Micah Klassen | The Massage

The Massage

By Micah Klassen

A weighted blanket is draped over my body, its pressure strangely comforting. My belly, chest, and thighs marinate in the warmth of the heated bed beneath, scents of peppermint, lavender, bergamot, and ylangylang mingling in my nostrils. Silver lamps mounted to the walls of this small, angular room send out an apricot glow; soft, melodic piano drifts from hidden speakers. I adjust my limbs a little, shuffle further back under the blanket and nestle my face into the doughnut-shaped head support in front of me, its cool material pressing against my forehead. Is this what it feels like to be inside the womb? I wonder, noticing the sensation of being enveloped in softness, supported completely — almost weightless. Maybe this is how it feels to be swaddled, I muse, smiling to myself. Somewhere, somehow, I bet adult swaddling is a real-life thing. I make a mental note to google it later.

For the next hour, however, I am going to step off the mental treadmill of mothering two very active little boys and let my mind go where it wants, unhurried; I will allow my overstressed body to be gently nurtured, and I will shed my impenetrable caregiving uniform in order to bare pieces of my scarred postpartum skin to a complete stranger — I’ll be completely vulnerable for awhile, just like a newborn.

Tap-tap-tap!

A gentle knock on the door interrupts my thoughts. “Come in!” I say, without lifting my head. I hear it slowly swing open as footsteps approach and a female voice asks “All ready?” I murmur something affirmative in reply, grateful for spa etiquette which stipulates: “No obligation to converse.” Today, my conversational energy has already been used up on my toddler, who recently turned three and loves plumbing the depths of his rapidly-expanding vocabulary. Clicks and swishes fill the silence between us as she goes about setting up, placing essential oil bottles on the counter adjacent to the massage table, readying necessary equipment. After a few minutes, she sprays something divine-smelling under my

nose, instructs me to “take a nice deep breath in-and-out” and I do so, slowly — mindfully. Then, experienced hands begin to glide down over my neck and shoulder muscles, identifying tensions and knots (of which there are many), forming a rhythm of controlled motions: palms applying gentle pressure — kneading, smoothing — then easing, releasing. Up and down, around — around; up, and then back down again.

Pressure, and release.

Pressure —

release.

It’s like poetry.

I couldn’t have anticipated how much of a sensory overload it would be to go from one child to two. Naturally, I’m an introvert who loves spending time outdoors in the sun, exploring wide open, wild spaces; I love comfortable clothing and deep conversations (over coffee). I feel emotions acutely. I firmly believe a scented candle can change the whole atmosphere of a room, and I like to shower at least once a day, otherwise I don’t sleep properly. Sustained loud noise, such as the noise in a busy mall or at a party, will drain my energy pretty quickly. I’m a quality time person.

Before I had kids, time alone was my go-to way of restoring a sense of equilibrium and wholeness when I felt overwhelmed or out of whack. I would go to a favourite cafe overlooking the ocean, sit and read, journal, or listen to new music. I would wander along ocean cliff tops taking pictures, breathing in big draughts of salt air, allowing my skin to be baptised and brightened by the sun. This did wonders for my mental health. But of course, having children drastically reduces these opportunities, which is something I’ve struggled with a whole lot more after having my second son, Wilder.

With our firstborn, the overload I felt was less sensory and more to do with being solely responsible for another human being, as opposed to just myself. I actually didn’t mind the constant physical contact. Though an introvert, I’m a very affectionate person and in this sense I’ve always

felt like I was born to nurture. I could snuggle Asher for hours at a time and not get tired of it, and of course, I only had him to worry about. So when he slept, I would shower or clean the house, or rest. If I felt inclined, I could binge watch a whole Netflix series while breastfeeding (and I did — hello Downton Abbey)!

