Jesus was in the desert for 40 days.
Noah in a flood for 40 days.
My whole Catholic city of Cholula in prayer (or in parties) for 40 days.
But, I became the 40 day rebel.
Clearly, there is something sacred about 40 days. Historically and traditionally the importance is profound. And the post-partum tradition of a 40 day rest has probably been crucial in the lives of so many women. But, I really wouldn´t know, since I couldn’t bear the idea of the experience.
As I walked down the street with my two week old baby, my neighbors called out to me and asked how I was out of bed so soon. Older women who live with their daughters and young grandchildren had concern written on their foreheads. Not only is this sandal wearing, accent using, make-up-less foreigner risking her health, but also breaking another cultural code.
This walk to the park is prohibited. Driving my toddler to school, also prohibited. Hanging dirty diapers up on our roof, also prohibited. I´m not sure at what point the code is violated. Is it opening my front door or simply placing my bed-ridden feet on the floor? Either way, I have disobeyed.
According to tradition, my rebellion is costly. My mother-in-law warns me that my stomach will fail to deflate as I open my refrigerator. I jumped back from a passing car, startled for my kids, and therefore my milk production will come to an end. I ate some frozen strawberries and I might become frozen myself. I walk down the stairs and my stitches will pop open. I take my kids out in the open air, and topped it all off andam bound to non-functional maternity,
I guess that´s why everyone is amazed that I am doing as well as I am. Now at five weeks post-birth, returning to pre-pregnancy size, drowning in my overproduction of milk, and without pain as I carry my shoeless toddler to the car. Their eyes go big and expressions grander. ¨Jessy, you´re so intense.¨ ¨You are so wow.¨ But the reality for me is that I am just blessed.
I ignore the bagger at the grocery store nagging me that I need to have my whole abdomen synched up in a post-birth corset. I just walk past my neighbors who express concern and all I hear is ¨bed, herbal showers, and hot soups.¨ I push the coins across the counter as the ice cream man is triggered by my request. I do it all, because I can.
Three days post-birth I couldn´t. I still needed my husband´s steady hand to place my feet on the floor. At one week, I couldn´t. A simple cough caused a painful panic and a trip down the stairs could have been my last. But now I can. Each day I could more and more and so I did. And I´m so thankful because I got to be present with my toddler all day while keeping my baby´s inconsistent breath in my ear.
I can´t say the 40 day rest is meaningless. I don´t believe it to be bad. Actually, in the right context, it might help a family to flourish. In the context of a Mexican family where grandma lives next door and has the time to cook, where the toddler can go run off in the yard with his cousins, and where grandpa hops on his bicycle to go purchase the tortillas. This tradition that began in this context might just work out swell. A mother is given time. An opportunity to be still with her creature. Brain space to focus. And a peace that all will remain in order.
But, in my context, doing what I can just makes the most sense.
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