Pot Liquor: February 2010

Well, it looks like "Simona Pooplooza" kicked off 2010 with a bang. The event coincided with Valentine's Day this year. While Teddy and I relaxed in bed a little later than usual and exchanged Valentine's Day gifts, Simone made a Valentine's Day deposit of her own in bed. It looked like chocolate. She had smeared the tell tale signs of the brown stuff everywhere. Tiny, curious handprints covered her body, crib posts, and linens. Its aroma wafted through the air and invaded my nostrils. Wait...., that isn't chocolate. It was the $#!t... LITERALLY. I'll spare you the pictures, but the cute, hand-picked crib bumper that once lined the safety rails? Gone. The once adorable, matching Abby Rose bedding? Off to the incinerator. Got any recommendations for a new toddler bed?

I got this email from a good friend and colleague today. Anna's insights expressed here really resonate with me and I wanted to share them with my mommy-blogger-friends.

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 bathr oom 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 suspect 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 child is toilet trained at 3, his sibling at 2.

When my first child was born, parents were told to put baby to bed on his belly so 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 terrifying, 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 de velopmentally delayed, physically challenged? Was I insane? Last year he went to China. Next year he goes to college. He can talk just fine. He can walk, too.

Every part of raising children is humbling. 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 here.) 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.

As I read this post I wished I was less of a doer and more of a be-er. I wished I was the kind of mom that treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less.

I always here people talk about living in the moment. More often than not, this concept escapes me. How terribly impractical it sounds. Now however, as I try to remember the quirky way Sadia dished a school yard experience at the dining room table last night, ironically I can't even remember that cute little thing she did that made me fall out of my chair laughing. I remember us all gathered at the table, but the vision goes black at that comedic moment Her mannerisms brought the whole house to a halt and all I can remember is trying to stick to the bedtime routine. Sadly, I was more focused on finishing her homework and less on the personality that was evolving right before my eyes.

Tonight I will lend more of my present self to my children's shovels, picks, extra hugs, kisses, and all other tricks they may take up to excavate my humanity.