On Being Born

“Birth is not merely that which divides women from men:

it also divides women from themselves, so that a woman’s

understanding of what it is to exist is profoundly changed.

Another person has existed in her, and after their birth

they live within the jurisdiction of her consciousness.

When she is with them she is not herself; when she is

without them she is not herself; and so it is as difficult

to leave your children as it is to stay with them.”

-Rachel Cusk

We are three women in bed. On my crossed legs is the small, sleeping body of our new baby, Sabine. Curled on top of my arm is Zoë’s damp body, sweating in the August heat. I lay back with the two of them, thinking about the day and the upcoming tasks of the year.

We have started Zoë’s lessons again, after a long summer break that seemed to go by very quickly. Sabine was born in the middle of it, and we were unprepared. We’ve spent the first month of her life fitting her into ours. It’s been haphazard, but surprisingly seamless, somehow. Perhaps the preparation would’ve made the event over-thought and a bigger adjustment. As it is, as soon as she was born, we couldn’t imagine how we’d gotten along without her here. Her presence is as natural to us now as it was unfathomable the week before she was born.

It is this easiness that has given me the courage to start lessons again. I sit with Zoe at the dining table, as I always did, a newly cleared shelf containing our books behind my chair. I hold Sabine, sleeping in my lap, or nurse her while I go over the lessons with Zoë. There’s more independent work in our curricula now that Zoë is in first grade, so I have my computer nearby, and I can work a bit while I wait. There are also a lot of games to play, and various flashcards and notebook pages to create and decorate. Our lessons are fun and feel as seamless with Sabine here as everything else. I find myself wondering how long it will all last.

Because at the same time that it feels so easy and natural, it also feels, in other ways, like everything has irrevocably changed. The things I was worried about being able to manage have fallen into place, but the things I forgot about being a new mother, have come back to haunt me. I am a new mother – for the second time. The last time I had a newborn baby was over six years ago, and the learning curve has straightened since then.

I forgot how suddenly one must learn to do things one-handed, balanced with a baby in the crook of your arm or resting upright with her head tucked under your chin so it won’t fling backward. I forgot what a celebrity you become walking around with a baby. Where I was once, just last week, unnoticeable to strangers, I suddenly seem to have a homing device planted inside me, and heads turn towards me to smile. But they're smiling through me. I am Sabine’s press secretary. I answer that she is a girl, she is four weeks old, she is small, she was early by almost four weeks. I determine whether or not people can have access to her. I listen as the woman working the supermarket check-out register tells me about her baby – he is one now, she can’t believe how big he got, it went so fast. Sabine is the true celebrity. Zoë and I walk around the supermarket as if in an interview. Do we like our new baby? Is Zoë a big help? I can relearn to do everything with Sabine close to my body. I can tell people when they can touch her. I can answer impossible-to-answer questions. But Zoë is another story. She feels the light of celebrity shine next to her. And the reality of that is immense.

II.

Zoë is my test baby. Everything I do with her involves my figuring things out. If it were a job, I wouldn’t get it. I have no experience, credentials, no references. Everything, to me, is new. When I started homeschooling last year, it was on a research expedition. I blundered my way through, covering my mistakes, trying foreign methods, like an intern. And even this year, as we begin lessons again, first grade comes with a research project. I have to figure out how to report to the school district.

I begin as I begin everything homeschool-related - I ask the other mothers I know. On the Yahoo Group lists there is every question I would have thought to ask, already posted and answered. It is a mecca for questions, and I have a lot of them. I subscribe to seven groups. Some are local ones where people post about classes, events and meet-ups. Some are nuts-and-bolts stuff, where people talk about the Well Trained Mind curriculum and texts that we use, or about New York State reporting standards and regulations. On some of the local lists, people even post sample reports and IHIPs. Everything is already there for me.

My IHIP was completed and sent in a couple of weeks ago. It was actually really fun for me to write. I'm a paperwork geek. I liked looking through the texts, reading reviews and message boards online, I liked thinking about the weekly schedule and how to fit all the classes, lessons and play groups into our days. I hope that reporting will be a positive experience, where we can rely on the district to help us see any deficiencies in Zoë’s education. As we begin the work, get back to our weekly library runs, pick out a new backpack and notebooks for Z, I find that having our studies already mapped out in the IHIP is very grounding. It’s a starting point, and we’re already inspired to explore where it takes us - like a homeschooler, off on tangents, circling connections, and meandering back again.

Homeschooling, like mothering a newborn, requires me to surrender. I must let love in, and let it out, like my breath. I must surrender my resistance to being needed all the time. I can feel myself wanting to say, I don’t want to hold you, I don’t want to be needed for every little workbook page. But I surrender my body to the holding, I surrender my attention to the workbook pages. Because this time in their lives is a fleeting moment that I will entirely miss if I am attached to my past autonomy. I surrender my autonomy so that I can be part of this world and this life that I have created. This is my snatched moment alone in the shower, my secret respite reading in bed, made sweeter by the fact that it is stolen. I pinch it between the moments of being present for my daughters and letting myself be loved.

III.

I remembered, yesterday, what it felt like to have a new baby for the first time - the anxiety in my belly, the uncertainty of how any hour might be, any interaction might play out. She might cry her head off and that will feel like the end of the world to me. Or her poop could cover everything and leave me laughing and unprepared. When Zoë was a baby, I lived in fear of her waking up. The lawlessness of this wiggling, chubby element that my life now circles around reinstated that familiar insecurity from six years ago in one easy lesson.

I was on my way to zazen, and I was bringing Sabine with me. I had my wrap so I could wear her as I meditated, but I didn’t know if she would really sleep the whole time… or be silent. I didn’t know if I was even allowed to have her in there, but I knew I needed to try, I wanted to go.

And it was six years ago. I have learned some things since then. I might think to pack a snack, some extra diapers, I might have some tissues stashed in my car, but that doesn’t mean I can control when they are hungry, or someone wets her outfit, or gets a cold. I have learned to go with the flow, to live without anxiety around the unknown. Sometimes when I lead, it all falls apart beneath me. And sometimes when I follow, it all just falls into place.

I nursed Sabine and changed her diaper before entering the zendo, and then I let her lead. I did what I needed to do. I remained alert, waiting for a cue from the monks or the baby that it was time. I chanted and sat and walked. The cue ultimately arrived, not from the monks, who seemed either thrilled to see her or else focused on their practice and unconcerned. And not from the baby, who just wanted to sleep on my breast. And not even from my wandering monkey mind. The cue came from the baby’s bowels, which momentarily disturbed us all with its eruption.

It is like this with homeschooling Zoë. I set out a plan. Then I wait. The cues come from another mom who is offering a class on a subject that mirrors our studies, from the library that’s running a program or event around something we just discovered, from the random person who happens to mention a book or movie on a theme that Zoë was just talking about. I remain alert, waiting for each, noticing when it is time.