An intuitive doctor recently said to me, “I’m picking up a little stress. You’re taking care of others, worrying about their well-being. Does that sound right?”
Later, I told my friend Sue this, and we laughed, because, hello … motherhood! Any parent knows, as soon as your newborn squints up at you all cross-eyed and utterly helpless, your heart pounds with fierce devotion followed by maybe the smallest bit of concern about those weird googly eyes. Which is to say, motherhood is like submerging yourself in an ocean: vast waters of boundless love inextricably and forever salted by your own fears. While baby Jesus was visited shortly after birth by three wise men acknowledging his greatness, the rest of us were visited by nurses whispering of car-seat regulations and newborn screening tests.
Meeting my children was like discovering a new heart muscle, one that swelled not with blood, but pure unconditional love, except for the one eensy condition that I protect them from all harm, phthalates, bullies, vaccine injury and the diseases vaccines protect against.
When Col began walking, I was at first relieved that he was no longer mopping every public floor with his crawling knees, until, like a very small swami, he began summoning every thundering car, rabid dog and toxic puddle to his 24-pound, very fast, person.
Fears change. Our electrical-outlet covers have long been removed; the kids eat plump, whole grapes without me even watching. Now, I worry about the complicated swirl of emotions that sweep in and out of their tiny bodies, like storms, like typhoons, like tsunamis. And I worry about my response to these emotions. I worry that Col’s tooth has been loose for six months, and that when Rose is old enough, she’ll wear cheap cosmetics lousy with parabens.
But, as the doctor prescribed, I’m practicing discernment so I don’t get swept under the bus of harmless loose teeth. So, when Rose conducts evangelically fervent modern-day trading posts with her friends, maybe I needn’t worry that she’ll be at the helm of some dubious MLM scheme someday. Also, Col’s current anxiety-caused narcolepsy over doing math he’s perfectly capable of doesn’t mean he’ll be cleaning toilets for a living when he’s actually an unrecognized genius.
Also, I’m pretty sure that when Col and Rose get together for Thanksgiving as adults, he won’t shoot rubber bands into her gleaming turkey, and she’ll have no need to communicate with the pincers of her thumb and pointer finger. Which is to say, everyone is ultimately going to be okay. Really.
Yesterday, I came home from an ecstatic cross-country ski to Dan mediating the latest version of a sibling battle so repetitive and predictable, it’s like Col and Rose are actors in the worst reality TV show ever, directed by someone who doesn’t believe in character development. We’ve discussed this pattern in family meetings, identified pathways of change. Each kid has vowed to do his or her part to de-escalate and avoid violence. In the hot, panicky moment though, nothing has worked.
An hour after the fight, Col and Rose found each other like happy, playful puppies on the couch. And while my nervous system was still decelerating, the kids’ short-term memory had been completely wiped clean.
After I got the kids to bed, I resisted the usual post-bedtime debrief in which Dan and I dissect and analyze and generally devote more energy to the most energy-sucking parts of our day. I climbed into bed and said, “Parenting is really hard. We’re doing a really good job.” We hugged and didn’t say another word about it.
Reach Rachel Turiel at sanjuandrive@frontier.net. Visit her blog, 6512 and growing, on raising children, chickens and other messy, rewarding endeavors at 6,512 feet.
