now for the health and the well-being of someone else: my child. I was filled with excitement, anticipation, anxiety, hope, fear, joy, and maybe even a little dread, and my mind began to race with visions of nurseries, flashes of future baseball games and dance recitals, bows and frills, dirt and laughter. My whole self was consumed with beauty of what was happening to my life, to my family.

          Two weeks later on a Wednesday morning, I sat in a doctor's office while someone explained to me how Methotrexate would end my ectopic pregnancy. Two weeks later on a Wednesday afternoon, I stood in an exam room as a nurse injected my body with the poison that would kill my child. Two weeks later on a Wednesday night, all my dreams broke in pieces around me as my body went into labor in an attempt to rid itself of what was harming it: the child to whom I was supposed to give life.

          On Friday morning, surgeons took me into an emergency surgery to cut out the tube where my baby was still growing. I awoke in a hospital room not only missing part of my body but also missing my baby, and as a result, missing my heart. 

          Shame crippled me. Fear devoured me. Anger consumed me. They ran through every inch of my soul. I didn't feel like a real woman. I truly believed my husband would leave me. I doubted I ever would know joy again. I couldn't believe the injustice in those who abuse and abandon their children being allowed to birth them in the first place. Everything I thought I understood about life and about love was challenged, and I was a broken person.

          When I woke up this morning, one of my first thoughts was of the child I lost a year ago and of the pain I experienced. For some reason, I knew that today my motherhood would be called into question, and I would have no proof in my arms to shut down the naysayers. It doesn't matter that my stomach is growing with the promise of a child due in two months; I knew some would doubt the mother I now know myself to be. Today, I prepared myself for the emptiness of a Mother's Day without a child to hold, steeled myself for the words and even for the silence I knew was coming. I was not alone in those preparations. 

          When they awoke this morning, women everywhere were readying themselves for the emotional battles they would endure throughout the day. Today, there were many women who instead of feeling celebrated, felt shamed; instead of feeling honored, felt afraid; instead of feeling loved, felt angered. There are women all around who have lost children, experienced miscarriages, and dealt with infertility. There are women all around who are mothers but who have no physical evidence of that in their lives. There are women all around who are forgotten, overlooked, or ignored because their children aren't in their arms, aren't standing beside them, or did not come from their own wombs.  

          Today, I want to tell those women that I see you. I recognize you. I know your pain. I share your heartache. You are a woman who gave your body to another person even if that person was never born here on Earth. You are a woman who gave your best to a child whose life is no longer lived in this world. You are a woman who gave your love to another whose own mother couldn't fill the gaps. You are a woman who longs every day to share your light with a tiny baby all your own snuggled in your arms. 

          You are a woman worth celebrating. You are a woman filled with goodness. You are a woman clothed in dignity and strength. You are a woman to be honored. 

          Despite the accusations, despite the unanswered questions, despite the broken dreams and the shattered hearts, you are a mother - one who nurtures, one who cares, one who gives, one who loves. 

         Happy Mother's Day to you, a woman I celebrate, a woman I honor, a woman who counts.