Growing up, I never actively sought out the company of other girls my age. I found my relationships with females were few and far between and at times, difficult to manage. I did have some gracious girl friends who overlooked my flaws, and have stuck with me through the years while I've attempted to reconcile the need to be a social, contributing member of society and the desire to flee and retreat the same, bury myself in a song or a book, and merrily be on my way. Alone. Take heart, all the lovely young women who have shaped my life the last decade, this post is not for you. Thank you for pushing your way through my defenses and stubborn behavior and pursuing me anyway. You've taught me to be a better woman and a much better friend.
Back to the beginning. This feeling of dread surrounding functions meant just for women followed me well into adulthood. Have you ever seen me at a women's retreat? I didn't think so. I hyperventilated on the way to my own bridal shower. I wish I could explain it better in order for me not to sound like such a jerk, but I hated being surrounded solely by women. Which is why, when I was in my early twenties and I read Anita Diamant's "The Red Tent", I thought it was a brilliant read, eloquently written, but missed the meaning entirely. Why would women want to all sit together in one room while on their period or just after giving birth? That sounded like a PMS nightmare. Sincerely. I just wanted chocolate, a terribly sad film and to be left alone. Sit around with 15 plus women all feeling the same thing? I'll pass.
And then, I had Ellie.
Suddenly, The Red Tent had wings. I was sick when I had El and I was blessed enough that my first entry into the red tent was that one of my dearest and best friends was the doctor who delivered my daughter. I remember feeling foggy and lost, in pain and unable to see, not even my own daughter's face. But hearing the assurance in S's voice throughout the laboring process was like being held. As God would have it, another of my dearest friends is a doula- I've never been one to see the beauty in anything that causes blood or pain, but the way she speaks of the miracle of birth I am almost tempted to believe her. She would call nearly every hour for updates. Her soothing words carried me through each contraction- as soon as you feel another one coming on, you just picture yourself falling backwards into the arms of Jesus. And I did. And I found myself, even in the state I was in, looking forward to each contraction as I knew it would bring me closer to the end. I could not have asked for a better labor coach than my husband, not to short change him, certainly. But there is something entirely different about the act of women caring for one another that I just didn't see prior to having a baby.
When we were released to go home, I thought it would be the same as always. I would be grateful for the quiet and the peace that couldn't be found at the hospital. But I wasn't. I was terrified and frightfully alone. I could hardly walk, could hardly see, was not allowed to breastfeed for 48 hours after delivery due to the drugs administered to prevent seizure during labor. I held my child and my heart broke for my inability to feed her, to see her, to know her the way I had hoped. And then, our mothers swooped in. And though it was overwhelming at times, it was much more reassuring. They worked tirelessly to keep our house clean. They made midnight diaper runs. They held our screaming offspring so that I could cry in the shower and told me it was normal to do so. And the women in my life set up their red tent in my driveway. As much as I avoided it my whole life, I had never dreamt they would move it in my direction. Or that it would be so welcome. My friends cooked meals for us- and not just, order a pizza meals- but carefully, gently and purposefully planned out meals surrounding the proper nutrients I and the baby should be getting. They rubbed my back and neck, prayed over the parts of my body slow to heal. They cooked in my kitchen, read to me because my heart ached that I still could not see the pages. Gave breastfeeding advice that was helpful and supportive and encouraging. They held me as I cried with the horror of what I had just lived through, and the fear of what raising a child brings. They propped themselves on my property, never hovering, never out of reach. And to my surprise, I was grateful. I was more than grateful. I was home.
I've recently re-read the red tent, and cried through every chapter. I am so thankful for the women who joined me then, and continue to meet me in my red tent. May God be gracious to my daughter and ensure that she realizes much sooner than I the joy and the necessity of sisterhood.