Crib Mattresses & Control

The first two weeks after I gave birth, I couldn’t tell the difference between a bear chasing me and someone else holding my baby.

I wanted to be so cool, but my nervous system felt like it was always on the edge of toppling over. They say it’s a love like you’ve never known, but the way I felt about Estelle didn’t feel as nice and sweet as that sounds. To be honest, this love felt like it might make me crazy.

I wanted to bask in the bliss they say you’ll feel, but for some reason, this love felt more scary than sacred. My love for her felt so big, I thought it might swallow me.

The pressure this love applied felt so heavy. To protect her. To love her. To be everything she needed—and I didn’t even know what she really needed yet. At that point, all I really knew was to feed her every three hours.

I’m four months postpartum now, and I rarely feel the bear chasing me anymore. Instead, it shows up like it did last night:

I’m still awake after feeding Estelle, just staring at the ceiling, listening to rain hit our roof and thunder rumble in the distance. The rain is what starts the spiral because if there’s rain, well, there could be lightning. And if there’s lightning, there’s a chance it could hit a tree and start a fire. I live near a state forest,  so that fire is sure to spread. And if the fire spreads, there’s a chance it covers the road we would use to get to safety. And if that happens, then the only way out will be by water on the north side of Point Washington. And before I know it, I’m awake at 3 a.m. trying to decide what item from my house I will use as a flotation device to get Estelle across the bay should the inevitable lightning strike the tree.

I know, even as I’m trying to decide on a flotation device, that this is crazy and completely illogical. But my mind keeps inventorying items that could get us across the bay. I settle on her crib mattress and try to fall back asleep.

The craziest one happens when I’m driving down the road and suddenly get freaked out that I brought Estelle out to the car but never actually loaded her into it. Then I start imagining that she’s just still sitting in her car seat on the sidewalk by our house. Wild. 

And yet…I still check that rearview mirror every time, just to see her soundly sleeping behind me.

I sit with God this morning and bring Him all my hypervigilance, all my anxious thoughts, all my worst-case scenarios, all my fear, all my control, & hope He can settle my soul. Make sense of it all.

My minutes with the Great Counselor have always done more for me than any therapist or pill ever could.

I sit really still and imagine—believe—He’s sitting right next to me. I settle in and listen deep. I need not go into all my qualms, one moment here and I feel absolutely known.

This is the one relationship in my life where I never have to use words to feel seen, known, understood. This presence seems to know me intimately.

As we commune, I wonder about how I go on like this—always afraid of this love swallowing me, unable to fully enjoy it because I’m so afraid I’ll somehow lose it.

But the thing is—and what I had forgotten—is that while Estelle is my baby girl, she is a beautiful gift I’ve been given to steward.

More than she is mine, she is His.

And as big as my love feels for her, well, it’s a drop in the bucket.

He reminds me of His love. His plans. His protection.

And I remember: I don’t need to be God here.

I sit in a different place with this in mind. I can see things differently from here. I always see people, situations, stories, differently from the perspective, the place Love sets me in. 

From here, all my loving and protecting and saving looks silly. And I was right to be scared—alone, I am an absolute mess of a savior for Estelle. The biggest illusion of humanity is that we are ever in control anyways. Letting go is the most loving thing I can do. To let go, to concede that I am not God here, is to agree with the order of creation. 

Instead, I’m the vessel He chose to get His love to her. To get His protection to her. To get His grace all over her.

Yes. This feels more true to me. The truth that I’m not the best God in this room, comforts me. I have been believing in God and trusting in my own hypervigilance. The heaviness I felt was never my love for her. It was always my need for control.

This love—when flowing from the right place—feels freeing, not fearful. How true and beautiful and captivating is Love, separate from fear.

And even after all of this, sometimes I still find myself staring at the ceiling at 3 a.m. with a new worst-case scenario for me to control. But now, I’ve stopped looking for flotation devices and started remembering the truth that interrupts fear.

Here’s the truth soothing my soul at 3 a.m. right now:

The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not

want. (Someone I belong to has everything I need) 

He makes me lie down in green pastures. (Let my rest be evidence of trust)

He leads me beside still waters. (He calms and quiets the noise around me)

He restores my soul. (This presence loves me back into myself)

He leads me in paths of righteousness for his name's sake.

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. (Remind me of the relief of remembering who is leading me)

You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; (so they can see Your faithfulness)

You anoint my head with oil. 

My cup overflows. (Together is Your favorite place to be)

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the LORD forever. (Whatever this journey is or becomes, it always leads me home.) 

Psalm 23