However, when Wilder was born in February last year, he didn’t sleep as easily as Asher did, and breastfeeding was challenging for the first couple months. I had really bad engorgement, painful chafed nipples and ended up contracting mastitis around Week Two postpartum. I was surviving on three to four, sometimes two hours of sleep at night, and then spent my day learning to split my attention between the constant demands of a newborn and an active, almost two-year-old. There were times it all felt impossible. I had no time to myself whatsoever, and I felt as if I was in a perpetual state of physical contact. On top of all this, Australia went into lockdown shortly after Wilder was born, which meant some of my birth check-ups were cancelled. The healthcare system suddenly seemed fragile, preoccupied with COVID — inaccessible. My husband took two weeks of paternal leave during this time (he runs his own business) and I remember breaking down in tears the night before he was due to go back to work because I literally felt like I couldn’t face the next day alone with a newborn and a toddler while my body was still recovering from birth. Plus, I was already more exhausted than I’d ever experienced before and this alone was overwhelming.

But somehow — I did.

I survived that day, and I did it again the next, and the next, and the next. I had no capacity for housework, or cooking meals. I remember simply doing what I had to do to keep going from one hour to the next, focussing wholly on the needs of both boys, taking showers when my sister (who lived with us at the time) was occasionally home and offered to watch them.

Fast-forward to now, today. Wilder is fiercely a mama’s boy who loves being held and rocked to sleep. He’s passionate and strong-willed, physically robust and is constantly getting onto everything he shouldn’t. Asher just turned three and still needs a lot of physical affirmation and connection; he also has a whole lot of energy that regularly needs to be dispensed and though we’ve found our feet since those first months of adjusting, there are still days when I become a human jungle gym and

constantly have someone touching me or clinging to me. If I’m not helping Asher with something, I’m chasing Wilder out of the bathroom or lifting him down from our glass-plated coffee table or pulling him out of the kitchen cupboards.

The fact is, early motherhood is physically, mentally, and emotionally challenging. It sometimes feels like the exception to the rule everyone else automatically gets to abide by — maybe even the ultimate Groundhog Day. It comes with a whole lot of pressure and not a ton of release. We don’t have forced (or endorsed) breaks in our “workplace” — no one checking in regularly on us to ask, “Hey, have you had your lunch break yet?” or “Go take a ten-minute breather.” (I use the TV for that!) Even though “rest” and “self care” are a necessity for most people, these things can feel like a luxury for mothers — something designated to our “free” time, which is rare; yet the physical demands we face daily would most likely be a concern for Human Resources in any other field or profession.

Imagine how much our experience would improve if something like relaxation massage was offered weekly, at a low cost (or subsidised by the government), to mothers/parents/caregivers?

I find them to be incredibly helpful for my mental health and physical wellbeing, especially since becoming a mother of two; my back and shoulder muscles are constantly tight. I’m still recovering from pelvic issues from Wilder’s birth, and one hip is overworked due to routinely hoisting his weight. This is aside from (and in addition to) routine housework, carrying heavy grocery bags, lifting strollers, carseats and bikes in and out of vehicles, etc. Our bodies go through so much when we have children — it amazes me! But they are not invincible, and I know I’m not the only one who keenly feels the physical and mental load of mothering.

This past year, my request to my very obliging husband on every giftgiving occasion — my birthday, Christmas Day, Mother’s Day — was a relaxation massage at my favourite spa, and that is where I find myself now.

I’m so relaxed, I could fall asleep.

“Your treatment is complete” my masseuse says. “Feel free to lie here as long as you’d like (Does she really mean that?!) and I’ll meet you in the hallway when you’re ready.” My eyes are closed, but I hear her leave the room quietly. I let out a long breath, stretch my limbs, slowly open my eyes.

Sixty minutes always goes by like five.

MICAH KLASSEN was raised in New Zealand and homeschooled by her mum, who was the first to spark a love for creative writing in her during primary school. That spark quickly morphed into flame — writing is such a cathartic expression for Micah and has helped her through some very difficult seasons. In 2010, she moved to Australia, fell in love and married her Canadian sweetheart — They now have two babies and Micah is doing her best not to fall off the wild rollercoaster ride that is Motherhood! Currently writing from Vancouver, Canada.

Engage with Micah’s Story:

What do you wish was offered at low-cost or subsidized for parents that isn’t available currently? How would it improve your quality of life, the way you parent, society at large?