This blog will be a members-only, time-limited site, used as the research project for my thesis at the Faculty of Social Work at Wilfrid Laurier University. I would like to understand how mothers deal with identity issues. If you’re interested in joining the conversation, check it out at www.mothersvoice.ca.
I must break my little boy’s heart now and again.
It’s at the same time of day—you know the one. Just after your body has moved into that state of deep relaxation which allows you to do your night work—learning, remembering and problem solving—REM sleep. Then suddenly BHAM!! You’re called upon to mother in the dark.
I have confessed before, and clearly I need more work because my shortcoming remain: I am a better mother in the light. The dark voice is mostly silent when the light shines in. But woken out of that deep, vulnerable state, I suck. It must be a heart breaking experience for Michael. I am clearly not his Mum.
Saturday night, jolted out of my sleep and into the room, I could only think about how I was sick and tired of being disturbed during my sleep (me, me, me) and how Chuck suffers more from interrupted sleep than I (he’s going to be grumpy). I wanted Michael to just stop and go back to bed already!
I did not even attempt to problem solve or listen to his concern; I never even asked. I was too deeply into myself and Chuck’s issues. Even his tears left me unmoved. I heard them as theatrical, not real in my dark sleepy fog.
But then I made it worse. I got angry that he settled into the floor mattress in our bedroom (set-up because being near me seems to resolve any need he presents, with the added benefit that I don’t have to physically get up), and irrationally decided to add to the dynamic that he should stop sleeping with us. Why did I say that? What was the point in the dark of night, with 3 sleeps disrupted, when he would have settled down?
It was fear. I was talking from a fear of having an upset, cranky husband who needed to start the week rested, not exhausted. I take ownership of resolving these night wakings because it is me Michael wants. Ergo, I should be able to prevent these issues, my mind erroneously asserts in the dark.
I had another recent failure, when I reasoned that perhaps the middle-of-the-night accommodations in our room were just too comfortable and perhaps if I made them less ideal he would stay put in his bed. No, he didn’t stay put. We had a couple of nights of his waking up like clock-work, settling in and sleeping restlessly as his blankets came off repeatedly. That was cumulatively painful for Chuck who had been trying to get up to work-out at 6 a.m.. He lost his rhythm and his work-outs and spent the start of every day flogging himself and feeling tired. I felt like it was my fault.
I fear the failure.
Yet somehow, that fear doesn’t propel me to act from my heart which always resolves issues, it inspires knee-jerk, ineffective solutions and heightened adrenaline. All unhelpful for resolving a little boy’s problems and getting everyone back to sleep quickly. And I cannot in good conscience help but wonder where these crazy ideas come from in the middle of the night. They are so clearly not part of my make-up during the light, so where am I getting them?
It’s all completely irrational, and this discussion of it, total naval gazing. I should simply follow the fine example Chuck provided me on Saturday night and just give Michael what he so clearly needs for a fear of the dark which is obviously (obvious in the light of day) real. He (the one I was so worried would be wiped out by the disruption) got up, took Michael back to his bed and lay with him. That is the time honoured remedy for fear of the dark—company in it.
So it’s not naval gazing: it’s nothing less monumental than learning what mothering means. It means tuning out the voice in you which says in essence, leave me alone, when it’s inconvenient to be called upon to mother. It is my job to be his soft spot to land when he’s scared, hurt or unsure. I can’t control when I’ll be called upon to do my duty, I just have to be there to do it. That is what mothering is all about.
[And for the record, we’ve tried night lights and they seem to wake him and keep him awake. I am also afraid that the light will not allow him a full, healthy sleep, having read that we need darkness to produce the right conditions for sound sleep. So I compromise with a night light on in the adjacent bathroom.]
Last night after dinner, Michael ate ice cream cake (the “real stuff” - not frozen yogurt).
Then he slept through the night without so much as a peep.
Do you think this means I should feed him ice cream every night before bed?!
