Rachel E. Bledsoe is an extremely talented writer and Mother. When I decided to kick off a segment on my blog highlighting real parents and honest feelings; I knew I had to have her as my first featured guest post. So here is the first installment of “Real Parents”: A God Bleeds & Cries by Rachel E. Bledsoe.
One Gatorade bottle sat on the blue kitchen counter full of needles. Every day required three to seven finger pricks, and one shot to the abdomen. Needle after needle was placed into the orange capped bottle.
Gestational diabetes left my pregnant body with bruised fingers. Big black bruises coated an expanding belly and love handles. Some days, I cried because I didn’t want to inject another insulin shot. I didn’t want to find the finger that didn’t hurt; they all hurt. I didn’t want to do it anymore, but my doctor’s orders required every number to be counted. And I wanted my baby. I wanted a healthy baby.
I’ve watched “The Crow” every year since I was a freshman in high school. Every year, I fell harder in love with this movie. Every year, a nuance made a bit more sense. It wasn’t until I had my baby I understood the true depth in one quote.
Children think their parents are Gods. We are their original teachers. We are what they idolize from the beginning. We are their first role models. We are the first God they know. Parents, supposedly all knowing and omnipotent, are only a God façade.
Our babies don’t realize we’re not equipped to be placed on their pedestal. We were never given a parenthood manual. Mostly, we are just as innocent coming into this new role as they are upon inhaling their first breath. They are our teachers, and we’re all in the same school. The school of life is a brutal bitch for everyone.
My child never notices when I’ve forgotten deodorant. He never remarks, “Mommy, you haven’t washed your hair in a week.” He never concerns himself with the fact that my blonde hair is being rooted away by a dark brown color.
He doesn’t understand that I didn’t buy those “Toms” shoes on sale at Whole Foods because I wanted to save that money for him. He doesn’t see the holes in my secondhand clothing. He is not fazed by the new patterns of snot stains adorning all my black yoga pants.
He doesn’t see the fading figure which has lost over 25 pounds in two months. The weight loss is due to my every day toddler chasing, never eating an entire meal, and the worry. To my God, hear my prayers, “Take care of my child. Watch over him.”
My child sees his own God in the form of his “Mother.”
I say to my child, “I am no God.” I bleed. I bled for nearly eight months trying to get you into this world safely. Little blood droplets fell from my fingers onto an electronic measuring system. Every day and night, I placed the needles which drew my blood or injected my medicine into a Gatorade bottle. I wanted to save that bottle, but it was rapidly replaced by a bottle warmer and Playtex Ventaire bottles.
I cry. I cry more than anyone will see or know. I cry from rejection. I cry from worry. I cry from feeling like I’m never doing enough. Gods don’t cry, but I do.
I want to be the God he sees. But, I am not. I am a parent. I am a mother trying desperately to be the best Mama to one little boy. One day, he may have his own son. One day, a child may consider him a God. I hope I have prepared him. Today, I am a parent. We are all parents doing the best we can. We are trying the best we can with what our Gods taught us.
Rachel E. Bledsoe-Rachel is an Appalachian mayhem loving Misfit Mama who works at a local newspaper during the day. At night, she stays up late and writes her blog, The Misfits of a Mountain Mama. She enjoys long walks on the beach, puppies, Marie Antoinette biographies, and babies (only the one she birthed.) She is the Mama to the Terrific Toddler who is rambunctious, rowdy, and can bite other kids within a blink of an eye. Be sure to follow all the antics and chaos by visiting The Misfits of a Mountain Mama’s Facebook page or join her on Twitter @MisfitMtMama.