I’ve been planning a special make for Day 23 since I joined the Make N’ Tell Challenge, knowing that for my birthday I’d need to do something special. I’m not the kind of woman who dreads birthdays. I have no problem telling anyone how old I am (34), possibly because people still react with surprise. I think that birthdays are a day to treat yourself a little and do the things you think are fun, but no need for blowout madness. I’ve already had a fantastic day owing to the fact that this is my first birthday since joining Facebook, and the greetings have been pouring in.
That said, I was thinking about the only thing that does bother me about getting older: some of my body parts don’t work the way I want them to or look the way I want them to. I conceived a project for Make N’ Tell in which I took beautiful photographs of those parts and spent some time reflecting on my soul’s outer shell. When I realized these were some of the hardest working parts, I chose the title “Industry vs. Inferiority” for the project. This is the name of Stage 4 in Erik Erikson’s model for child development, and I use it frequently to explain toddler behavior to parents. In looking up a good link to add here, however, I was reminded that this is his phase for school age kids. Jeez. The explanation I use has to do with how at 18 months, babies start emptying all of the things out of your cabinets with a look on their face like it’s their job. The more parents allow kids to tear the house apart in this industrious manner, the more this builds confidence for the babies going forward. I love using this model to explain to parents, but since I’m misquoting it, I’ll have to rework my schtick a little.
Meanwhile, I get mad at the hardworking parts of my body much like they were uncooperative toddlers. So the photos follow, with commentary as to what my frustration is underneath each one. Happy Birthday Dear Me!
My frown lines
I have two stark, white, vertical lines between my eyebrows. This is from years of making what I call my “thinking face.” I’ve done a fair bit of thinking in these 34 years, and the mind behind those lines is sharp.
My lips
A “friend” in high school, making fun of our then English teacher, said “Ugh, she has no top lip. It’s so annoying! You know, like Sarah’s. No offense, Sarah.” Offense taken, I’m afraid, and while I’d love to be the person who brushes off things like that, it was the wrong phrase at the right time. It hit deep, particularly because I’d never noticed it myself. 20 years later, I still make faces at myself in the mirror, mocking my lips as if they weren’t part of the whole package. On the other hand, they smile, talk, and accept food just like they’re supposed to. Frankly, I think this photo looks like something you’d see in a magazine, so I’d even say they do their job beautifully.
My neck
My neck hurts almost all of the time. My C2 vertebra is not where it’s supposed to be due to a rollerblading incident 13 years ago in which the skates went up and my face went down. Onto the sidewalk. Breaking my front teeth in the process. On top of that, the undeserving specimen you see here is forced to support a white coat on a daily basis that weighs several pounds and was once likened by my father to “a policemen’s toolbelt.” Years of chiropractic care did little to nothing for it, so now we live in an uneasy acceptance of each other. Sorry, neck. I know it’s not your fault.
My hands
My hands have got to be the most hardworking part of my industrious body. My job relies on them constantly to examine and soothe, to reach out to parents in greeting or in sympathy, to carry the tools of my trade, and to complete the endless paperwork that is my albatross. On top of that, I choose to cook, can, knit, bike, read, climb playground equipment, hoist ever-growing toddlers, and on and on ad infinitum. The wonder of my hands isn’t that they look a little rough or that they make manicurists cry with the nails kept short to prevent scratching patients and the cuticles gnawed to bloody scraps in my persistent anxiety. It’s that they have grace and strength in spite of all the demands placed on them. I offer them no asylum from the world, no break from constant exposures, but in their lack of spite they refuse to turn into withered, wretched claws.
My scar
Theo was a C-section, which really felt like insult to injury after everything I’d been through by the time they sliced me. He was my second preemie, a fact I was truly angry about, and I’d labored through the night before they discovered (just before I commenced pushing) that he was breech. The section wasn’t traumatic in and of itself, though getting an epidural during end stage labor was awful. It was the loss of opportunity. This was going to be my do-over from the fear-steeped rush of Max’s 30 week delivery. This time, we were going to pack a little suitcase. I was going to get to say “Honey, it’s time,” and Dan would frazzle around trying to find the suitcase and his keys and whatever, and we’d be giddy with anticipation because “the baby’s almost here!” Then, because the experience would be so beautiful, we’d have a third child to increase our family’s joy.
None of this did, or ever will, happen for me. I know from extensive lifetime experience that few women get to have the perfect scenario, but I’m jealous every time I attend a delivery where the mom is wearing slippers that she clearly bought just for this occasion. And, small though it makes me feel, I twinge with jealousy when a friend tells me she’s pregnant, because she’s getting another shot. After two preemies, we decided it was irresponsible to keep bringing tiny babies into the world. It’s a choice I’m proud of, but I miss that third one sometimes. On the other hand, 100 years ago, Theo and I both would’ve died during his delivery and neither of my boys would’ve lived very long had they managed to be born. I try not to blame myself for the way they came into the world, and I love them fiercely enough to make up for their early struggles. The scar is just a reminder that our do-overs sometimes end up even crazier than the first attempt.
My feet
My poor, exhausted feet work almost as hard as my hands do. I’m up and about at all times. I insist on wearing cute shoes. I run sometimes. And two previous adventures have resulted in each ankle being sprained pretty badly within the last 7 years. When I wake up in the morning, I walk like a little old man for the first few minutes of the day.
Dysfunctional as they may be, though, I love them in this photo. It seems like a way to end on a good note.
