No. 010: There's Grief in the Underwear Club.
On potty-training, the Incarnation, and a hope that surpasses memory.
Attention, friends—the Smith family has a major life update to share:
That is, for the first time in just shy of eight contiguous years, we finally do not have a child in diapers.
Since our youngest son Nicholas struggled with a speech delay as a toddler, and communication with him was difficult on both the giving and receiving ends, I removed any pressure to potty-train him until it was abundantly clear that he was ready. He’s ready now though, and we are delighted to welcome him to the underwear club.
If I’m honest, though, the window of time immediately following potty-training has never been my favorite. Certainly it’s nice to bid farewell to the cost of diapers, but in my experience recent potty-trainees typically still need significant help cleaning up after themselves and adjusting their clothes both before and after doing their business. (Nicholas—bless my heart—is only willing to use the bathroom once every article of his clothing, down to the last sock, has been removed; he also does not allow Chris to help him if I am anywhere within a ten-mile radius.) And unlike a dirty diaper, which can be changed at the parents’ earliest convenience, the needs of a new bathroom-goer generally need to be addressed immediately, regardless of whether you are at the post office, in the middle of your pilates routine, or at the stove frying an egg.
On top of the petty inconveniences, this round of potty-training has borne an additional sense of grief. Although it is just one of countless developmental milestones I have witnessed as a parent, this one is hitting hard because of what it represents to me, which is this:
My days as a mother of babies and toddlers are over. They’re gone. And there is nothing that I can do to retrieve them.
I started (and finished) having babies at a relatively young age compared to many of my friends. And I don’t regret that I did; I’m thankful that my sons will be characters in such a great portion of my life’s stories.
I am also personally content to have stopped at three children. When I see photos of friends’ new babies, although I am overjoyed to see the growth of their families, I no longer feel the “baby fever” prompting me to entertain that perhaps we should continue to grow our own.
There are few experiences more precious than watching your own children grow and mature into the bright and sociable young people God created them to be. This time last year, Nicholas could only speak a handful of words. Now, he can tell me a full story he invented while hiking through the woods about a baby bear who jumped a big jump and a giant bear who was crying, because he was sad, because he got hurt, because he fell down, and also he didn’t have any shoes on? It has been remarkable to get a window into the workings of his vibrant (and ridiculous) mind.
The season we are in as a family is so sweet. It was sweet last year too, and I suppose that it will be sweet next year as well. As we wave goodbye to the baby and toddler years and walk forward with both feet into the big kid years, we aren’t leaving behind something good for something bad. We’re leaving behind something good for something that’s also good.
But, even so, we are still leaving behind something that was so very good, and if you’re now trying to guess how many times I have had to choke back tears while writing these introductory paragraphs, the answer is, yes, plenty.
A few weeks ago Chris found some videos on our laptop of our oldest son, Frederick, who will soon turn eight, when he wasn’t yet even one, and together we laughed at the adorable, chunky infant babbling incoherently on the screen. In my mind I could assent that this was the same Frederick who now, as a lanky second grader, consistently racks up RBIs on the Little League diamond and can recite the Gloria Patri in Latin and routinely catches frogs and baby bunnies in the yard with his bare hands. But the experience of watching these videos felt less like direct recollection and more like déjà vu: the memories were entirely familiar, but also somehow entirely alien.
You would think that I, having spent the past almost eight years as a stay-at-home parent, would carry with me at all times a thorough mental Rolodex of memories detailing my sons’ early years. And, sure, there are many sights and sounds (and certainly smells) from these years that I can conjure up into my imagination, to the extent that they feel something close to real. I can still feel the warm weight of my infant sons on my arms and belly as I nursed them—the clean, cotton jersey of their footie pajamas on my skin, and the silly face all three of them would make whenever they had finished, pinching their eyelids tight, stretching their necks forward like a basking turtle, and puckering their satisfied lips out between round, ruddy cheeks.
But many memories I have lost. I recall that as each new week of young motherhood brought with it hilarious and adorable and miraculous new antics and anecdotes, I repeatedly told myself, “I have to make sure I remember this.” And I really tried. But some of the memories simply didn’t stick.
I know that I am not the first parent to mourn the passing of her children’s little years or the fading of the memories containing them. This particular strain of grief hits in some of the most sensitive recesses of our hearts. It’s uncomfortable at best and painful at worst, and many of us would like to avoid it if we could.
Our culture—including the Evangelical culture—has offered its solution: “Cherish the little years!” It’s an easy maxim to sell, and it sounds simple enough.
But as most parents will be able to tell you, it isn’t actually that simple.
The thing about the little years is that they are real years of a real life, and real life delivers as much pain and sorrow and frustration as it does sweetness, no matter the season.
