Mothers are keepers of bodies

It’s been a few weeks of mysterious viruses in little bodies around here—fluid built up on the ears, puking at dawn, stuffiness and snores and staying home from school. I can’t say that my anxiety over my daughters’ bodies has dulled. Lord knows a global pandemic didn’t help. Nine years into this mothering journey, the sound of Maya racing to the bathroom to throw up still sends my own body into a flight-or-fight tailspin. But I have learned to talk to the anxiety. I soothe Maya’s back and get a scrunchie for her hair, and when she’s back in her bunk bed, wrapped in a soft blanket, I soothe my own nervous system. This, too, shall pass. She’ll be okay. Her body is doing what it needs to do to get rid of something it doesn’t like. That’s good—a sign of a healthy, healing body.

I feel less alone in these moments when I remind myself of a line I, in fact, wrote five years ago: mothers are keepers of bodies. When I’m rubbing her back or holding on the line with the advice nurse or searching the depths and detritus of the hallway closet for some sickly sweet bright pink Tylenol, I am doing the things that so many mothers (and fathers and aunties and big sisters) everywhere do for kids, that someone probably did for you many, many times.

It’s not a glamorous job—being the keeper of bodies. It’s not a linear one—most of the time I find that trying to make sense of a given virus, it’s shape and duration and source, is a delusion of control rather than a truly insightful effort. It’s not a job for the inbox zero set; taking care of a sick kid is the opposite of productivity. It is pause and witness, progress and regression, saltines and Pedialyte, worry and faith.

When sleep takes over that clammy little body, you might get a few things done, but you’re exhausted, too. The day is shot. Better to honor that care is work, that bodies are vulnerable and unpredictable, that life is full of calendar interruptions—a few of which might be worth mourning, but most of which don’t hold a candle to the meaningful effort to make a person—really any person at all, not just a kid—feel comforted when they’re sick.

Our little crew is cycling through the well-populated revolving door of back-to-school viruses; others, some we are close to, are on a different journey with sick kids. I witness their resilience with cancer diagnoses and emergency surgery, chemo and complications, siblings of sick kids and all the dynamics there, and I’m just in absolute awe. Talk about “keepers of bodies”—these parents are scientists, diplomats, administrators, and warriors. I offer up fresh bread, a playdate, a superhero costume. I offer up Lizzo tickets—the best respite care I can think of. I offer up my listening ear, trying to transmit with my body language that I can hear anything. But mostly I am just in awe—of how we birth and adopt and welcome in these babies, and then have to live alongside their bodies knowing that nothing is promised.

If you’re wiping a brow today, this week, this month—you’re not alone. And this is important. Don’t let any HR official or internalized capitalist coach tell you otherwise. Our bodies remember the care that was poured into them—the scrunchies and Saltines and snuggles. Our minds may panic or struggle to let go of the plan, but our work is here, right in front of us, curled up in the bean bag, and clutching the baby bunny.

And if you are done healing, if you are burned out or also sick, may you be surrounded by the kind of friends, neighbors, or a partner that can take a turn. They say “grieve out”—as in bring your grief to someone one layer removed from it, so that they can carry the sadness with you. We sometimes need to “heal out,” too. Because these good bodies will keep breaking; our legacy is formed in the collective healing.

Or as Ross Gay put it in his gorgeous new book, Inciting Joy, we are all part of “a rhizomatic care”:

Despite every single lie to the contrary, despite every single action born of that lie—we are in the midst of rhizomatic care that extends in every direction, spatially, temporally, spiritually, you name it. It’s certainly not the only thing we’re in the midst of, but it’s the trust thing. By far.

This is my friend Sam, who is a badass beyond belief. On this day, he and his nurses (aka rhizomatic care of the most tender and dedicated) celebrated his 90th chemo shot (he’s been getting them injected in his leg three days a week for six months). He is in remission. His mom is my whole heart and she will cut anyone who messes with her babies or her friends. I love you, V. I am in awe of you today and everyday. Thank you for all the care you’ve put into this boy, and all of us who love you.