Let me count the ways.
I love the bravery mixed with trepidation I saw when you sat, strong and unflinching, as the dentist put needle after needle into your little gums. I love the strength you showed when you said that pulling your first front tooth hurt “a bit”, when I was singing and stroking your hair to prevent myself from crying at the sight. I love the goofy dance you did that same night at the front door when Nikki brought you a meal of soft Indian dishes. You wiggled out the strain of the day in her honour.
I love the way you show me with your body how you’ve learned a star fish can pull in its limbs, curing into a little ball to avoid “being eaten by a shark”. I love the mix of steadfast confidence and pure baby tears you’ve shown me at drop off at your new school. Your inner strength makes your deep vulnerability surprising to me still after 5 years.
I love the way your face lights up with pure joy as you jump into the lake unassisted, but closely watched, and you can’t help but burst with “I love you”s.
I love the laissez-faire way you decided that today would be the day you would begin jumping into the lake without safe parental arms to cushion your splash. You marched to the end of the dock and did it without fanfare or announcements. You just jumped!
I love the way you tried pushing and pulling, laughing and crying, yelling and whispering secrets with your cousin—all the while loving every minute of your new social life as a bigger girl. I loved hearing the way you found ways to needle her soft spots, and then strengthen your connection with a quiet “I love you”. Every moment was pure experimentation, learning and wonderment at the way another human being can behave.
I love the unbridled energy you bring to every step you take, every scene that plays out in your imagination and then onto our floor (your stage), and every breath I seize upon, waiting to see if I have to tell you not to….
I need these reminders today, this week and this month. I started September like everyone else excited to get back to work, started on new projects and the kids off into “their own thing”. But two weeks in, I’m remembering (again) that there is no “their own thing” yet. I am still their rock and their all. I cannot venture into my own selfish reverie about what I can get done today, because my days are still full of surprises.
I wake up unrested yet again because my little boy has again decided that he needs to be near the mother ship. He has to wake me up, find the mattress besides my bed and sleep fitfully enough to keep us from getting into REM sleep. I am not amused. I am “done” with being woken up for I can’t tell what. I am tired and want full nights of sleep again!
I am distracted from my to-do list, and float in the ambiguity that has become the work side of my life, because I’m not quite sure I can leave them to move in and out of school without my touch before and after. Her first tears at the door of class since she started Montessori 2 years ago serve only to remind me that I am still mother to two very small, inexperienced people who’ve just barely arrived on this planet. People who continue to look to me for certainty, reassurance and encouragement—even when they can’t tell me what they did this morning in school or seem to ignore me in favour of Diego.
It’s one of those sigh—breathe—take it for what it is—moments on which I look to Karen Miller for guidance. I can’t rush them, I can’t change them, I can’t predict them either. I have to be the flexible one, the one whose deep emotional pools refill automatically. I need to remember that every night they want more time, more stories, more lying-in, while I keep expecting them to grow out of those nurturing needs. Will they ever be full?
Remember…I love you, I tell them when they’re too far off to hear.
I love birthdays. Any excuse to celebrate an individual and recognize her uniqueness is as good a reason for cake as any other. But I have a secret about this birthday cake, I feel it’s as much for me as it is her. It was me after all, who sat 5 years ago perched on the threshold to motherhood, unable to see the next steps, choosing faith and love as my only companions.
Shooing fear and doubt away with every labour horror story I willed to bounce off me was easier said than done. Those acquaintances are the type that like to visit at dusk when I’m most tired and susceptible to suggestion. You have no idea how much pain you’re going to be in they’d taunt. What if the striking ambulance workers can’t get to you fast enough? You’ll never forgive yourself! they’d whisper ominously into my heart.
