Tolstoy’s Quote
“How would you say your childbirth experience compares to those described in classic Russian literature?” My intellectual brother-in-law asked me over speaker phone while I leaned against my kitchen counter, weakly attempting to twist open my bottle of Ibuprofen pills. I didn’t answer him. I didn’t know how to answer; I had never read any Russian literature.
Just minutes earlier, I had arrived home from the Labor & Delivery wing of the hospital. Russian literature had no place at all in my foggy brain which longed only for Ibuprofen and sleep.
But months later, once baby K started taking longer naps in her crib, I started curling up on my couch with my Kindle to read my new favorite novel Anna Karenina. I fell in love with Levin and Kitty’s love, and Leo Tolstoy transported me back to my Labor & Delivery room when he described Kitty’s childbirth experience. I heard my brother-in-law’s question in my mind again, and I compared my labor to hers. However, the line that struck me most in that chapter was not from Kitty but from Levin.
Once their baby was born, Levin was speechless, hardly able to grasp that after so much suffering, his wife was still alive, and that she had given life to a new human as well. Tolstoy then wrote the following quote, which touched my heart and caused me to reevaluate myself and the women around me:
“The whole world of woman, which had taken for [Levin] since his marriage a new value he had never suspected before, was now so exalted that he could not take it in his imagination.”
My Blank Sticky Note
I held the blank sticky note in my lap, folding over the edges of it with one hand and twirling my black pen in the other. I could feel myself gently biting the inside of my lips, with my lips pursed to the side. I stared down at my sticky note, hoping nobody would notice that I hadn’t put it up on the whiteboard yet.
I was in a work meeting at the BYU Writing Center. We were supposed to write down our post-graduation career plans on a sticky note, then stick it on the board. I looked at some of my other coworkers’ answers: one had a journalism internship lined up in D.C., one was waiting to hear back from an internship with NASA, a few were applying to grad school programs across the country, and many were applying to law school.
But my sticky note was blank. Not because I didn’t have any post-graduation plans, but because my plans didn’t match the rest. I was in my senior year at BYU, I was already off birth control, and I was hoping the timing would work out for me to have a baby right after graduation.
Sure, I had considered several career paths throughout my life. Ever since I learned how to write, I wanted to be a writer. Throughout elementary and middle school, I wanted to be a teacher. For much of high school, I wanted to be a social worker. When I volunteered in a child-literacy program, I wanted to be an elementary-school teacher. When I took my first English-language class, I wanted to be a linguist. When I first became a fulltime missionary in Peru, I wanted to be a scriptorian. By the end of my mission, I wanted to move back to South America and teach English as a foreign language. When I returned to BYU, I officially declared my major to be English. I got a job at the BYU Writing Center, wrote lots of academic essays, and got lots of As.
But my sticky note was blank.
Surrounded by friends with prestigious plans and impressive resume material, I was embarrassed to write down my main, unchanging goal, the one thing I had wanted to be all my life.
Trying to Describe the Indescribable
In a rough draft of an essay for my LDS Literature class, I called a past spiritual experience of mine “indescribable.” I had received a helpful answer to a heartfelt prayer, and I truly believed no words could adequately describe the powerful feeling I had felt. However, Professor T circled the word “indescribable” and next to it scribbled, “Try! Your job as the writer is to describe it to us.”
I have imagined Professor T’s pen hovering over me ever since 7:57 a.m. on August 3rd, the minute my daughter K was born. Her pen is encouraging me to try to describe that moment. The moment when K was first placed on my chest and I felt her pink, vernix-covered skin against me. How can a feeling like that be described? The birth of a child is like a helpful answer to a heartfelt prayer: they are heavenly moments where words won’t do justice.
But I can try.
Meeting K was like reaching the surface of a pool after being underwater for too long. A wave of relief that fills you with air and life.
Like placing that first foot over the finish line at the end of one’s first cross-country race. A sense of accomplishment that races through your entire tired body.
Like opening the acceptance email that congratulates you for being admitted into your dream university. A time of celebration and of nervous excitement for your forever-changed future.
Like clipping your missionary nametag on the front corner of your dress for the first time. A realization of newfound responsibility and purpose.
