Category Archives: Social Science

The Hazards of Motherhood

I have found the past few days challenging. Claire, I think, is teething (I know, it’s ongoing). She has a third tooth breaking through on top, and I think a feel a fourth just under the gum. She’s quickly tired and more fussy, and exceptionally clingy with me. Part of the challenge is the emotional drain, especially since her ego and will are strengthening; as I’ve said before, I can see the toddler in her. I can see how the clash of wills will arise. The other part of the challenge is that she’s getting physically bigger, stronger, and heavier. My arms have been getting stronger, but they do feel the strain. So does my back.

Then there’s the other hazard of motherhood: the chink in the armor that exposes the heart. On NPR this morning I heard a snippet from Story Corps. It was a mother recalling the time when her 10-year old son, who went to watch a sunset from a street corner, was killed by a reckless driver. As she described what she did and felt as she became aware that her son was the focus of the accident scene, and as she described how surprised she was that she survived the loss (because she felt the grief so terribly), and as she described the kind of kid he was, my heart broke and tears poured out. I was sitting on the floor with Claire playing and there was no guard, no warning. I scooped her up and hugged her.

Forget the concept of the “chink in the armor”; there is no armor at all. I just manage, most of the time, to ignore this fact by redirecting my thoughts whenever I’m tempted to think about what it would feel like if something bad happened to Claire or if I lost her. Motherhood is a practice of denial — denial of the ego, of the temptation to torture oneself with terrible fantasies. But first you must be in the vulnerable place of exposure. I wasn’t able to conceive this until I arrived at motherhood.

Relevance

This post has been updated with an extra link.

I’m not writing as much these days. Never in my life have I been so spent by the day’s end. Mothering has brought into focus for me what is real and what matters. It burns off all that is extraneous. Being used so completely simplifies my options. I must choose what matters, what merits my precious little free time and energy.

But it’s not just how I spend my free time. This has affected my thinking as well. Once upon a time I would ponder past experiences and relationships. I felt compelled to think about why certain relationships I’m in have unfolded the way they have. I psychoanalyzed. I looked for meaning. I rehashed the past — the injustices done, the abuse experienced, the chances lost.

One day I was in the shower and I began to think of a family member with whom I’m estranged. As I waded into my thoughts I had a realization: none of this matters now. The circumstances of how it came to be don’t matter to Claire. She is not me. The pain I experienced growing up and in my early adult life will not be her pain. In order to give her a free life, her own life, I must release my past so I don’t confuse her life with mine. It doesn’t matter anymore if so-and-so treated me badly, and it doesn’t matter how his life experiences shaped him so that he treated me thusly. It doesn’t matter if someone else’s relationship affected me immensely growing up. What matters is how Husband and I relate to one another as spouses and parents. What matters is how I respond to the challenges Claire will face, and how I help her to navigate them. What matters is being here now, keeping company with my daughter as she encounters life. This requires letting go of the past, returning constantly to what’s in front of me. With regard to the broken relationship, I can either attempt to reconnect with this person or I can drop it. Life is too precious to waste on ruminating about it.

I used to need to tell my story. And sure, someday maybe I will. But I’ve got something so much more important and fulfilling to attend to: my life, and my daughter.

Basically, Karen wrote about this last week and then again today; she says it so much better than I.

So, you wonder, what do I do with my free time? After chores (laundry, cleaning, prepping Claire’s food, putting away toys, etc.) I’ve been knitting. I read when I can focus mentally. I doodle. I try to make art. I get a good night’s sleep. I’ve been thinking about writing this post for several weeks, and tonight I forced myself to do it. The more aware Claire becomes, the less important blogging and the Internet is to me. I’ll still be around. Just a little more scarce.
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My first mother’s day was sweet. I received snail mail cards, e-cards, phone calls, gifts. Husband cooked a steak dinner for me with corn on the cob and macaroni and cheese. Since Claire now naps in her crib, I got a chance to go knit with my friends who own a yarn shop. And then I had a nap!

Now

Increasingly I live in the time called Now. My days are full; as Claire becomes more active and engaged, the more present I become. Oh, I do think about future things (my tasks for the next day), and I find past ruminations intrude often. When I “come to” my mind gnawing a past experience like a bone, I stop myself and let the thought go. I’m sure this happens at least dozens of times daily. However, by the end of the day I creep into bed having felt I really lived all day. Besides, by bedtime all I am aware of is that it is time to sleep. I’m tired, very tired, at sunset, but I enjoy my life more than ever. I’m never bored anymore.

I love watching Claire when Husband reads to her. There are a bunch of books that we’ve read often enough that she squeals when we get to parts that make her happy. She’s sitting entirely on her own now. I observed as Husband sat on the floor next to her reading Barnyard Banter (a book we like so much I wrote a review for Amazon) that she squeaked with happiness and alternated between looking at the book and looking up at him. If there was ever a moment to feel adoration, that was it.

