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| Image credit: Photo by Jill Greenseth on Flickr Licensed under Creative Commons |
I have a secret. I have been grieving over my children since, at times, before they were even born. Now that's not the way it's supposed to be, is it? I'm a mama, and mamas are supposed to be joy and love and acceptance for our whole lives long, from the moment of conception onward. At least, good mamas are. If we have expectations that aren't met, we're supposed to toss them out for all we do have, without a hint of regret; we're not to pack them away gently in the box with the baby clothes, stored in the attic because we can't quite bear to part with them yet.
My lowest moments in parenting -- the ones I want to stuff away in shame and never let my children or the world see -- are the ones where I couldn't accept that my children were themselves rather than my vision of them. They're the times I grieve the loss of what never was, and now go on to grieve the grieving.
My son Austen was only a few weeks old when I held the Worst Mother in History awards ceremony and handed myself the trophy. The qualifying event took place around 2 or 3 a.m. when my son was just a few weeks old. (No one else made it to the ceremony at that hour, but that was ok; I had no competition -- I never do -- since I am always running against myself, beating my previous lows. Those imagined, perfect other moms don't get to run.) Unlike other babies -- the TV babies, the parenting book babies, the babies with good moms who did things right -- my son wouldn't sleep anywhere but in my bed next to my body, which my (ex) pediatrician said was BAD and DANGEROUS.
So, on the night of my first worst moment as a parent, I nursed him for what felt like the two hundredth time and gently placed him in his bassinet for the two hundredth time, only to have him scream like the fuzzy warm blankets were full of blood-burning fire scorpions, the same way he had every single time I'd tried this for the twenty or thirty nights in a row. And that scream broke me. Bone tired and viciously angry, I picked him up roughly, looked him straight in his tiny screaming face and whispered, with venom and hatred in my voice, "You are a bad baby!" Oh. My. God. What was I saying? Was I insane? I was berating a tiny baby for... Being a baby. I broke down crying in exhaustion and shame, took him into the BAD, DANGEROUS bed, and was silently grateful that he was too tiny to see that I had been disappointed in him. Already. At a few weeks old.
When Austen was a year old, we went to a mama and baby music class. Now that's the kind of thing good mamas do, right? There I was, enriching my child's mind already at one. But he was having none of it. A class full of toddlers is never a model of disciplined attention, but even here I could see he was... different. He didn't have any interest in the bright, perky teacher or the other kids or even the musical instruments, which used to make him flinch and frown. He'd wander away from the circle where everyone else was engaged and stand staring out the window. I'd try to coax him back, thinking, "Why can't you be like the others? What am I doing wrong?" I was so traumatized by the feeling of something off, that we didn't sign up for another session.
A year later, when he still wasn't speaking and psychologists and therapists were starting, amidst a battery of tests, to whisper the word "autism," we tried a Gymboree class. "He needs to work on socializing with other children," they said. Again, there were all the other kids, enraptured at story time, while my son crawled through the same tunnel over and over and over again, alone. I'd get in the car, strap him into his car seat and sob quietly over the steering wheel, not wanting him to see that he'd disappointed me again before he'd even reached the age of three. And again, when the session ended, I couldn't bear to go back, but by that time it was clear he needed more than a Gymboree class anyway.
It was around this time that I found out I was pregnant with my daughter Janie. I was a little late and had been feeling a little queasy, so I took a home pregnancy test. My husband and I wanted a second child, eventually, but right then we were completely overwhelmed by Austen's needs. We weren't planning a pregnancy and had been using birth control. I took the test: thinking it would set my mind at ease, but fearing it would not. When that second line came up to indicate I was pregnant I sobbed, big heaving sobs of sorrow, the kind a mama is never supposed to sob when she finds out she's carrying the precious little life she's going to love and cherish. Already, before she was born, Janie disappointed me. Just by being. Being at the wrong time. I didn't feel worthy to be her mother.
I love Austen. He brings a richness and beauty to my life that wouldn't have been there if he had been the child I expected. So I don't want to admit that there was ever even a moment when I didn't love and cherish him exactly as he was, when I wanted something different, when I wanted him without the autism and his sensory issues I hadn't planned or expected. I love Janie. She's brought joy to my life that I couldn't have imagined. So I don't want to admit there was ever even a moment when I didn't want her at all or at least not when she happened to come. I don't want to admit that I had to grieve Austen's autism or grieve Janie's conception before I could arrive at the love and acceptance mamas are supposed to give as naturally as breathing. Yet I did. Shh! Don't tell anyone.
I can relate and need to thank you. Reading this has helped me to breath a heavy sigh and admit that I too have had those moments... my oldest did not measure up, my youngest was not how I expected - both were to young to see my disappointment but the strange thing is I still feel guilty for it...
you have a way with words.