Like feeling the metal band slide against your skin for the first time after the love of your life asks you to marry him, and you say yes. A rush of giddy joy that takes your breath and strength away.
Like looking that same man in the eyes and smiling as you buckle your seatbelts, about to drive away from your wedding reception. A moment of blissful love, a perfect moment, ready to start a new life together, not knowing or caring about what struggles might lie on the road ahead of you.
All of that, all at once, times ten, and more, is how I felt when I first met K.
A Letter From My Mom About Her Mom
When I was twelve years old, my mom wrote me a letter to read at Girls Camp. I read it but didn’t appreciate it. Soon after, the letter was lost and forgotten.
But one day, when baby K was just a few weeks old, I pulled a box out of my closet which was filled with the many mementos I’d kept over the years. A pink doll from Williamsburg. Library summer-reading certificates. Homework assignments from Roanoke Elementary. Recreational soccer trophies and team pictures. Birthday cards from Nana and Papa. Half-torn envelopes stuffed with letters from various friends and family members.
Somewhere in the messy stack of letters was the letter from my mom. I found it. I read it again. And this time, I appreciated it. One part of the letter reads:
My hero is my mom. That’s right, my mom, Nana, is my hero. She’s my hero even though she’s not perfect, she’s not just like me, and she doesn’t do what I would do. She is my hero because she accepted the responsibility of motherhood. She’s my hero because she’s my mom… She is willing to love and serve me even today, 40 years later.
I hope you realize that one of the reasons I revere my mother and honor her as my hero is because I am now a mother and I realize now how wonderful, beautiful, fun, hard, challenging, tiring, crazy, spiritual the experience of being a mother is. I find looking back at my mom to be inspiring… I am so excited for you and your success and adventures that I realize how excited my mom was for me, or else she wouldn’t have awoken and driven early to get me where I needed to be. She loved me more than I ever knew, and I love you more than you’ll ever know.
When I was twelve years old, I had no idea what the experience of being a mother was like. My life experience up to that point had revolved around toys, books, school, soccer, friends. And though my mom was the one who made all those things possible for me, I didn’t see or appreciate her. To my adolescent mind, a mother is all my mom was or had been.
But when I became a new mother, I saw my mom differently: she was a woman.
A woman who had once been twelve years old herself, whose life once revolved around the same things mine did at that age, who once needed rides to birthday parties and basketball practice. She was a woman who once sat on the couch with her three-week-old baby, me, and began to see her own mother differently, just like I was doing right then. She was a woman who had set many of her own wants and needs aside for mine. And as I looked forward to the next forty years with baby K, I found looking back at my mom to be inspiring.
Nighttime Nausea
The only light in the room was the green numbers of the oven clock. 12:23 a.m. I sat against the wall of our hallway, half-wrapped in a blanket, nibbling on a piece of toast between small sips of water, trying to fight off the nausea. The nausea—the “morning” sickness—lingered within me morning, afternoon, and night, day after day. I was not even seven weeks along yet and I wondered how or if I could bear the next thirty-four weeks. How did any woman ever endure pregnancy?
Every time I shut my eyes, wincing in pain, more teardrops were released and trickled down my cheeks. Every time I shut my eyes, I imagined myself hunched over the toilet again. I imagined the loose strands of hair that fell from my ponytail and tickled my face, the coldness of the bathroom tile floor against my bare legs, the stinging in my throat.
I tried to replace those images with the image of my pregnancy test, the one from two weeks prior with the double pink lines, the one I had stared at in joyful shock for minutes on end. I slowly took another penny-sized bite of my toast. This will all be worth it. This will all be worth it, I tried to reassure myself.
My Last Walk Across Campus
I went to visit Professor T one day after finals’ week to thank her, say good-bye, and tell her I was nine-weeks pregnant. It was my last time walking across campus as a BYU student. I walked from the west student parking lot, around the practice football fields, through the Tanner building, across the street, between the Talmage and Jesse Knight buildings, past the Harold B. Lee library, on my way to the Joseph Fielding Smith building. Just like every other day. But unlike every other day, instead of carrying my MacBook and a few textbooks, my backpack only carried a sleeve of saltine crackers.
