Development aka The Struggle is Real

As a parent, I think a lot about development, and this was especially true when my son was an infant. He's 4 now, and while I still think about his development, I don't worry about it as much, since I know he's a totally normal 4-year-old boy.

Recently, we were in the car, and we passed a construction site. "Look, Elijah!" I said. "There's an excavator and a backhoe loader!" Then I told him that the reason I knew what those were called is because he had shown an interest in construction equipment and so we had gotten some books to look at. I learned the correct names from his book. (I used to call all of them bulldozers.) I said, "So, I learned something because of you! Even grown-ups learn. Did you know that?"

This off-hand comment has stuck with me. Even grown-ups learn.

You would have to be hiding under a rock not to see that the topic of race has been at the forefront of our culture recently. When I first saw phrases like "white privilege," I was offended. I didn't feel particularly privileged. When I first saw the hashtag, #BlackLivesMatter, I didn't understand why that was necessary because, after all, #AllLivesMatter.

But even grown-ups learn.

I struggled with these concepts. I read the articles that my friends posted on Facebook. I googled the phrases I didn't understand and found a lot of resources that helped explain these topics. Even after gaining a basic understanding of these concepts, I still felt lost. What was my role in all of this, as a white woman who does her best to treat everyone with respect? I did not personally engage in the slave trade, I did not request to be born white, I don't tolerate racist speech or behaviors; so what was my role? How was my whiteness contributing to continued racism in our country?

Even grown-ups learn.

I continued (am continuing) digging. I continued (am continuing) reading. I learned (am learning) about micro-aggression. I learned (am learning) about tone policing. I learned (am learning) about cultural appropriation. I learned (am learning) that context is of utmost importance. I learned that while intentions are important, how your comments make another person feel is even more important. This is, after all, the basis for politeness - and polite is something I strive to be. Even if I don't intend to be rude by calling someone by his or her first name, he or she may nonetheless still feel offended by not being called Mr. or Mrs. The first time I'm guilty of offending someone this way, yes, it is innocent and born of ignorance. If it were to happen a second time? It would be flat-out rude, because the person had told me that it was offensive to them. So, whether you intend for a comment to be racist, if someone of that race says that it's racist and offensive - it is. Just because you don't understand why, just because you don't understand the context or the history, doesn't make it NOT racist. It just means you need to learn why it's racist and make the choice not to be offensive again.

I still struggled with coming to terms with seeing the bigger picture. I realized that I was struggling because "racism" feels like such an inflammatory, loaded term. The word automatically makes me defensive: "I'M NOT RACIST." So, remembering the explanation about consent that was made by using drinking tea as an example, I stepped back and decided to think of an example in different terms that aren't quite so charged with emotion.

So, I'm short. Like, incredibly short. You would be hard-pressed to find a person over the age of 10 who is shorter than I am.

You've all seen this picture, and I'm here to tell you - the struggle is real. While trying to reach glasses out of my kitchen cabinet, or trying to reach items out of my shopping cart to put them on the counter at the checkout, or having seat belts rub my neck, or while never being able to get my seat in the car comfortable, or my feet not touching the floor when I sit in a chair, or while realizing that I can see up yet another person's nose (please blow your noses more often, people!), I have often thought to myself, in a rather irritated manner, "THIS WORLD WAS NOT MADE FOR SHORT PEOPLE!!" 

I didn't ask to be short. It's not something I can change. Sometimes I need help reaching things - whether from a friendly tall person at the grocery store who can reach the box of cereal I need that is inexplicably ONLY on the top shelf or from the step stool that my dad bought me so that I can reach things in my own kitchen. I have often thought to myself, "Instead of people giggling at my inability to reach things or smiling at me indulgently, it would be nice if they would just help me and move on!" (Thanks for the step stool, Dad!)

Using the example of being short in a world not made for short people has helped de-mystify a lot of the things that seemingly sound counter-intuitive when they are applied to race. "Pro-black isn't anti-white." (Just because I am short doesn't mean I am anti-tall.) "Historically black colleges and universities are not racist." (Just because it's more comfortable for me to be around short people doesn't mean I'm anti-tall.) "Today's white people have grown up in a world where they have opportunities not open to people of color." (Just because I didn't ask to be born short doesn't mean I'm not still affected by living in a world where most people are not short.) 