I myself am adored beyond my wildest expectations. I am desired, needed, demanded. Claire haaaates the new play yard. Hates it, hates it, hates it. It is prison. It is a place of betrayal and abandonment. It’s where Mommy puts Claire when Mommy needs two free hands and for Claire to be safe. The instant she is set onto the mat she begins wailing. I do what I need to do quickly and talk to her when I’m near enough. If I must leave the room I tell her and say that I’ll be right back. The tears aren’t just sadness. Oh no! She’s screaming mad too! Do not want! I’m going to report you to management!! So I believe separation anxiety has begun.

Another vocal development is what I call the Groan of Concentration. There’s a sound she makes when she examines a toy closely or when she’s trying a new move; it sounds like she’s softly clearing her throat, but it’s not a long “harrrumph.” It’s got a little staccato to it. Her repertoire over the months has grown so much. As a newborn there was the Cindy Lou Who coo. Then the Beavis and Butthead chuckle (which became a dulcet laugh). Then the Poop Shriek; she inhales sharply as though she’s watching a shocking event unfold. When we hear that sound, we know what needs to happen. And now the Groan of Concentration. What an interesting little person she is!

A New World

I marvel at how Claire’s existence has opened my life. It’s also reassuring to see how people react to her. We go out daily (for my well-being as much as hers).

On Thursday we went to the mall. I’m not a fan of malls, but I thought it would be interesting (anything different is inherently interesting to her). The sunlight streamed through cathedral-type ceilings, and there colors and noises galore. The first store I entered was the Build-a-Bear Workshop. An employee approached to greet me and as soon as she saw Claire she said “Oh hello!” I’m sure they say that to every baby. Well, Claire is always ready with a smile, so she gave that gift. The woman cooed and exclaimed, and called her coworker over. And of course the more they talked to her and me, and used encouraging happy tones, the more Claire cooed and babbled. And the women said things like, “You know this baby gets talked to a lot!” “She’s so happy!” “Look how interested she is!”

Later we sat on a bench watching people. An elderly lady in a loud pink floral blouse and blazer approached and said, “Look at you!” Claire smiled and wiggled. The woman continued, “Does my colorful outfit rock your world?” and Claire babbled, and the conversation continued. As she departed, she said, “You’re a happy, happy baby. I feel it in my heart.”

I went into LUSH and a similar encounter occurred. A staff member approached to greet me and upon seeing Claire, smiled and said hello, and Claire responded. Among the many exclamations uttered, the woman said, “Oh, you’re beautiful! You have such a spark. You’re going to have love and joy all your life.” Then she spoke to me how she loves babies, and of her nephew. Claire opens up all sorts of conversations for me.

It was interesting watching Claire as we waited for the elevator. A ‘tween and her mother were also waiting. Claire gazed at the young woman, studying her intently. The girl looked at Claire and I saw Claire’s cheeks twitch, ready to smile, but the girl did not smile at or speak to her. (That would have been so uncool.) I watched the smile die, but Claire continued to watch the girl, who would glance at her occasionally.

We encountered one more person in the mall, an older woman, who commented on her alertness. (This woman also felt free to grill me with questions about how I feed her, since Claire’s petite, and whether I intended to have more kids. Irritating!)

At Central Park, similar incidents occur. A couple weeks ago a woman came rushing over as though she were greeting a long-lost friend. At first I thought Do I know you? Should I know you? because of how familiar she acted, but it turned out to be all for Claire. The lady said she just loves babies, and that she’s all done having kids (she had a 6-year old with her). She got down on her knees, cooed and spoke to Claire, said blessings in Hindi. I asked if she’d like to hold Claire and the answer was yes. She kissed Claire and hugged her, and when she handed Claire back, she said I’d made her day.

Yesterday at the park, a man with a leashed black dog was there with his grandchild. Claire is fascinated by dogs and cats (thank you, Sandra Boynton). She wriggled in my arms, and I asked if she could meet the dog. The man said yes, the dog is friendly. So I kneeled down and the man helped us pet her. The man commented on how curious and friendly Claire was, how much she smiled, how bright her eyes. And Claire got her first doggy kiss on the face (unexpectedly, and the man apologized, but Claire didn’t mind).

With her grandparents, aunts, and uncles being far away, and with no cousins, Claire is truly a singular child. So the fact that people are drawn to her and that she likes people makes me feel joyful and hopeful.

The Inconsolable Child

This observation was included in an article about adult discomfort with a crying child who won’t be comforted, and what to do for the child. The answer: just stay near. The excerpt articulates what I struggle with when my child cries.

“The inconsolable state of grief, or what feels like an intolerable level of loss or disappointment, is a very important point where the child begins to deal with our most fundamental relations — call it existential despair, or call it, ‘damn it, don’t you understand, this tragedy is unfixable!’. If a precious toy is lost, or a trust betrayed, or some such tragedy, it may evoke the feeling that this is not something I will be negotiated out of. I won’t be seduced by offers of warmth or food or entertainment. This is non-negotiable. (Is this what is known as integrity?)

“Somehow it feels as though what we ask for in that inconsolable state is the acknowledgment that, ‘yes, it is unfixable. No, nothing could be worse than this.’