As I walked, I was painfully aware that the skin on my hands was cracking from the winter cold, that the mountains to the east were hidden behind gray snowclouds, that snowflakes were making my hair damp, and that this would be my last time walking from the west student parking lot to the JFSB. My husband had an internship lined up with PriceWaterhouseCoopers in Dallas for the winter semester, so we’d move away for a few months, and I would have to finish my last couple classes on Independent Study. Though I knew we’d move back to Utah in time for my graduation, I still felt I was being ripped away too soon from the campus, job, and programs that I had worked so hard to qualify for.
As I looked to the left at the Harold B. Lee Library, I felt a pang of nostalgia, remembering when my mom had first brought me to BYU in the summer of 2017. With my mom, I walked through the library for the first time, feeling as excited as Belle when the Beast gave her his library. I was excited to be a college student, excited to feel like a grown-up and to live on my own and to make friends in my classes and to fill my backpack with books and—
Suddenly, my light backpack weighed on me, reminding me that my life as a student was about to end, and my life as a mother was about to begin.
Then I became aware of my fellow students walking, in all directions, past me. And I saw them differently: not as students but as sons and daughters. One guy walked in a hurry, with his head bent down, hands stuffed inside his sweatshirt pocket, avoiding eye contact and listening to AirPods. He is someone’s son, I thought. Two girls walked by, chatting excitedly about something; one was holding her phone out in front of her, the other was trying to brush back her windswept hair with her fingers. She is someone’s daughter, I thought, and so is she.
I looked at each student and thought about the woman who gave birth to him or her, and I wondered how that woman’s pregnancy had been, if she had ever slouched against a wall with nausea or fatigue, if she had felt overjoyed and terrified and all the emotions in between. Then I thought about the woman who gave birth to her and who gave birth to her and to her and so on, all the way to Eve, the “mother of all living.” All my life, I’ve been surrounded by women who have been pregnant and birthed babies, and I never cared or even noticed.
Suddenly it was all I noticed.
The First Five Postpartum Days
One nurse steadied me by holding my right arm, the other nurse by holding my left arm. The epidural had almost completely worn off, but the nurses still wanted to make sure I made it to the bathroom safely. Once inside, one stood in front of me and one stood next to me, and they waited for me to take my first postpartum pee. They made small talk with each other and with me while we waited, trying to avoid an awkward silence. But I still felt awkward.
After a few incredibly long minutes, I peed, and it stung, but not as much as I expected it to with a second-degree tear. “Yay! You did it!” Both nurses clapped and cheered for me, sincerely, like I was a toddler being potty-trained. I couldn’t help but smile.
Standing up took another few long minutes. With what little strength I had, and mostly with the nurses’ help, I stuck a clean adult diaper inside a new pair of disposable mesh underwear, then placed a couple wet Tucks pads on top, then spritzed it with Dermoplast numbing spray, then slowly pulled it up my wobbly legs.
The nurses held me steady again as I washed my hands. In the mirror above the sink was a woman I had never seen before. Her hospital gown hung loosely over her shoulders, leaving her back mostly uncovered. Her disheveled hair was half-way out of her low ponytail and fell flatly against her greasy scalp. Her eyes had dark, puffy bags under them and it appeared that she had only slept two hours the night before.
It was not until I saw the distinct v-shaped tan line around the woman’s neck, the same tan line I got while floating in my in-law’s pool at thirty-nine weeks pregnant, that I realized the woman was me.
I was a new woman. A new mother.
The next five days were a whirlwind of new sensations and messes: the let-downs of milk, milk-stained bras, blood clots, saggy skin, stool softeners, perineal icepacks over stitches, warm spit-up on my clothes, uterus-involution pains, heating pads, prescription naproxen, dirty newborn diapers, and a sore tailbone from back labor. At night I imagined myself gripping the hospital bed until my fingertips turned white again, and writhing in pain again, and pushing again. I was mad at the world for not warning me about how difficult postpartum would be.
But even if they had, nothing could have ever prepared me for that first week. I had never felt so exposed, with my husband pulling up my adult diaper for me when it hurt to bend over or my mom helping my baby latch onto me at two a.m. or my mother-in-law checking on me while I cried half-naked in the bathroom. I had never felt so weak, so sleep-deprived, so groggy.
