Brave World

Last night I went to the family law clinic that's held weekly at the city courthouse. I took 3 clients (an ugly word, but I don't know what else to say) along who have various strange legal situations. I was exhausted; it was a long day and I would rather have been in bed. As is always the case when I spend lots of time with the women, it turns into a big, fun production that is like nothing I get anywhere else. We sat huddled in the middle of a conference room waiting for our turns to be called and I asked them birth/motherhood questions. What a crazy thing! I can imagine that most people wouldn't seek guidance from a group of addicts who don't necessarily have custody of their kids, but damn! They were realer than real about it. That hour or so was one of the best I've spent in a long time. They told me about their labor (of course, I've met few moms who don't like to tell that story), the way they felt about during pregnancy (mixed reviews: one loved it, one hated it, one read medical dictionaries to the fetus because there was nothing else in the house to read), and they told me how it felt to see the baby after it was born (mixed reviews on this too). I laughed so hard and felt like I was in such a great club--I'm a lucky lady, indeed.

The made-for-tv-movie moment happened when one woman told her story about the 36 hour labor that preceded her son's birth. She wasn't planning to take him home (I'm assuming she had an adoption arranged) but she did. She lived in a drug house and had nothing for him; no clothes, no diapers, no bottle, no blankets. It was Christmas eve (I swear I'm not making this up) and she had a stash of pain pills given to her at the hospital. She called her dealer to help her out. Like Santa, the dealer came with an armload of diapers, blankets, clothes to exchange for the pain pills. The deal was made and she had the few things she needed to get through Christmas.

That's helpful perspective for me. I don't have a nice, neat way to tie that up because she did lose her son--twice. The story is long and complicated and involves a hideous violent crime committed against her that derailed her ability to care for him. What's crazy-amazing is her determination to stick it out. She's going to an actual jury trial regarding her parental rights (unheard of) and everyone who knows her wants so desperately for her to have a chance with her son. She's maintained sobriety for years at a time and, frankly, is much more together than most of the staff who work with me (probably including me). But okay, I've said plenty and most of it might not be interesting unless you know this woman. I guess what I want to say is that the crazy dysfunctional club I as (briefly) a part of last night felt so right. We were a group of less-than-perfect women who are smart, and loving, and tough. All of us feel deeply for our kids (unborn or not) and will struggle forever to do what's right. I get to be different, because I have an army of sober, non-drug-dealing, not-incarcerated, mostly-functional friends and family behind me, so my odds of getting myself that far into trouble aren't good. And hell, none of us will ever be pure of heart or anything like that.

Belonging is where it's at. I guess that's obvious. It's why we work where we do (maybe, hopefully), play with the people we do, stay close to our families (maybe, hopefully). I am just constantly surprised by where I feel that I belong. A few years ago I wrote a poem that had some sort of thing in it where a pregnant woman was surrounded by a group of women and they were doing something kind of ritualistic, who knows what. I just remembered that now--I knew then that the woman in the middle was me, but I definitely wasn't pregnant when I wrote it. I wonder about that.

So that's me, waxing on and on and not really saying anything coherent. I hope you don't feel like you just heard me telling you about my dream last night.

xoxoxo
k