These are pictures of a very old marble grave stone. It's about 2,000 years old actually. From the 4th century BC, it was found in Psychiko Greece. It's one in a collection of grave steles at the National Archaelogical Museum in Athens, which Dodd and I visited in December.
"A woman who died in childbirth looks sorrowfully at her baby, held by another woman as it reaches for its dead mother."
"The name of the dead woman, Phylonoe, is recorded in the epigram carved on the epistyle."
Seeing this as we wandered through the museum stopped me in my tracks. I was stunned realizing what it depicted. The moment of separation between mother and child. The very moment of loss.
The ancient story this grave stone told felt personal. The mother's expression.The shared sorrow between the three characters. I took photos through my tears. That baby's outstretched arm. It broke the dam.
After it's initial personal impact, the grave stele validated something that seems to need validation. Most of the statuary in the museum paid homage to great warriors, great athletes, great gods, great leaders. This one honored a woman who died in childbirth. An unfortunate reality in the 4th century BC, and an all too common reality still in the 21st century. Phylonoe was given more importance than many of the women who die in childbirth today receive. Seeing another woman play a role worthy of immortalizing on a grave stone also hit home. And perhaps most validating, seeing a child's loss acknowledged.
I found myself taking comfort in this massive piece of marble. A strange consolation that comes from seeing a loss recognized and in knowing a specific sorrow is shared through thousands of years.
Too beautiful not to share.
#39 girls (last month 42)
#30 boys (last month 31)
#14 siblings (last month 14)
Here's a Bear story for the month of January.
He had a big meltdown getting ready for school last week. It started when he wanted to stack Curious George books rather than put them away and get dressed. A normal little protest that usually ends with him doing the right thing without too much redirection. But on this morning, something tripped his trigger.
He wailed. Lungs open wide, mouth open wider, he was in a full throttle tantrum. Then he went limp when I tried to get him dressed. Just floppy enough that I couldn't get legs into pants, arms into shirt. The shea butter I just lathered on him was smearing on the rug and on my fresh from the dry cleaner work pants. We were running late. I had to be at work early for a meeting.
I lost my cool. I picked him up in one arm, carried him sideways to the bathroom, plopped him roughly on his stool and began brushing the heck out of his teeth. I was not being a grown up. The wailing was even louder now in the bathroom. Mad hot tears were wetting the bathroom counter. It wasn't going well.
I regained some sensibility at the end of teeth brushing and calmed down. I was more gentle as I massaged cream into his curls and combed his hair.
Then out of nowhere, he stopped crying. He went from full blast to nothing, like he pushed an internal stop button. He just pulled himself out of his tantrum. He looked at me through the mirror without much expression. I couldn't tell what he was thinking.
When his hair was done and it was time to go, he turned around and put his arms around my neck. He looked in my eyes and said earnestly, "I'm sorry momma. I was acting like a baby."
I was speechless. All at once I felt 1) ashamed that my three year old was behaving more maturely than I was, 2) disbelief, did I really hear those words right, and 3) so completely impressed at his self control and ability to reason. I also wanted to apologize to him for my behavior but didn't want to take away from this big moment that was his.
So I told him I was very proud of how he got himself together and acknowledged that it's not easy to do. We had a big hug.
I thought we were done, but he had more to say.
"It won't happen again. I will listen today. I will take re-spon-sa-bib-atee."
Oh my word. This child is something else. He is three! He has a steadiness and ability to rise above his circumstances that I am only starting to understand. I couldn't be prouder of him that morning. Our boy is growing up.
