the dichotomy of motherhood

Mark has abandoned me for the comforts of a home bed. I told him that if he was leaving, he should take River with him. If River slept at home in his crib, both Mark and I would have the chance for a good night’s sleep. They’ll be back early tomorrow morning for another day of fun.

So, now I find myself alone in a tent at a campground. I hear a young woman singing to the accompaniment of a guitar, the flicker of flames, the sound of childrens’ voice, the night-time sounds of the forest. And I feel torn in two.

When they first left, I immediately felt an intense longing for River. I saw his clothing in my suitcase, came across his cheerios in my backpack. Each object I saw made me miss him, despite his being gone only minutes. Yes, he keeps me on my toes. Yes, I’ve been tired over the past few days, physically as well as emotionally. But at the same time, I’m enjoying the job.

Shortly before they left, I had the challenge of talking River out of eating a rock and instead, throwing it on the ground. Could I talk him into doing it himself so that he’d understand, so that I wouldn’t have to grab it away, so that he wouldn’t scream? It took a while, but I succeeded. And that felt good. I’m constantly being forced to grow with my child, to help him in his latest stage of development. Sometimes it’s difficult, but it’s not too threatening. Overall, he’s affectionate and shows his love for me. Unlike with a teenager, I don’t have to worry about him hating me for the long-term. Even if he gets upset, I know that within a few minutes, we’ll be on good terms again. This is a very forgiving way of allowing me to test out my role as a parent, without the threat of real rejection. I thrive on both the challenge and the expressions of love.

At the same time, what joy to roast marshmallows at leisure without having to look up every few moments to make sure that River is not running down a road with a car coming toward him. How nice to read a magazine, then a book. To luxuriate in a hot shower without him underneath me. To have quiet time alone, in a forest, in a tent that really, is a tight fit even for two adults.

At the same time, I miss his energetic little body crawling across the small space, forever seeking and exploring. How can I miss him and long for him so intensely, and at the same time, be so grateful for this time alone? One other wish would be a quiet evening with Mark in a tent in the forest. For that, I’ll have to hold out until our vacation later this summer, when we’ll be leaving River with my parents for two weeks.

I suppose this is the unresolvable dichotomy of motherhood – the child forever in ones heart and thoughts together with an ongoing need to live an independent life as one’s own person I feel lucky to have the love that makes my heart ache this way. At the same time, I wish I could draw a clearer line between my life as a mother and my own time, and not feel guilty as I’m living out one role or the other.

Have you found a good way to deal with this dichotomy?

What makes a bond?

In posting my birth story yesterday, I was reminded of the fact that while River spent a few moments on my chest immediately after birth (during which I reacted with some recoiling), he spent his first two hours with Mark. I probably wouldn’t have chosen this if the circumstances were different, but in hindsight, what has been the effect? I would say absolutely none.

He loves me intensely and I love him. He loves Mark, but still prefers me at this stage, even though Mark held him first.

I think of a woman I know who just gave birth to her fourth. With her first three, she was very much an attachment parent. This baby was born premature with some serious health scares. She calls her current parenting “detachment” parenting. She lost her milk as she sat by the incubator one night, fearful her baby would die by the morning. She can’t carry him because he’s attached to a medical device. So he receives a bottle every few hours and spends most of his time in his bassinet.

I think this woman is having a difficult time adjusting her expectations – of realizing that she can’t be an attachment parent to this baby in the way that she wanted to, of knowing that even though she’s not doing what she expected, she’s doing the best she can.

It’s made me think that some people and some literature put too much of a burden on new mothers by making them think that the first moments or the first days will have a long-term impact on the child’s development or the mother-child bond.

Sure, it’s good to hold babies. Sure, breastfeeding is good if it works for both parties. But does it specifically have to be the mother holding the baby or will a warm, loving body suffice? Do these things have a long-term impact? I’m doubtful, as long as the decisions are made with love. If a baby is not held because a parent is ignoring it, I imagine that could be harmful if repeated over time. If a baby is not held because circumstances don’t allow it, I think it’s different. I think the baby will feel whether or not there is love in the interactions. I think they will respond to the vibe they receive.

I wish that women (it seems to be mostly women) could stop beating up themselves and others. I wish they could feel that love is both necessary and sufficient.

What do you think?

A wave of love

In the past couple of days, I’ve been thinking about how strong is the love that I feel for River. I wonder whether nature intends it to be this way – building up my love so strong at 10/11 months so that I’ll still love him no matter how difficult or annoying his toddler stage, no matter how many people look away in irritation.

