I continue to endeavor a narration of the past few months. They concurrently feel like several lifetimes lived and the comfort of consistency. The steady hand of contentment has been my ballast. The salve to the anxiety created by the unknown.
I get a bit wrapped up in the delivery. Choosing the correct word. The appropriate phrasing. Shrouding it in an eloquence that I only possess in writing. Sometimes, in my meticulousness, I lose the forest for the trees. Hence why I haven’t published a word since early November. It can also be difficult for me to prioritize- to determine what subject matter is worth focusing on. It was easier when this endeavor began. Moose was a baby and not yet a fully formed person. His personality was only beginning to emerge. And I was alone.
When I type that, it projects images of melancholy and self pity. The statement always fills me with a deep need to clarify. I know I wasn’t alone in my life. I had family. Friends. A support system. Individuals that I will never have the adequate words to express my gratitude for. Coversely, there is a solitude that accompanies the dissulution of a union that can only be understood by those that experience it. In the span of mere weeks, I lost the security of a shared existence. History. A promised future. In a lot of ways, I lost a huge portion of my identity. In light of that, writing about the discoveries, the fluctuations of feelings, seemed easier. Though it may seem counter, those days felt less vulnerable. There wasn’t anything left to lose. I had already lost everything there was. Six years later, I have rebuilt more than my life. I have rebuilt myself. A lot more feels at stake. The reality of vulnerability is that the more you’re risking, the more difficult it is.
The older Moose gets, the more I question my abilities as a mother. When he was a baby- well hell. When he was a baby, I didn’t question much. Mostly because I was convinced I was garbage at the entire enterprise. No human alive would have been capable of convincing me that the babe I cradled in my arms did not loathe me- particularly at 3 am. I carried the shame that everyone cared for my son better than I could. Soothed him with a talent I didn’t posses. I was certain I had been born devoid of motherly instincts. Regardless, I loved him with a vibration of my soul I didn’t know existed.
After it became just the two of us, we learned each other. I read books. I read him. I studied his patterns. Memorized his quirks. I allowed myself to unlearn habits- then learned new ones. He taught me. As an overall blanket statement, I am not sure I ever became a better mother. But I focused on becoming better at being his mother.
Now that he is older, the challenges are…. I was going to say bigger-but they aren’t. The stakes feel higher because the pressure I put on myself is growing in intensity. The challenges are different, changing. When he was a toddler it was about him wanting a sense of control. The processes seemed clearer to navigate. These days, I look into the eyes of a remarkable, complex, intelligent human that experiences a vast array of emotions without the vocabulary or wisdom to know what to do with it all. Fuck, I am a grown woman and I still don’t have the vocabulary and wisdom to know what to do with it all. It is unfair to expect him to perfectly emote in every situation. Yet, frustration still bubbles to the surface from time to time. That’s where the stakes feel so much higher- he is no longer a vegetable, merely mimicking. Am I modeling the correct behaviors? Have I set him up for emotional failure already? Is there a point of no return?
I’m not sure as parents if we are ever able to turn that off. There is part of me that believes the worry is a check and balances system- it means you’re paying attention. You give a shit. The other part of me wishes that insane part of my brain would calm the fuck down. Maybe one day I will find a middle ground. In the meantime, E has assumed the mantle of being the external voice of reason when my internal voice becomes a psychopath. Which may or may not be often.
This school year has brought homework struggles I wasn’t prepared for. Overwhelm. Tears. Perfectionism. Self-beratement. Some nights have brought us both to tears. I see myself reflected in him. The emotional cornerstones of my personality I never intended to pass down to my offspring. Naturally, responsibility and shame flood my mind after these nights. The pillars that uphold the platform of uncertainty in my abilities as a mother.
I’d love to say that I have found the root cause of my kiddos perfectionism. That I have eased all of his fears and he now soars through schoolwork with ease. This would be an untruth. I often feel like I am maneuvering through the unknown without a map. I am lost, yet attempting to lead. Self regulation is hard. I want to cede to my own frustration and overwhelm. Add fuel to the fire and burn the whole house down. In some ways, it feels easier. Familiar. I also know, deep in my soul that it would break us both. Fracture the parts of us that long to be understood and seen. I am well versed in emotional self mutilation, but I cannot bring myself to administer the scars to him- so I don’t. I sit in the discomfort. I try to learn new things. For him and myself.
Change is slow. Frustratingly so. There are days that I wonder if the words that escape my mouth have any influence upon his mind at all. I question my efficacy. My impact. And then he will self sooth when he would previously meltdown. Or he will allow himself pride in his achievement. Confidence in learning a new skill. It may be slow, but it is worth the wait.
This meandering tale was not at all what I expected to sit down a write today. Maybe I can blame it on the cold medicine that is keeping me upright. The reality is, our lives are merely highlighted by the milestones. The wedding announcements, the awards. But the fabric is intricately woven by the homework struggles, the swim lessons, hugs, apologies, inside jokes, and countless other daily occurrences that make the highlight reels worth it. This is the trenches. This is parenthood. This is what has shown him time and time again that I am a safe space. That my love is not contingent on anything. It cannot erode away. He can show me his worst parts and I will still show up for him. As I type this, I realize this goes for more then my progeny. It goes for my husband. But also for me. They are both showing me, every day, that I can show my worst self and their love will not erode away. It isn’t circumstantial. I guess I wrote exactly what I needed to hear. Perhaps what you needed, too.
Mommyhood Mayhem and Me 