Yet somehow, in some beautiful, divine, maternal way, despite all my pains, I had never felt so empowered. I had made it through fire and hell and was rewarded with newborn snuggles as I cradled and nursed K. With rushes of my milk came rushes of love, and truly, nothing could have ever prepared me for that love, a love even stronger than labor contractions, a love I felt every time I snuggled my newborn and studied her gray eyes.
Nothing could have prepared me for the greatest new sensation of all: the warm touch of tiny, soft fingers wrapping instinctively around my pointer finger, as if my baby were claiming me as hers. “I wish K could see me smiling at her right now and know how much I love her,” I once told my husband G.
“She can feel it,” he responded.
A Few More Jewels on Their Crowns
Another part of my mom’s letter reads:
My mom is my hero. She wasn’t always perfect. I even sometimes got upset with her for it. Maybe that’s why she told me something that her mother had told her: “Every mother will receive a crown in heaven no matter how good of a mother they are, just for being a mother. The good ones just might have a few more jewels on their crowns.”
I didn’t understand that then, but now I do. Just being a mother is a sacrifice and is a responsibility so noble that you will receive your crown in heaven.
I didn’t understand that then, but now I do.
My mom earned her motherly crown the second she married my dad and took his five-year-old daughter in as her own. She kept her crown as she gave birth to my older sister, then me, then my younger brother, then my younger sister—all via c-section. She earned a jewel when she sacrificed her job as a Spanish teacher and followed my dad’s job across the country. She ended up in Roanoke, Texas, raising her five kids 1,391 miles away from her beloved home and family in Virginia.
My mom earned a jewel every time she read Hop on Pop to me. Every time she took me to the park, the pool, the library, or McDonald’s. Every time she picked me up from soccer practice and rolled the windows down in disgust while I took my shin guards off. Every time she took me out to lunch for my birthday. Every time she came to cheer me on at cross-country races, even though she wished I still played soccer instead. Every time she bought me school supplies, tennis rackets, tennis shoes, Chic-fil-A, anything else I needed or wanted. Every time she drove me to seminary at 5:20 a.m. and we listened to Let Her Go in the car together. And every time she calls me, hugs me, or says she loves me.
Taken one at a time, these are each rather small and simple things. But even small and simple jewels are valuable and precious. And taken together on a crown, they create a bright, beautiful masterpiece. I remember a scripture, Alma 37:6, which my mom once helped me memorize: “By small and simple things are great things brought to pass.”
Then I look at the small, simple baby lying next to me and wonder what great things she may accomplish in her life. I pick her up, bring her face to mine so our cheeks touch, and listen to her breathe. I am more than willing to do all the small and simple things, however mundane they seem, to give my baby a great life—just like my mom did for me.
A Blur
That second and third day of August were all a blur.
The bulky fetal heart monitors across my stomach. The IV in my wrist. The shivering and sweating at the same time. The pitocin. The pain that lasted for hours and hours. The epidural needle going into my spine. The sleepless night. The bars of the hospital bed. The low-toned, loud, long moans. The contractions in my lower back. The cervical checks. The discomfort. The encouraging words, whatever they were, from my husband. The Pressure. Pressure. Pressure. Pressure. Pushing. The sound of my exhausted cries. And then, the sound of a cry which wasn’t mine.
Ready
The ultrasound gel was wet and cool against my skin. On the screen in front of me was a black-and-white blur that our sonographer said was the inside of my womb. After a few moments, the sonographer’s hand stilled, and the blur sharpened into a shape that I didn’t recognize. She called it the “potty shot.” She slowly rolled the probe around, examining the “potty shot” from different angles, then looked towards us with a smile, “Well, are you ready to know if it’s a boy or a girl?”
G and I were very ready to know. After all, we had paid $75 for the private prenatal ultrasound. Though we only had a boy name picked out so far, neither of us had any preference or intuition about the gender of the baby. With excited curiosity, we both nodded.
“It’s a girl!” She announced.
My mind immediately began to brainstorm girl names as the sonographer explained to us what we were seeing on the screen and how we could tell that the fetus was a girl. G and I made eye contact and quietly cheered before turning our attention back to the ultrasound screen, ready to see the rest of our girl growing inside me.