I went to a meeting last night. A woman brought her toddler, age 2 or so. All through the meeting the facilitator was making gestures toward the toddler and the mother was making comments. I’m sure she thought these comments were important and relevant – such as how her daughter lives on pizza. She was a stranger to me, so I really didn’t care what kind of food she ate. But her mother thought we’d all be interested. And I suppose that’s a sign of the same type of immense, consuming love

It’s surprising for me to feel this much love. I didn’t connect with him at all in-utero, and didn’t even refer to him (it) as anything more human than a fetus until I got a 3-D ultrasound at 25 weeks or so. I was never one to hug my belly. I thought of him as a person only in the abstract. If anything, I worried I wouldn’t love him enough.

But the opposite has occurred and it feels to me like a wave. I hope it will be a warm, soft wave that will wash around him like a whirlpool and make him feel safe, comfortable and happy. But sometimes it’s so intense, I want to hug him with such power and smother him in kisses, that I worry it’s a tidal wave, in danger of crashing over him.

Vestiges of Racism

I’ve had racism on my mind this weekend. We’ve traveled to the Midwest to attend a wedding and to visit family.

The first negative situation came when my mom told me that my grandmother, her mother, will be voting for McCain. My grandma is a lifelong democrat and we share the bond of caring about social issues that the rest of our conservative-minded family rejects in favor of lower taxes. I was surprised and disappointed this spring when she rejected Hillary Clinton, saying that the Presidency is a job for a man. She supported John Edwards. I guess she meant the job is for a white man, because she’d rather change parties than to vote for Obama.

“Grandpa would turn over in his grave if he knew I was voting for a Republican” my grandma told my mom. It seems he’d jump even higher in his grave if she were to vote for an African-American or a woman for President.

I always knew my grandfather had some racist notions and I always appreciated that despite her upbringing, my mother was able to teach us to respect and value everyone regardless of their skin color. I hadn’t realized my grandmother was also racist.

“That’s why we never told anyone that Brian (my brother by adoption) is 25% Mexican,” my mom told me. “They wouldn’t have accepted it.”

A cousin of mine is now dating a woman of Hispanic origin. Everyone in the family seems to like her. Even my grandma said nothing but good things about her. But you never know what’s below the surface and that’s sad.

The next racist incident this weekend occurred during my dear friend Jessica’s wedding. She married a Vietnamese man named Luc who she has been dating for years. Luc’s parents immigrated from Vietnam, apparently with the hopes that their children would limit their choices of spouses to the small percentage of Vietnamese in the U.S. When Luc’s older brother married a Caucasian divorcee, he was banished from the family. Until the wedding yesterday, no one had met their five year old daughter.

At first it was thought that Luc’s parents wouldn’t attend the wedding. Then, not only the parents, but all the siblings agreed to attend. The whole family would show up in support for their son, which seemed a wonderful thing. The fact that they skipped the rehearsal dinner to go to the casino was probably not a good sign. But most disturbing of all was the parents behavior at the wedding. They didn’t show up for photos, they refused the flowers offered to them as parents of the groom, they greeted the mother of the bride only when she chased them down to introduce herself, they refused to speak English, and most hurtful of all to Jessica, they exited out a different door than everyone else so that they wouldn’t have to greet or acknowledge the bride. Of course, they didn’t come to the reception.

I think their treatment of her is the most blatant and direct racial discrimination I’ve ever seen. Yet while so much attention is paid to Caucasians discriminating against others (like my grandparents) this is an extremely open, accepting and welcoming Caucasian being discriminated against. I thought it was heartbreaking that her sister offered a kind toast welcoming Luc into the family, but no one from his side spoke welcoming her in.

Both she and Luc have overcome prejudices on either side of their families to love each other and build a life together. But it seems like their future children will face the same future as the five-year-old daughter of the banished brother – with no contact with the grandparents and uneasy relations with other relatives.

I want River to be able to love whoever he wants to. I want him to be able to build a family with a woman who loves and appreciates him. I could care less what color her skin is or where she comes from.

I try to take comfort in the fact that all of these people are old. My grandma is well into her 80s. Luc’s parents are grey and aging. I know that such attitudes aren’t dead among younger people, but I hope the prevalence is less. I hope that River can grow up in a world in which love of any and all kinds can be appreciated for the beauty and the happiness it brings. I just don’t understand the point of condemning people for loving.

Yes, mine is the slimy, snot-nosed child

Here I am, officially the parent of a slimy, sometimes snot-nosed kid. The type of kid people look at with disapproving glances. The kind of kid that makes younger people not want to have kids. Younger people that don’t spend any time with River, of course. Because even with mucus running out of his nose, he’s still sweet and loving and capable of winning most hearts.

Anyway, upon entering the library today, a lady told me I needed to blow River’s nose. I figured it was probably running, but I didn’t have any Kleenexes handy. However, when I went to the front of the stroller to take a look at him, he was breathing through his nose. Gigantic yellow green bubbles emerged from both nostrils, deflated and grew again.

Gi-ross! A friend gave me a diaper wipe for the job and I cleaned him up. I realized this is probably just the start. I feel like I’m now really a mother, that I can love something that probably turns most people off.