“What prevents the so-called adult from being able to truly BE with the inconsolable child? I mean the child seems to know exactly what to do and how to do it. It wails and moans with great stamina. What about the adult, though? Do adults experience the exact same level of inconsolability? What has really changed in ‘growing up?’ What has changed is that the adult has acquired a learned ability to deny, and negotiate the unnegotiable tragedy. We are considered grown up when we no longer behave childishly, but the really vital question is whether we have faced the unfixable tragedy of life. Have we faced it, or have we negotiated it into a managed state? Doesn’t the child show us exactly where we stopped in growing up ourselves? The impulse is to calm the child, to make things better. But the scream comes back, ‘Don’t even try to calm me down!’ whether in words or equivalent. Why is this so unnerving? Doesn’t it evoke all the fear, resentment, frustration, which hasn’t really changed at all since our own childhood? And isn’t the impulse to get the child calmed down, by any means possible, an impulse to stifle this Pandora’s box? It’s an enormous challenge to really be with the child in its inconsolable state.

“That child is ourself. We want love, which is always going to turn out to be less dependable than the infinite we hoped for. We want psychological security and it will never be enough. We want physical security. We want to continue as me forever. Our wants, and perceived needs come up bang against the wall of aloneness which wanting and hoping and grasping creates. Then, can we be with the sadness this evokes? Can we feel it, the impulse to run away from it, the absoluteness of it, the non-negotiable nature of our predicament as a vulnerable, scared human being? Perhaps if we truly perceive the fact that there is nothing I can do, then the child/adult may for the first time be free from an enormous burden of managing the unmanageable.

“The notion that I, as an ‘adult’, should know what to do with the inconsolable child is a myth which can only add pressure and fear when I realize I don’t know what to do. As soon as there is a formula of how to deal with inconsolability, then I am the adult raising the child. But in truth, the child and I are both trying to grow up together. Why should I know what to do? And he or she has something to remind me of here.

“You say to stay near. I agree. What ideas, fears and so on separate us from the child? Whether it’s the child or ourselves, it’s the same pain, isn’t it? Whether we are 2 years old, 32 years old, 92 years old, we face the same fear of the unknown, and the same unnegotiable grief when someone or something we love isn’t available. Can we openly not know the answer?”

“Doesn’t such a state of openness communicate itself? — to a child, to a dog or a cat, or to the people we live with?”

–Kevin Frank, When a Child is Inconsolable: Staying Near

123 Meme

This meme has been making the rounds. I’m not certain how I feel about the relevance of posting three sentences from a nearby book (and skipping the five preceding sentences), but what the heck.

I’ve been tagged by The Friendly Humanist for a new blog meme. Here are the rules:

Pick up the book nearest you with at least 123 pages. (No cheating!)
Turn to page 123.
Count the first five sentences.
Post the next three sentences.
Tag five other bloggers.

The book nearest me with at least 123 pages is a book I’ve had in queue for at least 10 years. I pulled it off the shelf the other day to think about reading it (so little time, so many books). Here are the sentences:

R’tu enabled the sisterly cooperation and dietary control women needed to successfully bear larger-brained babies. R’tu braided the mental, physical, and spiritual together in ever-expanding spirals of cultural expression. We thus led ourselves along the course of our evolution by enacting consciousness.

This begs the question: What is R’tu?

It’s a Sanskrit word. If Wikipedia is correct, it means:

Ritu (?tú) in Vedic Sanskrit refers to a fixed or appointed time, especially the proper time for sacrifice (yajna) or ritual in Vedic Religion. The word is so used in the Rigveda, the Yajurveda and the Atharvaveda. In Classical Sanskrit, it refers to an epoch or period, especially one of the six seasons of the year, Vasanta “spring”, Grishma “the hot season”, Varsha “the rainy season”, Sharad “autumn”, Hemant “winter”; and Shishir “the cool season”, or the menstrual cycle.

This link doesn’t define it, but it gives a sense of the concept’s importance in Sanskrit literature.

The book I used for the meme is Blood, Bread, and Roses: How Menstruation Created the World. Here is how the author defines the term.

Ritual, fromt Sanskrit r’tu, is any act of magic toward a purpose. Rita, means a proper course. Ri, meaning birth, is the root of red, pronounced “reed” in Old English and still in some modern English accents (New Zealand). R’tu means menstrual, suggesting that ritual began as menstrual acts. The root of r’tu is in “arithmetic” and “rhythm”; I hear it also in “art,” “theater,” and perhaps in “root” as well. The Sanskrit term is still alive in India, where goddess worship continues to keep r’tu alive in its menstrual senses; r’tu also refers to special acts of heterosexual intercourse immediately following menstruation, and also to specific time of year.

This should be an interesting book. The author, Judy Grahn, is an American poet, was a member of the Gay Women’s Liberation Group, helped establish The Women’s Press Collective in 1969, and is co-director of the Women’s Spirituality MA program and Program Director of the MFA in Creative Inquiry at the New College of California.

As for tagging others, I’m copping out on this one. I barely have the energy to finish this post, and I’d like to eat dinner. Besides, I don’t want to wear out my welcome with friends and recently tagged five people for another meme. If you want to play along, feel free, and leave a comment.