Thank you for sharing this. I feel guilty for not loving every minute of being a parent like the commercials and my SIL seem to think I should. Whenever I let go of my inner and outer expectations, and just relax it seems I'm the best at being mom.
Just this very day I got into a conversation with coworkers about parenting. They don't have children, so that gives you an idea. I didn't want to sound defensive or testy, but I made it clear that I've been one of those parents with an "awful" child and I've gotten those looks from people. I also said that a friend of mine (that would be you) had an austistic child and I explained a little bit of that story of yours (the one mentioned in the NYT).
My coworkers seemed surprised that I'd ever had crying fits over parenting and that on more than one occasion my husband came home from work to save me from my own insecurity and fury. I've won several bad mother awards myself, so you're going to have to share the trophy.
Sometimes I wish I had a Room of Mama's Own of my own, and I could, but I don't, but I love the crushing honesty I always find here in your room.
I remember once, when I was 16 and knew everything, I told my dad, to his face, that he sucked as a father to my special needs little brother. It must have taken everything he had not to slap my face.
Both my dad and brother were dead within five years of that conversation.
I'm so grateful for my own kids and how they take me to the most painful dark depths of humility ... so I can understand love and forgiveness and feel horrible pain and guilt ... and beauty and joy.
Life was really pretty boring before they came along.
As usual, your honesty leaves me breathless.
Thank you for being honest.
Things seem larger than life when they are unspoken.
I've had my parenting moments.
Black, black moments.
i would (do) get so frustrated with my sons on certain days that I call them Throw the Baby Down the Stairs days. I would never do it, but it feels so good to say it.
Our ONLY requirements as moms is to make sure our children know they are loved unconditionally, fed, clothed, and housed as best we can. Everything else is gravy. It took me a long time to learn to embrace being the Good Enough mother, and even though my sons still fail to rise to my every expectation, and I continue to fail to meet all of my own, they are Good Enough Kids and we are good enough for each other.
You, my dear sweet perfection-seeking friend, are exactly the mother Austen and Janie need. No one else would be as beautifully, perfectly imperfect as you are and raise such smart, loving children who are comfortable with being exactly who they are at this exact moment. And this one. And this one.
Sometimes it's ok to want to throw the baby down the stairs. It's our ability to refrain from doing so that makes us good moms.
I don't like babies, so it didn't come as a shock to me to take a loooong time to come to love my eldest. The moments when it took all my self control to only drop him on the bed and run rather than hurl him on the floor didn't take me by surprise. But when my second was born, and he was a boy, I was overwhelmed with disappointment. That's utterly unacceptable in my world. It doesn't matter what gender they are. To mark his first breath with disappointment, and for something so ridiculous as gender, is probably about the only thing I have ever felt lasting guilt over as a parent.
He turned out to be Angel Baby, and stunned me by endearing me extremely quickly. Turns out that some babies aren't quite as hideous as I had always thought. Not that I have changed my stance on babies in general.
In the end, I stopped pretending that I didn't care about gender and we tried explicitly for a girl and got one. Although the gods threw that one last parting shot by allowing me to believe it was a boy for two weeks during the pregnancy. I'm pleased to say that I had made my peace with it, even if I couldn't wipe the grin off my face for two days after I found out geneticists can be wrong.
I still feel guilty about wanting a girl. I keep looking for signs that I love her more. It's the worst thing about kids, how they shine huge great spotlights on your personal failings.
Thanks for writing so eloquently about how it happens to us all.
Thank you.
Honest great post. I'm sure that your children love you and know what a great mom you are. And that's great. I wish that more people with children were introspective.
I read your guest post at the New York Times. I left a comment there, but I'm sure it is lost among the others. I thank you for sharing your experience in the supermarket. I feel humbled, enlightened, and educated by your words. Sometimes all it takes is one story to make a difference and yours made a difference to me. My words feel inadequate, but I hope you can feel what I'm saying.
Wow! I thought I was the only one with those feelings. Your way with word is incredible and your courage to share what everyone else feels is remarkable.
I once said, in a burst of true inspiration, to a cousin dealing with the grief of seeing her son being labeled autistic, "you have to grieve the loss of the perfect son you expected so you can accept the perfect son you were given." Honestly, I think I was given that inspiration for myself, not for her. I have thought about it so much since because my sweet son continues to, when I'm having my bad mom moments, disappoint me. Really, it's myself I should be disappointed in, not him.
Thank you for this honest post. It's nice to know I'm not the only one who feels this way sometimes.
The one bit of advice I always give new mothers (when asked, of course,) is that you may love your children all the time, but don't expect to like them all the time. My bad-mother-moments have taught me this. Even with "normal" kids, there are days when I want to run and hide.
You have an excellent run of posts here, my friend!
stick your finger in my heart and swirl it around why dont ya. its not nice to make me remember my bad parent moments. but it needed to be.
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