As the sonographer moved the probe around my lower abdominal area, the black-and-white shapes became recognizable to us: a skull, a spine, a stomach, legs, arms, a nose, a mouth, and more. We saw her mouth opening to drink amniotic fluid, her legs kicking, and—the most magical moment of all—her heart beating.
It was $75 well spent.
She was only a two-dimensional, black-and-white image to us then, only 14 centimeters long, but she was a girl and she was our girl and we were more than ready to know her, to love her.
3:08 a.m.
My mom used to call me the “Energizer Bunny” because I seemed to have endless energy, even at night. I hated bedtime. I once even broke a door knob while trying to escape my bedroom when I was just two years old. And as I grew up, I never learned to like sleeping.
Until I had a baby, that is. I am no longer the “Energizer Bunny,” I love bedtime, and I can never get enough sleep. Now, I’m awake at night because I have to be, not because I want to be; my early a.m. hours look different now than ever before.
November 9, 2019. 3:08 a.m.: As my roommate C cut her Rancherito’s burrito in half, cream-colored sauce with sauteed onion and grilled chicken spilled out of the tortilla and onto the yellow parchment paper. I took my half of the burrito and shoved a bite in my mouth. Then, swallowing and wiping the sauce off the edges of my mouth, I added, “This is definitely a step up from our usual frozen pizzas and cheese quesadillas!”
C and I stopped for food (we couldn’t decide whether to call it a late dinner or an early breakfast) on our way home from hot-tubbing. Our hair was still up in messy buns and the swimsuits under our sweaters had not yet completely dried. We weren’t completely dry until we made it back to our Heritage Halls dorm at 4:45 a.m.
A late night like this was typical for me and C that fall semester, though the activity which kept us up varied night by night: salsa dancing on Provo Center Street, eating Creamery ice cream on the couch while talking about the boys we liked, bonfires in Provo Canyon, a roller-skating race on the roof of a parking garage, BYU football games, karaoke parties. There was always somewhere to go, something to do, someone to meet. For us, life had never felt so free; it had never been so fun.
June 23, 2022. 3:08 a.m.: My eyes stung, but I couldn’t tear them away from the Instagram reel. I watched the nail technician clean and shape a woman’s nails, then apply and design acrylics on her. By the end of the satisfying process, the woman’s nails had transformed from their plain pinkish color and round shape to an almond-shaped nail with a matte lilac color. It was a work of art.
Then I swiped to the next reel and watched in awe as the next set of nails transformed into a glossy pink ombre design, dotted with glitter beads. The next nails became a multi-colored pastel design, the next a neon green, the next a creamy pink with white flowers, and so on. The prettier the Instagram nails were, the uglier and puffier my own fingers seemed, and I remembered sadly that my wedding ring no longer fit. Still, with ugly, puffy fingers, I swiped on my phone again and again and again, mesmerized by and envious of the pretty nails, until I finally shut my eyes at 4:45 a.m.
A late night like this was typical for me in my third trimester of pregnancy, though the things that kept me up varied night by night: trips to the bathroom, leg cramps, sore hips, my endless thoughts, and my unborn baby’s movement. With my left palm resting against the side of my belly bump, I’d feel the baby in my womb roll and kick and jab me so hard it hurt. Meanwhile, I worried about how labor would go, and I wondered about the newborn stage. I wondered if I’d be a good mom, and I worried that I wouldn’t be. Then for hours I scrolled through acrylic- nail Instagram reels to distract myself from my pains and fears.
August 15, 2022 3:08 a.m.: I slept through K’s noisy grunts and coos, but not her cry. Her hungry cry was like a fire alarm to my sleepy, motherly heart. Adrenaline and love pushed me out of bed and led me to baby K’s crib, where I lifted her up. Then, with my eyes only half open, I carried her into our living room, where I turned on the T.V. for light to keep myself awake. I hadn’t caught up on sleep yet from the hospital, and I didn’t trust myself to nurse K without falling asleep with her in my arms. As I lowered myself onto the couch, K, out of hunger and natural instinct, tried sucking on my arm—the first skin she felt against her lips. As no milk came from my arm, she cried more intensely in frustration. Her wailing pierced my ears as I sleepily struggled to unclip my nursing bra and latch her onto me.