And believe me, I understand that my experiences as a short person do not in any way compare to the experiences of people of color. I'm not likely to be shot by a police officer for being short. My biggest aggravations are not being able to reach things and having people taller than I am thinking it's funny to pick me up. I don't have to worry that my family will be targeted by anti-short "heightists". But, having this non-emotionally charged example has helped me understand in a more real way a lot of the issues I was struggling with in understanding what my black friends are saying. I'm not saying I have a perfect understanding of these issues. I recognize that I still have a long way to go. I recognize that the struggles I'm facing in understanding all of this could be thought of as "growing pains." Growth can be painful and challenging and irritating. 

But even grown-ups can learn. So please don't give up on me. 

Timing

I have been thinking a lot lately about timing. If I had had my way, I would have become a mother somewhere around age 25 or 26. Instead, I was 31 when I had my son. That was 5-6 years of aching, crying, praying; 5-6 years of mixed anger, hurt, frustration, bitterness; 5-6 years of having a longing and an ache so deep that my heart, which had always loved children, could scarcely bear to witness a new mother's joy. Five to six years that I often, in my deepest despair, thought would become the norm for the rest of my life - always on the outside, never blessed to know the joy and ache of motherhood.

Now that I am on the other side of that, now that my longing to be a mother has been fulfilled, I realize that, for Elijah's sake, it is better that I did not get my way and become a mother by 26. I am a much different mom now than I would have been then. Before, I lived in a very black-and-white world, where there was only one right way to do things. I was rigid. I was judgmental. If I'd been a parent then, I think I would have been more authoritarian. During those years of bitterness and longing to have a child, I was also in the throes of blended family hell - something that is all too common today, to no one's benefit and everyone's detriment. Not a good time to welcome a child into the world.

Somewhere in the time between when I wanted to be a mom and when I became one, I (thankfully) grew up a bit. I became softer, less rigid, less black-and-white, more gray. I looked around me and I learned from seeing other parents in action, both good and bad. I learned that it's okay for parents not to be right all the time; that children respect parents who listen to them. I discovered that there is a balance between letting your child rule the household and being a parent who rules with an iron fist. I discovered that I am okay with learning from my son and that trusting my instincts is fine. There is a balance between knowing what is developmentally normal among groups of children and knowing what your own individual child needs. That structure and routine is good, but that rigid, defined, arbitrary scheduling makes no sense if it ends up totally negating what you're trying to accomplish with having a schedule in the first place (providing a predictable environment so that your child feels secure.) How can a child feel secure if his voice isn't being heard? I have learned from my son that touch, comfort, is just as important as eating and sleeping. If my child is afraid at night, or upset, or doesn't feel good, I have learned that I am completely okay with letting him sleep with us. His hands reach out in his sleep, searching for our warmth. When he feels us, he calms. I don't think I would have done that 6 years ago. I wouldn't have trusted my instincts; I would have trusted the books.

I am not perfect. I fail every day. But I do believe I am a much better mother to my son today than I would have been if I'd gotten my heart's desire earlier. My longing, my despair, my pain molded me into someone both softer and stronger, more confident and willing to trust myself while at the same time more willing to admit that I don't have all the answers. Above all, I think those years of waiting caused me to treasure my son more than I would have otherwise. It is human nature that my son will probably never appreciate this, because, God willing, he will never know any differently. But that's okay. It's enough that I know and can see some of the reasons that I had to wait. He was more than worth it.

Weary

Today was one of those days that I just wanted to pull the blankets over my head and stay in bed all day, or maybe run away to the beach and just lay in the sun, pretending that I could actually do that without getting burned to a crisp in the first 10 minutes. Instead I feel myself going through familiar motions, counting down the hours until Jack is done with work and can take over the parenting duties, giving me a half hour or so to myself before bedtime.

I am TIRED. So very, very tired. I hate being so tired; I become impatient, short-tempered, irritable. I don't respond to my son the way I should, don't interact with him the way that I want to. I'm not able to be the mother that I feel he deserves. I fail to see things from his perspective and instead see only that things are loud, messy, and making me even more exhausted. How sad this is to me, because in the midst of the daily noise and mess, there are such beautiful moments that I am guilty of overlooking or missing entirely when I am so bone-weary.