I still struggle to explain where the confidence to birth at home with a licensed midwife came from. There is no explanation except somewhere within. It’s not something I can share or teach. I looked hard at what I could control and how I felt in the quiet of myself to make that choice. I asked until I heard the answer: Where should we be? Where will we be safe? In a hospital was never part of the picture I got, neither were the anticeptic smell, bright halls or gowned strangers. I went with what I got. The quiet of our bedroom, the firm softness of our bed and the smell of my husband’s pillow. Love made the choice, faith showed me the place.
As I stir the batter for her 5th birthday cake I read the recipe, following the steps I’m reading for the first time. I’m poor at reading a recipe through before making it—I have all the ingredients on hand, I just fail to read the instructions in my haste until I’m in the moment. This lack of preparation usually leaves me feeling a bit trepidatious, with butterflies in my stomach—particularly when I come to a part I didn’t anticipate. At that moment I scramble to make what skills or utensils I have accomplish the task. And I throw in a big heap of intention and silent prayer. Becauase I love to feed people—well.
My mothering is basically the same. I haven’t read the receipes for raising a child. I mostly ignore parenting advice except from trusted sources and I scramble to handle the surprises I get along the way. But because I expect to be surprised, I have learned to trust that I will adapt. Jack Canfield in The Secret compares the road to life as being like driving in the dark: you can only see ahead as far as the head-lamps will show you. But that ambiguity about the whole journey doesn’t stop you from driving. Similarly, he notes, we climb stairs in the dark believing that there will be another, and then another step for our sure footedness. As I licked ice cream and wandered around my neighbourhood pacing my way through the early stages of labour I held onto that trusting faith. I have no idea what’s next, but I’m going with it.
Shocked was how I felt when I held Kate in my arms for the first time. Observers might say that’s because she was howling to wake the dead (and perhaps she was?). But I was stunned silent by her formidable presence, her strong and yes, vocal spirit and the fact that there she was in my arms for now and always. My legs shook as I knelt, holding her head-down to allow her lungs and passages to drain. I stared first at her red face, then at her long length and girl parts. Here she is, my daughter. I thought. I’m so glad you’ve come to me!
So as I prepare to ice the cake, putting a heavy dose of love on it, I’ll mix onto the sweetness my secret celebration of my on-going journey, now 5 years old. Michael added a new layer of engagement for me and for us. He’s made us richer, laugh harder and love more deeply still. So I ice the cake for both babes who come for me to mother, and celebrate the mysterious, affirming and surprising mothering journey we are on together. Happy Birthday Kate!
Sliding up beside me as I introduce her to her back-up caregiver at Kids & Company, she is quiet. She demurs from an introduction, not meeting the woman’s eyes for more than a moment. She pulls me down toward her to ask in a whisper if she and Michael can be in the same room. Read the rest of this entry »
There’s a little bare bum behind that proud smile. It came upon him so quickly, I might not have been to blame for missing the source. After a year of “helping” him learn what no one can truly teach, he figured it out all by himself in a flash. Who knew flush could be a sound which provoked pride? Read the rest of this entry »
This afternoon, I heard the clinking of ice in my water glass with nostalgia. It made me warm and happy and brought a smile to my face. Where did that all come from? I wondered. The sound took me back to childhood to one of those “adult” noises I dreamed of possessing. My grandparents and parents drank mixed drinks in glass tumblers and the clinking sound was their ice being swooshed around while they chatted and cajoled. I witnessed many family discussions over that noise. Discussions of which I longed to be a part when I grew old. Read the rest of this entry »
I don’t profess to understand very much about Zen. I think it’s about being conscious and aware in this moment, now. I read Momma Zen this week, written by Mom and Buddhist Priest Karen Maezen Miller. Her writing is clear, funny and somehow peaceful given the topic! Read the rest of this entry »
I usually credit my Gram with instilling in me the mantra “anything worth doing is worth doing well”, but in truth this belief rans rampant in my family. I admit that this can drive unsightly perfectionist tendencies in my behaviour, but it also means that I approach most life with zeal. But there’s an extra layer for me in doing something well, and that is also “getting it right”. Read the rest of this entry »