Once she latched on, the sound of her cries was replaced by her infant gulps and breaths. I cradled her warm body, which fit perfectly against mine, and marveled at how something so small could have such a big impact on my life. Then I hoped and wished and silently prayed that her next stretch of sleep would last until at least 4:45 a.m.
A night like this is typical for me now.
The Whole World of Woman
I open the blackout curtains in our bedroom, wanting to let some natural light in through the window. But not much light comes in; the sky is gray, and snow flurries are flying everywhere. Again. Then I open my weather app, checking to see if the temperature will go above freezing today. But the high in Highland, Utah, is only 23 degrees.
I feel as gloomy as the sky looks. I dread the cold, uneventful day ahead of me.
“Looks like we can’t go on a walk again today, sweetheart,” I sigh while picking K up out of her crib. She giggles in response, kicking her legs excitedly in the air, happy to see me. She doesn’t mind the weather; she doesn’t know what winter is. Besides, it’s pretty much all she’s ever known. It seems like it’s been freezing outside for nearly six months now, the majority of her little life.
And so we spend another day inside our little basement apartment.
My days are filled with peek-a-boo, wet and stinky diapers, naps, bright plastic toys, Cheerios, loads of laundry, other chores, and following K around. She crawls and climbs and claps. I clean and take care of her. I am living the life I’ve always thought I wanted.
Yet most days, my whole world does not feel “so exalted,” like Tolstoy described the new mother in his book. My whole world is changed, yes, but exalted? What is so noble, so grand about washing dishes and changing diapers? Or watching a baby hold herself up against the couch? Or being busy all day long then getting into bed at night feeling like I accomplished nothing at all?
No, most days, my world does not feel exalted. Especially not when I scroll through pictures in my college photo albums and mourn my past self—the girl who used to have her dream job on her dream campus and would be out having fun with friends at night. Not when I lose control of my hormones and get irritable and cranky with my husband. Not when I’m lonely and wish I could talk to someone who knows how to talk. Not when I feel guilty for doing and feeling and thinking all these things.
And so after I put K down for bed, I write.
As I write I try to describe events and emotions that can never really be described. Like the pains of pregnancy, labor, delivery, and postpartum. But also like the love a mother has for her child. I remember the ultrasounds, the pinkish baby placed on my chest at 7:57 a.m., the tiny hand wrapped around my finger, the milk, the snuggles, the love I have for my child. And I realize the pains really were worth that love. I think about my own mom, the love she has for me, and all the jewels on her heavenly crown. Yes, she gave me life and raised me into the woman I am today.
As I write I think about womanhood, the whole world of woman. I think about the many women who did not raise me but certainly have shaped my life. Like my Nana who paid her own way through school and became the first in her family to get a college education, who later passed her faith and love for poetry onto me. Like my elderly friend who has no children of her own but treated me like a granddaughter, who has stepped foot in almost every country of the world and once showed me her extensive currency collection while she told travel stories. Like my aunts who show interest in my life and support me even when they’re several states away. Like every Young Women leader who planned church lessons and activities for me, who served beside me and cheered me on through my teenage years, who still take me out for lunch when I visit my hometown. Like the many sisters in Peru who cooked meals for me as a missionary, who welcomed me into their homes and let me call them “Mamita”. Like my mother-in-law who had eight children and somehow still had the energy to run ten marathons, who uprooted herself to a new state for the sake of her kids, and who has loved me as a daughter since the moment she met me.
I am inspired by my mother and the women who came before me. I recognize their kind hearts, their sharp minds, their sacrifices, their emotional and physical strength—and suddenly, “the whole world of woman” is now so exalted to me that I can hardly take it in my imagination.
Now I see my baby girl on the video monitor, asleep in her crib in the other room, and I miss her. I want to wake up to her cute cry in the morning, open up the blinds whether it’s sunny or not outside, and spend another day with her. I want to see her turn her head when I call her name, hear her squeal when I chase her across the living-room rug, and feel her hands tugging on my pant legs when she’s ready to be picked up. I want to watch her explore the world around her. I want to see the woman she becomes.