Last night was a rough night. Jack is sick and slept on the couch so that his coughing wouldn't keep me awake. (I offered to sleep on the couch, but he said no.) Instead of getting a restful night's sleep in bed by myself, though, Elijah woke up around 11 crying. Since I was about to go to sleep, I just got him and brought him to bed with me. He was restless, crying out a lot. He kicked me in the face repeatedly, and cried when I rolled over so he could kick my back instead. His restlessness disturbed the dog who sleeps in our bed, and he whined to be let out of the bedroom around 1. I let him out and left the door open in case he wanted to come back in at some point. One of the cats wandered in instead around 2:30 or 3 and began meowing loudly. I kicked her out and shut the door. Elijah kicked me in the face some more, and cried again when I rolled over so he could kick my back instead. At around 6:45 Elijah was up for the day, climbing over me to get off the bed. Today was a typical day in the life of a stay-at-home mom and a busy toddler. Elijah was constantly bouncing from one activity to another, unable to sit still, climbing onto the tables, pulling objects off of shelves, dropping Play-Dough onto the floor, spilling pretzels all over the floor, throwing his lunch to the dogs, ripping up paper, coloring on the table, chewing on my phone, etc., etc., etc.

Around 3:00, I was done. I was tired of sweeping up messes, tired of picking up stuff off the floor. I was in the mode of "let him do whatever and just clean it all up later," sitting on the couch with my iPad, desperate for 5:00 so Jack could take over for a bit. Elijah was in his room playing and I was clinging to the tiny bit of relative peace I had. I heard Elijah's tiny little footsteps moving from his room into the living room and I groaned inwardly, my island of quiet not having lasted nearly long enough. I looked up to see him walking toward me with a very pleased, proud expression on his face. He was holding a plate from his toy kitchen set. He'd put one single pretzel on the plate and was holding the plate very carefully, walking very, very slowly so as not to drop the pretzel. When our eyes met, his face broke into a huge grin and he held the plate out very carefully to me, showing me what he'd done. So proud.

Finally my sluggish brain caught up and I saw... my baby, growing up right in front of my bleary eyes. Showing me his latest accomplishment, seeking approval and recognition of what a super amazing cool thing he'd just done.

As he rushed off before I could even snap a non-blurry picture of his proud face, I wondered... what else did I miss today? And I remembered... last night, yes, he kicked and cried. But there were times that he cried out and I put my arms around him and whispered, "Ssh, it's okay, baby. Mommy's here. I'm right here." And he calmed instantly. What a gift, to soothe a teething child back to sleep with so little effort. What a gift even to have a child. This morning, when I coughed and he said, "Bwess you, Mommy." When I went to let the other dogs out of their kennels and he chased after me, yelling, "Help you, Mommy!" When he gave me each piece of silverware out of the dishwasher so I could put them away. The mischievous grin when he climbed into my lap and put his finger on my lips, saying, "Touch your mouth!" When he slipped behind me, wrapping his arms around my neck; then, "Shoulders!", asking me to put him up on my shoulders so he could be "tall" like Mommy. (Alas.) Hearing him practice the words to so many of his songs, realizing that his brain is processing nonstop.

So many more... So many more moments not seen, not appreciated, because of the fog of mom-tired I find myself in lately. How sad that the tiny little miracles in every day of motherhood can be missed entirely because of something as mundane as lack of sleep. And yet this exhaustion is something every mother knows all too well. It's almost THE defining feature of parenthood, the cliché every expectant mother and father hears... "You'll never sleep again!" It's true... we are so tired.

How do we fix it? Will we ever be able to embrace it as the price to pay for seeing miracles of our own flesh and blood every day? For watching these small versions of us - almost like us, yet so very different - learn and grow and become, feeling our hearts expand with each new accomplishment? How can I train myself to see the ups of motherhood daily, hourly, instead of getting lost in the downs? I don't know. I just hope that I can learn to adapt to the tiredness, so that I can love my son the way he deserves, so that I can recognize at least some of the wonder every day in his all too brief childhood.

Letter

Dear Elijah,

Wow! Things sure do change, don't they? I was thinking about that recently as several of Mommy's friends are becoming mommies for the first time themselves. Way back a long time ago (a little over 17 months ago, to be exact) when you were first born, Mommy didn't know what to think! I was so excited that you were finally here!

You were so little and perfect and had the cutest little nose I'd ever seen....

But you know... you also cried. Like, nonstop. Nothing I did made you happy. I felt like an idiot, wondered why in the world I thought having a baby was a good idea. I thought I was a horrible mother and that you hated me. When I think back on our days in the hospital after you were born, this picture perfectly sums it up: Blurry, exhausted. (However, it was one of the few times Mommy actually slept!)

I remember thinking I had no idea what to do with a baby and that the doctors and nurses were crazy to let me take you home. I mean, you hated me! Why would you want to come home with me anyway?! Daddy was the only one who could calm you down, so I thought, well, okay. At least he likes his daddy. 

