“When you are a mother, you are never really alone in your thoughts. A mother always has to think twice, once for herself and once for her child.” ~Sophia Loren
On Friday I flew from DC to Albany. On Saturday I drove back down to DC to retrieve a tupperware full of winter items and my cat and those other things that I have managed to collect after four months away. Let me be the first to tell you that since packing, unpacking and repacking over the last four months, I am seconds away from taking a giant broom and sweeping out anything that isn’t a mammal. Scratch that, my cat just puked on the floor. He’s out too.
My parents requested that I call them upon my arrival to Washington. I, of course, forgot as I opened my door and saw the amount of work to be done then shut the door and took a walk around the block with a diet coke. Mumbling to myself ‘I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.’ Then I got back to my apartment and a random pair of winter boots kicked me in the shins and I started mumbling ‘fuck this. fuck this.’ So, my parents were put on the back-burner. My mother called first to see if I had made it ok. Then my father.
I’m fine! I told them. I’m 27 or as my brother likes to say “Heather, you’re like fucking 30…”. I have grays sprouting at the top of my head. I’m fine. I can drive to DC and back.
I’m fine.
But at 27 I am still their baby. My brothers and I ranging in age from mid-40′s to mid-20′s are still babies. I’m a woman with grays and bills but that doesn’t put a stop to my parents wanting to know that this person – a person they created and love with a fierceness that I cannot begin to comprehend – is out there, driving down the Jersey Turnpike. Alone. They wonder if I’m wearing my seatbelt or if I’ll stop when I’m tired. They wonder if I’ve made it ok or have enough money for gas.
It would stand to reason that because I am older they would worry less. In fact it’s the opposite. I am older, the world is my oyster. They worry more. They don’t let on because they don’t want to be helicopter parents at 50-something and 60-something. But their baby. Their only daughter is out there and that freaks them the fuck out.
My mother doesn’t sleep at night until she hears my 25 year old, law school-attending, brother return home. Then she knows that he’s back and he’s safe.
My oldest brother is in his 40′s. My father still calls to make sure he’s ok.
I read Ali’s words on protecting her children. She sees stories of young children being abducted and violently murdered in small communities. We all see these stories of children being gone much too soon. I send messages to friends who have lost their children without warning wondering how they do it. How they put their whole being in the form of their child out there into the world and hope for the best. And if the best doesn’t happen? How do you keep going?
I question these things as a non-parent of course. As a person who is able to forcibly remove herself from thinking of these things day in and day out because I don’t have to. There is a part of me that relishes in the great joy of not having to think about the person that I created from my own body. The person I have nurtured, loved, protected and held to my chest while giving reassuring butt-pats. I don’t have to think about that person being out there. I don’t have to worry. I get to sleep at night.
It is no secret, that I long to become a parent. Not at anytime soon, I can assure you but…you know…someday. I want to love and raise a person – by whatever means, that child comes to me. I want to nurture and fulfill and put a person out in this world – All of it – who is loving, kind and will do great things. That is every parents dream.
But then I remember that with that great responsibility comes great worry. Sleepless nights not due to colic or hunger but due to wanting that person who have rocked to sleep so many nights before to be more than ok. To be safe and sound and back with me holding my hand.
I so want to be a parent but, my God, I don’t think I can.
11 Comments
Yup. That’s it. Parenthood in a nutshell.
YOU CAN.
I figured as much. Though I want for someone to write a book about parenting titled “Scary Ass Shit” I’m assuming that might deter some from actually becoming a parent.
But Ali! What if I suck at it?! Or something happens or…I don’t know…perhaps people with anxiety issues shouldn’t procreate. I don’t see it going very well.
Parenting secret: we all suck at it.
But we get by. You will be awesome.
Dear, Heather (first time commenting) your desire to do the very best you can for your young’un will guide you. Love is a powerful glue and guide. I didn’t find out until later in life that I was bipolar . I find myself considering my reactions more, take my meds every day, step back and breathe, being stable is key. Raising kids is very much a learn as you do it sorta thing…still looking for book of instructions. Love your blog!!!!
I have serious anxiety issues…and I managed to have THREE.
I promise I will hold your hand and lend you my xanax.
No one thinks they can. And everyone thinks they can. It is the ones who doubt a little (or a lot) who will probably do the best job of it.
The wanting to? The knowing your heart will be walking around in the sharp and pointy world and saying YES anyway? That is how you know you can.
Also, I appreciate so much your quotes, and how well they relate to your topics. Nicely done.
You can. You really can.
I think that the people who devote this much consideration to how they will be as parents tend to be the best parents. The fact that you know you want a child, that you have so much conviction, is what will make you able to handle the rest.
And for the record, I’m relatively a newbie at the whole mothering thing, but it’s both harder and easier than I thought it would be. And the good outweighs the bad by about one million percent.
What everyone above mentioned rings true. But I’ll add one more thing: Your mother has it spot on. You were her baby once, and you’ll always be her baby. Of course there are certain things she’s let go of, but those were huge steps for her to do.
My kid is closer to 9 than he is to 8. And it pains me to realize that he simply does not need to hold my hand every time he crosses the street. It’s still instinctive to me. It makes me feel more comfortable. But part of life is the neurosis of him becoming more independent and getting into situations that I have less control over. And sometimes it’ll keep me up at night. But the big picture view? He’s growing up into a real, live person. And he’s learning to make some smart decisions on his own. And I can take a break between the episodes of worry and be incredibly proud of him.
Now — if only he could get up the guts to let me take off the training wheels from his bike…
I keep hoping that my anxiety and terror and worry-nature will make me a better mom but I bet I will be a royal pain in the butt. I hear you on this post.