The desire to be a good mom

When I was talking to my mom last night, I told her I was making my first batch of homemade yogurt.

“I used to do that all the time,” she said. I couldn’t remember her making regular yogurt. But I did remember her making yogurt popsicles and I associate them with very positive memories. 25-30 years later, I still remember this homemade treat she took the time to make. I also remember, with the same or greater vividness, the horrible powdered milk we grew up on and the terrible lumps it would leave on top of the cereal. I want to gag just thinking about it.

In every decision, there is a tradeoff. Decisions as small as what type of milk to use, what to serve to eat, what to do together and what to do as an individual all have tradeoffs. I’m not going to be a slave to my child or society, sacrificing myself so that he can have everything perfect. But I also want him to have the best I can reasonably provide. Most of all, I want all of use to be able to look bad fondly on these times. I want to remember a life as a mother, a professional and an individual. I want River to recall feelings of safety, warmth, exploration and happiness. Unfortunately, negative memories make a stronger impact on the brain and they are more likely to be remembered than the positive ones. But I want to limit his gag reflexes decades down the road. I want him to remember treats, activities, moments created for him with love.

Basically, I want him to think I’m a good mom. I want him to be happy he ended up with us. I want him to believe that I did my best and that the best was good enough. I worried about this a lot before River was born, due to my own rocky relationship with my mother. While I was rather removed from the developing fetus during pregnancy, after his birth the connection happened naturally. I leave him with ease and frequency, but I return to him happy and ready to spend quality time with him.

Right now, I know I’m a good mom in his eyes. He loves me, he idolizes me and I can see and feel it in our interactions. Sometimes I feel undeserving. Other times I feel it’s only natural, because I love him with equal force. Other than his scary fall into the pool last summer, I don’t think he has any negative memories so far. His life has been a vale of happiness. He laughs and smiles and intently observes the world around him for most of the day.

I try not to think about it too much, but a little nagging sense tells me it won’t always be like this. What will happen when he ventures out more into society and meets the moms of other kids, moms that for a variety of reasons he might think do a better job? Will he then be disappointed in me, dissatisfied? He will have frightening, troubling, perhaps horrific experiences as he moves on in life. Will he blame me for not protecting him adequately? If something happens to me, will he blame me for not protecting myself adequately?

I can only do my best. But I want to be a good mom. I want him to grow up and tell his kids about a happy and secure childhood. I don’t want to screw up.

The fear of loss

I watched a disturbing, but intriguing and well done film tonight about a man who tries to reenter civilian life as an organ player after serving time for killing a young boy. Among the scenes were the mother, coming out from the café where she’d left her sleeping son in a stroller and not finding him. And a scene with the man, coming out from school and not being able to find a boy he was caring for. Both of them caused such feelings of anxiety.

I had one brief moment like that. While we were in the library and I was in the midst of the self-checkout of books, River ran away from me. Initially, I didn’t worry too much. It’s a safe place and there is only one way out and I was near that exit. Yet, when I was able to get away from the counter, leaving my purse and books there, I didn’t see him. I looked up the stairs, around the area and towards the exit, but nothing. I paused, expecting I’d hear his voice, but nothing. Minor panic set in. If I went into the library, he could run out the exit without me seeing. So I went to the exit first. But there was a huge crowd of people attending a film festival and the area was packed. What if one of them was evil and grabbed him? What if he’d gotten out the series of doors to the street?

I thought about asking the library staff member near the exit if he’d seen a toddler come by. But I was too ashamed. That would be admitting that I’d let him out of sight. I imagined a scene in which he was missing and I’d failed to enlist help immediately because I was too ashamed. It was brief, but horrible. Finally he came out from some bookshelves, happily toddling over to me in his overlarge leather jacket.

The fear of the world was lifted in the embrace of love. What a horrible thing to lose a child. A couple of minutes is terrifying. I really feel for anyone who experiences it for longer.

Thunderstorm

We’ve had two severe thunderstorms in the last 12 hours – the types where lightening rains down and colors the sky white, where the cracks and crashes are so loud and thunderous they feel they are coming through the walls.

The first storm was in the middle of the night. I feared River would wake up and I waited to hear his cry. When I didn’t, I was still tempted to wake him and bring him into the safety of our bed, to bring our family together to face the danger. I didn’t do it because I was the only one awake and it was only me that was feeling afraid.

This afternoon a similarly sharp storm appeared – strong enough that I unplugged the computers and turned off most electrical devices. Our babysitter stood with River by the open doorway, watching the rain pour down and the lightening flash and crackle. Yes, it was severe she agreed, and yes, the lightening felt very close by. But I was clearly more uncomfortable than she was. I wanted to protect my baby somehow, but didn’t know how.

These fairly mild events make me think back to our flight last month on a small plane from David to Panama City, Panama. We weren’t supposed to be going to Panama City. But our flight from David to San Jose was canceled and they rerouted us through Panama City.

It was rainy season in Panama and we got caught in a thunderstorm. I saw bunches of clouds outside the window, an endless puff of grey. Lightening crackled and brightened the view from the windows. I tried not to think about it until our plane dropped – straight down and suddenly. Then it did it again. By the time it happened a third time, passengers were screaming and I even let out a sound of alarm.

All the while, I held a sleeping baby in my arms. I tried not to pass my nervousness on to him, while I simultaneously gripped him as tightly as I could without waking him. All of a sudden I realized that without any restraint, he’d be the first to fly up and hit and the ceiling. I realized that in such moments, I want nothing more than to be with the people I love. At the same time, I would have removed River from there in an instant to take him away from the threat. Unfortunately, I was powerless to do so. I thought about the parents with small children who were on the planes attacked on 9/11 and how utterly terrified and powerless they must have been. Getting yourself into a bad situation is one thing. Bringing your child into danger, no matter how inadvertently, is another.

All this is to say that becoming a mother has affected my fear quotient. It’s made me more afraid than I used to be. I don’t want to do anything too stupid myself because I don’t want River to grow up without a mother. I’m sure he’d be fine. I’m sure he’d win over the hearts of whoever was in his life. But I don’t think any other woman could love him in the same way I do. For that reason, I want to be there for him. And of course, while I want to expose him to life and adventure, I don’t want to put him in harm’s way.

My husband applauds my newfound caution, saying that I wasn’t careful enough in the past. Yet, when I return from vacation telling him I was more careful than usual, yet I had a serious rafting accident and terrifying flights, he thinks I still have a way to go.