Bright Eyes – Bowl of Oranges | #NOTTHEMAMAWHO

The rain, it started tapping on the window near my bed. There was a loophole in my dreaming,
so I got out of it. And to my surprise my eyes were wide and already open.
Just my nightstand and my dresser where those nightmares had just been.
So I dressed myself and left then, out into the gray streets.
But everything seemed different and completely new to me.
The sky, the trees, houses, buildings, even my own body.
And each person I encountered, I couldn’t wait to meet.
I came upon a doctor who appeared in quite poor health.
I said “{I am terribly sorry but} there is nothing I can do for you
{that} you can’t do for yourself.”
He said “Oh yes you can. Just hold my hand. I think that would help.”
So I sat with him a while and then I asked him how he felt.
He said, “I think I’m cured. No, in fact, I’m sure.
Thank you Stranger, for your therapeutic smile.”
So that is how I learned the lesson that everyone is alone.
And your eyes must do some raining if you are ever going to grow.
But when crying don’t help and you can’t compose yourself.
It is best to compose a poem, an honest verse of longing or simple song of hope.
That is why I’m singing…
Baby don’t worry cause now I got your back. And every time you feel like crying,
I’m gonna try and make you laugh. And if I can’t, if it just hurts too bad,
then we will wait for it to pass and I will keep you company
through those days so long and black.
And we’ll keep working on the problem we know we’ll never solve 
Of Love’s uneven remainders, our lives are fractions of a whole.
But if the world could remain within a frame like a painting on a wall.
Then I think we would see the beauty.
Then we would stand staring in awe at our still lives posed like a bowl of oranges,
like a story told by the fault lines and the soil.


I don’t normally post the whole song, but the harder I tried to select some lines, the more it became clear that they all fit this post. Oh this post. Deep breath.

We have been trying to have another baby. First, just let me say how much I HATE trying to get pregnant. I mean the required activity isn’t so bad, just the planning and checking and waiting. Ugh the waiting. I’m terrible at it. I loathe it. Every month I wait what seems like years {usually about 3 days} all the while convincing myself I’m having symptoms, then take a test that turns out to be negative, then start my period the very next day, then get mad I wasted the test. And ohyeahalsomadthati’mnotpregnant.

And then there’s the alternative sequence: I take the test and get a positive result, then live in fear and a constant state of anxiety for the next several weeks {months}. Keeping my joy {and terror} secret for fear I’ll have to retell them something else later. I’m honestly not sure which is worse.

so. much. fear.

There’s the fear it’s a chemical pregnancy and no baby will ever form. There’s the fear that something will happen to me or the baby and I’ll have another miscarriage. There’s the fear that I will feel the pain of loss for a third time, and that this time I’ll know the full weight of what I’m missing.

There is fear that maybe I don’t deserve another child because I’m not a good enough mother to the one I already have. Fear I don’t give him enough of myself now and that I’ll have even less to give him if another arrives. Fear that I’ll be overwhelmed and miserable with two children.

A dear friend contemplating parenthood recently asked me if I’ve ever had a moment where I’ve thought “I shouldn’t have done this” (become a mother). At first I interpreted the question to mean, “have you ever regretted having a child?” to which the answer was a resounding no. But the more I thought about it and the rest of our conversation I realized she meant, “do you ever think you’re a terrible mother” (her worst fear about parenthood) and in that moment of epiphany I thought, “Hell yes! Every damn day.” Maybe terrible is the wrong word, but “not good enough” sure fits.

But I’m tired of living in fear, and I’m tired of fear living in me. I’d like to grow a little faith there instead.

I don’t want to look down this hallway and see nothing but pain behind each corner.


I don’t want to deny myself the joy of announcing a pregnancy to avoid potential pain down the road. I don’t want to wait to decorate a nursery on the chance that later I’ll have to walk into that room and feel its emptiness, and mine. I want to shed this weight that is bowing my shoulders. I want to end the isolation pregnancy loss and infertility creates. I want to dissolve the stigma around talking about these experiences.

and most of all. I want to shout to the world that I am 6 weeks pregnant. Six tiny little weeks. With a lifetime yet to go.

My pregnancy app tells me that this week my baby’s heart has started to beat. Well, little baby, I think of you with every beat of mine, and no matter what happens I’ll always keep you there.

I can’t promise that I’ll share everything that happens, but I can promise to try not to be afraid all the time. I can promise to write about my fear in hopes of emboldening you to overcome yours. And I can promise that if you’re experiencing something similar, I’ll hold your hand and listen, as long as you don’t mind holding mine right back.

I’m so grateful for the people in my life who gave me the courage to write all this down. My own metaphorical and literal hand holders. They’re some pretty inspiring people. My husband, my friends, and some other brave writers. Take a look at “Behind the Blue Door” by Jillian of Southwind Jillian, her courage to write about her struggles made me want to write about mine. Casey Leigh Weigand’s posts about her sweet lost baby Addison for when you need a good cathartic cry. And then there’s Jenna Rammell of Small Fry blog, if you read this and this you won’t feel alone anymore. These are just a few of my favorites, but there are endless stories and support out there. Going forward, I’ll still need your stories and support, but I already feel just a little bit stronger.

I want to look down this hallway and see this. I just have to remember that I got here before. and I got the best reward on the face of this earth.


Download the song here.

One thought on “Bright Eyes – Bowl of Oranges | #NOTTHEMAMAWHO

  1. Pretty mama don’t worry, just smile. This 6 week miracle has one guarantee: it will change your life. I am glad you shared. It’s nice to have a brave ally.

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