I awoke to you calling my name last night. I was ensconced deep in the recliner, swathed in blankets, pillows supporting my arms. We bought this recliner when I was pregnant with you and I remember laughing at the old fogey models that would slowly rise and deposit you on your feet with the touch of a button. I’m not laughing anymore, as I contemplate heaving my hugely pregnant body out of the chair (a task I already undertake numerous times a night for trips to the bathroom). I hold my breath and hope that you are just yelling out in your sleep, but after a brief pause you start to cry. I wait a few minutes, hoping you’ll either fall back asleep or that your father – sleeping in the other room – will get up to tend to you. And still you cry. My pulse quickens and I can feel my body wakening. Despite my reluctance to rise from the chair, I feel drawn to you, sensing instinctively that you need me. I struggle to my feet, but as I enter the hallway your father stills me. She’s winding down. Don’t go in. Remembering the several horrific nights we’ve had over the past few months, up with you for hours on end, I understand his fear. So I stand silently in the hall, and listen as your room becomes quiet. I don’t think this is the end, but I decide to take one of my numerous bathroom breaks, and sure enough, the crying resumes. Ignoring your father’s exasperated sighs, I enter your room.
You are sitting upright in your crib and right away I know this is not going to be our average nocturnal waking. Usually my presence alone is sufficient to stop your crying, but this time you continue on. Although your digestive issues have been remarkably in hand lately, I administer a dose of Colic Ease, just to be sure. Then I lift you to the changing table. You are crying and mumbling but I can’t figure out what you’re saying. When I try to put a new diaper on, you erupt in a rage, legs churning, body twisting, screaming don’t change my diaper! I set the diaper down and lean close to you. Ignoring logistical concerns for the moment (there is no way in hell I’m putting a not-yet-potty-trained 2.5 year old back to bed without a diaper), I stroke your face and push your hair out of your eyes. You quickly calm and we chat about mundane things for a few minutes. Confident that I have met whatever need you had for exacting some influence over the happenings of your life, I return my attention to your diaper and am rewarded by a resumption of the kicking and screaming.
Now I feel that I’m foundering. I check myself and find no internal anxiety that could possibly be triggering this episode. I already gave you a few minutes’ space which is typically more than sufficient. Quite frankly, I’m stumped. I think to myself that this is very unusual behavior, and that’s when I get the proverbial smack upside the head. You see, there is a lot about these last few weeks that has been unusual.
My beautiful daughter, I am 35 weeks pregnant and not having an easy time of it. The lumbar fusion I regrettably agreed to some 15 years ago does not agree with pregnancy. I am in so much pain that it’s difficult – sometimes impossible – to meet our daily needs. I find it hard to stay on my feet long enough to prepare a simple breakfast. Getting you into or out of your car seat completely wipes me out (needless to say, we don’t go anywhere these days). I pay dearly for rocking you, or lifting you in or out of your crib. In fact, this is the first time I’ve gotten up with you for quite some time.
Thankfully, your father has taken over bedtime and nighttime duties, and your Farmor has stepped willingly into my daytime role, becoming your primary caretaker so I can rest and try to keep my body from falling apart at the seams. You are clearly thrilled to spend so much time with her, especially since you last saw her in the fall before she departed for her southern, snowbird environs. I will be forever grateful to her for dropping everything and flying here to help me, as I am not sure how we would be making it otherwise.
And yet, it is still a big change for you. I’ve mentioned to your father on several occasions the widening gulf I feel between you and I. And the sadness I feel that I can’t give myself fully to you in these last weeks before you make the abrupt transition to older sister. You love your Farmor undeniably, but perhaps you are still wondering, Where has my mother gone? Perhaps that gulf I feel is you being angry at me for my sudden absence in your daily life.
All of this hits me in an instant as I stand before your rage, and it dawns on me that this has absolutely nothing to do with your diaper. I weigh my options, and since going diaperless is not one of them, I soldier ahead and wrestle a diaper onto your writhing body. I scoop you into my arms, grab a blanket and sit in the rocking chair. My body is crying out in protest, but I ignore it. You lean into me, your heart pressed against mine, and scream. I wrap my arms tightly around you and rock. Before I know it, we are crying together as I think of all the ways I can’t be there for you, and how confusing it must be. I don’t say anything to you; I don’t need to. I just hold you, and together we rock and cry. After a while I smooth your hair and tell you that I’m sad too, and it’s okay to cry. This sets off a round of fresh tears, and again we rock and cry. Finally, the last of the emotion leaves us, as if swirling down a drain, and we are silent except for our sniffling noses and jagged breathing. I hold you close to me; your head rests on my shoulder and your body drapes over my enormous belly. We rock for a while, and I think of how little time we have had like this, just the two of us. My body is hurting but I don’t care. You need this time. We both need this time.
I am still clutching your pajama bottoms in one hand, as I didn’t dare try to get them on during the melee of the diaper change. I have one last moment of doubt about what has occurred as I open my mouth and softly say, Let’s put your pants on. Have I really understood what just happened? Or will this request trigger yet another round of mystifying rage? You plop down on the armrest of the rocker, stick your foot out and cheerily announce that you will help me. It is then that I know with certainty that my instincts and feelings have uncovered the truth yet again. The purifying power of acceptance never ceases to amaze me.
I dress you and rock you for a while longer, savoring our closeness despite my discomfort. When I set you in the crib, you roll onto your stomach and draw your knees up into a fetal position (your favorite position to sleep in). I cover you with blankets and rub you for a few minutes, before leaving you to your slumber.
As I laboriously settle myself back into the recliner, I think about the lesson you’ve just taught me. I remember all the times I’ve found myself crying over a trivial matter, only to realize it was just a trigger and my tears were for something else entirely. Babies will cry whenever and wherever with no regard to societal norms, but you aren’t a baby anymore. You have reached an age where it is unlikely for you to fly into a rage for no apparent reason. And yet, you are not cognitively or emotionally mature enough to say, I’m angry because you hardly spend any time with me. I see now that we have entered a place where your emotions may not always correlate to the most obvious trigger. This night taught me that when I’m feeling confused and uncertain about what is going on, it’s a signal to look deeper, to resist the temptation to dismiss you as irrational and uncooperative. There are deeper currents running here, and it’s my job as your mother to ferret them out and understand them.
I think of the baby that is coming to us in a few weeks, and the tumult and change that will come with it. I am not a perfect parent, nor am I delusional. I know there are some hard times just around that bend up there, and we will surely find ourselves in this place again. But I also know that if I pay attention and watch for that signal – for my heart telling me to look closer – and if I listen to and honor you, we will find a way, you and I, to navigate the rocky shoals that lie ahead.