I have shared numerous times before that the vast majority of my years as a young mother, up until only recently, played out beneath a storm cloud of debilitating depression. Many times during these years I found myself walking through the grocery store with a squirmy baby strapped to my chest, a crying toddler riding in the cart, and a preschooler grabbing candy off the shelves. Inevitably, I would cross paths with a Baby Boomer who would glibly proceed to encourage (or admonish?) me to “Savor these years! They fly by so fast!” I knew that they meant well, and in theory I agreed with them—I desperately wanted to savor these years. But in reality, I was just doing whatever I could to stay afloat, treading water with waves of pain and exhaustion slapping repeatedly at my face.
I felt ashamed over my inadequacy to “cherish” this season well, and many of my days were driven by the anxiety that I needed to be doing more to “make the most of every moment” and document these moments well. But time kept marching forward, and even after all of my anxious striving, still I am left with only patchy memories.
But there is a hope that surpasses memory, and I cannot think of a better expression of this hope than that articulated in the first stanza of Czeslaw Milosz’s poem “Either-Or”:
If God incarnated himself in man, died and rose from the dead, All human endeavors deserve attention Only to the degree that they depend on this, I.e., acquire meaning thanks to this event. We should think of this by day and by night Every day, for years, ever stronger and deeper. And most of all about how human history is holy And how every deed of ours becomes a part of it, Is written down forever, and nothing is ever lost. Because our kind was so much elevated Priesthood should be our calling Even if we do not wear liturgical garments. We should publicly testify to the divine glory With words, music, dance, and every sign.
I used to read this poem strictly in a moralistic light: If “every deed … is written down forever,” then it certainly follows that I should set to work pursuing good deeds. I suppose many of us imagine the Book of Life exclusively as a record of the things we have done that in some obvious sense reflect piety and spiritual virtue or that directly verbalize our acknowledgement of Christ as Lord.
Now, however, this poem has taken on new meaning for me. Good deeds certainly do “publicly testify to the divine glory,” but they are not, I now realize, the only thing able to do so. Indeed, Milosz identifies “every sign” as a candidate. “The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the works of his hands,” says the psalmist. “Day after day they pour forth speech; night after night they reveal knowledge” (Ps. 19:1–2). All of God’s works in creation bring glory to his name.
According to Psalm 8, “Through the praise of children and infants [God has] established a stronghold against [his] enemies.” The darkness of the current world order appears so strong, so overwhelming, so consuming, we naturally turn our eyes to sources that we perceive as powerful—to governments, corporations, research universities, and militaries—to stamp it out. But the gentleness of the Lord is incalculably more powerful than the aggression of darkness, and he executes his dominion over earth through the fragile coos of the infant.
Of course, the greatest miracle of history took form as the birth of a child. God veiled himself in the weakest of human flesh, humbling himself to be born as an infant. Isaiah declares of this infant, “Of the greatness of his government and peace there will be no end” (Isa. 9:7). Through the Incarnation we see clearly that “God has chosen the weak things of the world to shame the strong” (1 Cor. 1:27).
I gave birth to Nicholas just days before Christmas 2020, and his presence during that liturgical season radically enhanced my appreciation of the Incarnation. I looked upon his frail, pink fingers wrapping around my own, and it hit me anew that at a real time in history, the Son of God had fingers that looked very much like these.
I imagined what it was like for Mary, the blessed Theotokos, to nurse the Son of God, to hold him when he cried, to put her hand upon his soft, breathing belly and run her finger over his curled toes. Did he ever make any silly faces? When he was a toddler did he cause her to laugh with his hilarious mispronunciations of words, delivered with a darling, stuttering voice?
Luke’s gospel mentions twice that Mary “treasured” certain details of Jesus’ childhood in her heart (2:19, 51). But I wonder whether she successfully cherished and remembered every passing detail? Every single minuscule movement and sound that her son made boldly proclaimed the glory of the Father and heralded the kingdom he was building on earth. But she was only human: did her mind have space to contain them all? I reckon not.
But I cling to the same hope as Milosz, that “all human history is holy,” and “every deed of ours becomes a part of it, is written down forever, and nothing is ever lost.” Yes, this may include great proclamations and historic movements of the church, but I believe that it also includes the precious squeaks and giggles of the infant Jesus—as well as the infants Frederick, Simon, and Nicholas—which “testify to the divine glory” and establish a stronghold against the forces of darkness.
I’ll grant that I do not know exactly what it means that “nothing is ever lost” or what it will look like for moments such as these to be redeemed and celebrated in the new creation. But I trust that they will be.
It is right to grieve precious seasons of parenthood as they slip through our fingers. Christ honors our grief and invites it into the communion of his love. But we do not grieve without hope.
This side of the eschaton I may never again experience the unparalleled joy of holding my own newborn infant immediately after he has been born, beholding the miracle of this new image-bearer of God as he first opens his eyes and meets mine. And as the years pass, many of my memories of moments like these grow fuzzier. I’m sad about that, and that’s okay.
But these moments are not lost. We will meet again someday, and the glory of that eternal reunion will be better than memory by far.