7.09.2008

Tuesday


motherhood is hard. so so so hard. i can't even count how many days I have wondered, "how much more do I have to give?" Day after day of meals and diapers and messes to my ears, particularly hard days followed by particularly hard nights. I wish there was a word to explain the ever-changing monotony that motherhood is, or can be. but during the hardest times, when my mind is racing over the millions of other things I could be pursuing, the places I could be traveling and the other lives I could be living, a small quiet thought always whispers, "this time is so short." Babies are only babies for so long, I only get ONE chance to watch them grow, the early morning cuddling and sweet slobbery kisses will be gone too soon.


Anna Quindlen is a genius and her essay makes me cry everytime...


"On Being Mom" by Anna Quindlen

If not for the photographs, I might have a hard time believing they ever existed. The pensive infant with the swipe of dark bangs and the black-button eyes of a Raggedy Andy doll. The placid baby with the yellow ringletsand the high piping voice. The sturdy toddler with the lower lip that curled into an apostrophe above her chin. All my babies are gone now. I say this not in sorrow but in disbelief. I take great satisfaction in what I have today: three almost-adults, two taller than I am, one closing in fast. Three people who read the same books I do and have learned not to be afraid of disagreeing with me in their opinion of them, who sometimes tell vulgar jokes that make me laugh until I choke and cry, who need razor blades and shower gel and privacy, who want to keep their doors closed more than I like.

Who, miraculously, go to the bathroom, zip up their jackets and move food from plate to mouth all by themselves. Like the trick soap I bought for the bathroom with a rubber ducky at its center, the baby is buried deep within each, barely discernible except through the unreliable haze of the past. Everything in all the books I once pored over is finished for me now. Penelope Leach, T. Berry Brazelton., Dr. Spock. The ones on sibling rivalry and sleeping through the night and early childhood education, all grown obsolete. Along with Goodnight Moon and Where the Wild Things Are, they are battered, spotted, well used. But I susp
ect that if you flipped the pages dust would rise like memories. What those books taught me, finally, and what the women on the playground taught me, and the well-meaning relations -- what they taught me was that they couldn't really teach me very much at all.

Raising children is presented at first as a true-false test, then becomes multiple choice, until finally, far along, you realize that it is an endless essay. No one knows anything. One child responds well to positive reinforcement, another can be managed only with a stern voice and a timeout. One boy is toilet trained at 3, his brother at 2. When my first child was born, parents were told to put baby to bed onhis bellyso that he would not choke on his own spit-up. By the time my last arrived, babies were put down on their backs because of research on sudden infant death syndrome. To a new parent this ever-shifting certainty is te
rrifying, and then soothing.Eventually you must learn to trust yourself. Eventually the research will follow.

I remember 15 years ago poring over one of Dr. Brazelton's wonderful books on child development, in which he describes three different sorts of infants: average, quiet, and active. I was looking for a sub-quiet codicil for an 18-month-old who did not walk. Was there something wrong with his fat little legs? Was there something wrong with his tiny little mind? Was he developmentally delayed, physically challenged? Was I insane? Last year he went to China. Next year he goes to college. He can ta
lk just fine. He can walk, too.

Every part of raising children is humbling, too. Believe me, mistakes were made. They have all been enshrined in the Remember-When-Mom-Did Hall of Fame. The outbursts, the temper tantrums, the bad language, mine, not theirs. The times the baby fell off the bed. The times I arrived late for preschool pickup. The nightmare sleepover. The horrible summer camp. The day when the youngest came barreling out of the classroom with a 98 on her geography test, and I responded, What did you get wrong? (She insisted I include that.) The time I ordered food at the McDonald's drive-through speaker and then drove away without picking it up from the window. (They all
insisted I include that.) I did not allow them to watch the Simpsons for the first two seasons...What was I thinking?

But the biggest mistake I made is the one that most of us make while doing this. I did not live in the moment enough. This is particularly clear now that the moment is gone, captured only in photographs. There is one picture of the three of them sitting in the grass on a quilt in the shadow of the swing set on a summer day, ages 6, 4 and 1. And I wish I could remember what we ate, and what we talked about, and how they sounded, and how they looked when they slept that night. I wish I had not been in such a hurry to get on to the next thing: dinner, bath, book, bed. I wish I had treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less.
Even today I'm not sure what worked and what didn't, what was me and what was simply life. When they were very small, I suppose I thought someday they would become who they were because of what I'd done. Now I suspect they simply grew into their true selves because they demanded in a thousand ways that I back off and let them be. The books said to be relaxed and I was often tense, matter-of-fact and I was sometimes over the top. And look how it all turned out. I wound up with the three people I like best in the world, who have done more than anyone to excavate my essential humanity. That's what the books never told me. I was bound and determined to learn from the experts. It just took me a while to figure out who the experts were.

tuesday was a perfect day. We stayed slept until 9:30 AM(!!!!), ate lime sugar cookies for breakfast, wore jammies until 4, rolled around on the floor, giggled and jumped and tickled until our faces fell off from laughing.


obviously.
I wish everyday was Tuesday.

4 comments:

The Askeroth Family said...

Rachel, this post made me cry! You're right, being a mom is incredibly hard - but SO worth it. I loved reading that story by Anna Quindlen (sp?), thanks for sharing it. I'm glad you and Sela got to have such a fun day together...she is such a pretty little girl.

Erin said...

Being a mom is hard! What M. Russell Ballard said in the last conference really stuck with me. The joy in motherhood comes in moments! The moments make it all worth it. I am glad I am not the only one who feels this way though. Some days I wake up and wonder if i am really ready to be a mom again today, but I still would not trade it for anything.

GUNDY said...

Holy Cow! -That lil' girl of yours is getting huge!

Ryan Steph & Jackson said...

Agreed