24

MOMMY HAS TWO ARMS

by Anna Jordan

Did you play a dominant-armed sport in college?” the chiropractor asked. I was seated on the table as she worked her hands between my right shoulder blade and ribs. She lifted my arm up to my ear and pressed her fingers between my shoulder and collarbone.

“No,” I said.

“Hmm,” she replied, moving my right arm up and down in a slow, rhythmic motion. “You didn’t play volleyball? Tennis?”

“No.” I shook my head. My injury occurred this week, not twelve years ago. I couldn’t figure out why she was asking me these questions.

“You have significant strain on your rotator cuff, particularly on the right side. It’s just—breathe out—” she popped two of my ribs back into place—“I typically see this kind of wear and tear on athletes who played a competitive dominant-armed sport at the college level.”

I tried to laugh through my pain. “Oh, well, if that’s the case, my sport is motherhood.”

“Ha! I should have known,” she said as she gently laid me facedown on the table. “This makes sense with the tension I feel on your left side.” Pop.

“Co-sleeping with the baby in the crook of your left arm . . . hmm . . . that’s right here.” Crack. Pop.

“Breastfeeding can really throw off alignment in your neck.” Pop. Pop.

“You should probably try to carry your kids on your left side more to balance out this strain.” Crack. Crack. Crack.

I had thrown out my back just the day before. My middle daughter, Vivienne, had her annual parent-teacher conference at the preschool. With my husband out of town and my sitter unavailable, I had no choice but to bring both Vivi and my youngest, Eloise, with me to the meeting. As is typical for any kind of excursion with my girls, I packed as though we were venturing out on a week-long safari: sippy cups, packages of Puffs, several cereal bars, a snack stack container of blueberries and snap peas, diapers, wipes, some picture books, and—most importantly—six Little People Disney Princesses in their corresponding blue satin Disney Princess purse. I tossed everything into my diaper bag and strapped my daughters into their car seats.

As I drove to the conference, I noticed that my neck felt a little stiff. I did a few shoulder rolls at a stoplight and assumed I’d feel better as the day wore on. I usually did.

I felt decidedly uncomfortable as we slowly stepped down the stairs to the preschool director’s office. Why is it that children run everywhere but then navigate stairs at a snail’s pace? When we finally sat down in the desk chair at the parent-teacher conference, I leaned forward to place the baby on the ground and set my beastly bag next to her. When I sat up, my back seized. I could barely move. Frozen with pain, I did the only thing I could do: I smiled and continued that parent-teacher conference.

Before becoming a mother, I had anticipated the emotional strain of motherhood. We adopted our oldest, Mason, through the foster system, and I had taken all the classes and read all the books. We spent a substantial amount of time with our social worker discussing the complexity of bonding with a child who had experienced trauma. I felt as mentally prepared as I could to receive that placement call. But the truth is, I wasn’t prepared. I couldn’t anticipate the pain and stress of visits with birth parents. I didn’t expect all the paperwork and record keeping. I didn’t have the supplies to change a diaper or even give a bottle. But more than all that, I wasn’t prepared for this tiny little person to capture my heart. I was simultaneously surprised by how much he needed from me and how much I was able to give and keep giving.

Mason was placed with us on a Friday afternoon at 1:25 p.m. as I was coming out of a hot yoga class. Just the week before I had started training for my second half marathon. Any aches and pains I felt at that point were purely my own.

However, in those first few weeks and months of motherhood, my body grew tired under the weight of this growing baby boy. I wore him in a baby carrier, napped him in a sling. My back ached and my arms grew stronger.

When I became pregnant with Vivienne, I experienced another significant physical transformation as my body made room to accommodate more life. From my hair to my feet, everything changed. A woman’s body can do amazing things, but not until after the birth of my daughter did I discover my true athletic prowess.

Vivi was born on a Wednesday at 3:33 a.m. We were released to go home from the hospital on Friday. My husband was back at work by eight Monday morning. By noon on Monday, I had accomplished more than I ever thought humanly possible. Wiping a toddler booty while nursing an infant? Check. Making a peanut butter sandwich while nursing an infant? Check. Changing a diaper with a two-year-old climbing up my back? Mission accomplished. I was a one-woman feeding, cleaning jungle gym. There was nothing I couldn’t do.

And so it continued.

Over the past couple of years, perhaps I’ve built in my children too much confidence in my abilities. Over time, their requests have become more outlandish. Now, no matter how much I try, I find myself unable to accommodate all their demands. So I’ve begun to voice my limitations more clearly.

“I can’t lift you and separately carry your shoes while I’m also carrying two bags of groceries. Sorry, babe. Mommy only has two arms.”

“You need me to put Elsa’s dress back on while holding your sister and stirring a pot of chicken soup? Hey, girl. Mommy only has two arms.”

“Believe it or not, I actually am not able to make a turkey sandwich while assembling a Duplo structure. Mommy only has two arms.”

My children are understandably disappointed with the limits of my limbs. They’re children: their job is to ask for the impossible. Yet I am also often dismayed by my own limits. Sometimes I feel like I’m at capacity before we’ve even finished breakfast. I can never make eggs, kiss owies, and pour a cup of coffee while also remembering where Dusty Crophopper is as fast or as seamlessly as I hope. Still, I spend my days lifting, hugging, diapering, and snuggling my three sweet appendages. If my body is telling me anything, it’s that these two arms have been working awfully hard. They’ve been put to good use, and where I may think I’m at capacity, my body is actually incredibly capable.

As the chiropractor worked her way through my upper back, cracking and popping and realigning everything from my spine to my knuckles, I couldn’t help but feel thankful. I was in pain, yes, but it was the good kind of pain. It was the pain that comes from accomplishing great feats; the pain that comes from giving all you’ve got and then digging deeper for more. Like the college athlete my chiropractor thought I was, I have done some good, defining work with these two arms. In fact, more than I ever imagined. And I have so much more ahead of me.