Who would have known then how much we would click now? We have so much fun together! (At least, I have fun with you, and it seems like you have fun with Mommy, too!) You hardly ever cry any more and when you do, a hug from Mommy is usually all you need to feel alllllll better. I love you so much and am so happy that we made it through those first few rough days. :) 

Always

Several hundred times a day (at least), I ask Elijah, "How much does Mommy love you?" He answers, "Always." Sometimes he stretches it out - "aaaaaaaaaaaaaalwwwwaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyyssss!" - and screws up his little face while saying it, as if trying to convey through his facial expression as well as his tone how big "always" is. 

Recently, at night, while we are rocking and singing and saying prayers, Elijah has started asking questions of his own after I tell him that I love him. "Mommy loves you always and forever, baby." He looks at me, often nods, considering, and then says, "Daddy?" "Yes, baby, daddy loves you always, too." A pause. "Papa?" "Yes, Papa loves you, too." Nod, pause. "Mom-mom?" And on and on it goes, until he completes the whole list of people he knows and often repeating back on itself. 

So it was a little ironic today that I stumbled upon this post, from one of my favorite blogs: http://www.parents.com/blogs/dadabase/2013/09/23/deep-thoughts/what-it-means-when-somebody-loves-you/  Apparently my kiddo isn't the only one who wants to know that people he loves, love him also. 

I'm sure all parents have this little question-and-answer game, a catechism of sorts, to explain to their children how much they love them. And I'm sure, like with most catechisms, children learn the correct answers to say before they really understand what the answers mean. I was thinking about that recently, that my son doesn't *really* understand what it means that I love him always, or that I even love him at all. Sometimes it makes me a little sad that he doesn't really grasp the concept of love, but then when I realize that he doesn't understand because he's never been UNloved, it makes me feel much better, and if it takes being mistreated or neglected - the opposite of being loved - for him to know or appreciate what being loved means, then I'm happy for him to remain in the dark. We know that he is loved, always and forever, bigger than the moon, and longer than eternity, and right now that's all that matters. 

Morning

This is my son in the morning:

5:54 Eyes closed
5:55 Eyes open. "MOMMY!" (hug) "DADDY!" (hug) Sits up. Grabs toe. "Toe! TOOOOOOEEEEE! TOETOETOE. TOE. Toe? Mommy? TOE?" Pokes me in my eye. "EYE!" Laughs as I flinch. Crawls over me and slides off the bed. Grabs dog harness off the floor where I took it off the dog the night before. "Dog. Dog. Dog. DOGGY. DOG." Runs into the adjoining room where said dog has disappeared in an attempt to get away from a hyperactive toddler. Pets dog. "Dog. Buck." (The dog's name is Starbuck.) Runs back into the bedroom and tries to get back on the bed. "Mommy. Eat. Eat?" Makes monkey noises (meaning he wants a banana) and makes the sign for "please". Runs to the door and looks back. "Go?" Signs please.
5:58 Runs back to our bed.

This is me in the morning:

5:54 Eyes closed.
5:55 Eyes closed. Hear son. Get hugged. Get poked in the eye. Flinch. Blink. Blink. Get crawled over. Blink.
5:58 Blink. Groan. Lift son into bed and try to get him to go back to sleep. No luck.
6:00 Breathe a sigh of relief as my absolutely wonderful husband gets up with our son and says, "Let Mommy go back to sleep." Eyes closed. Snore.

A Toddler's Thoughts

Toddler's Log, Play Date Almost Fifteen Months:

I'm beginning to think Mommy sometimes doesn't know what words mean. She says this word "gross" a lot, but I think she means something to do with the dogs, because she usually says it when I'm playing with them. Today, I was trying to share my Goldfish with my buddy Starbuck, and Mommy saw me let him lick it and then I tried to put it in my mouth and Mommy said, "Oh, no, don't do that! That's gross!" I think she meant to say, "No, that's Starbuck's!"

Later, I figured out I could take my snacks out of my snack cup and put them on the floor. Mommy saw me pick one up off the floor and bring it to my mouth, but before I could eat it (and I really wanted it!) she took it away and said, "No, we don't eat off the floor; that's gross!" The dogs weren't even anywhere around! And even though I cried and threw a fit, she still wouldn't let me finish my snack. Silly mommy.

She also says it's gross when I play in the bowl of water that the dogs drink out of. It's gross when I try to touch the garbage can. It's gross when I put my shoes in my mouth. So, what is it, Mommy? Is "gross" another word for "dog"? Or is "gross" another word for "floor"? Another word for "garbage can"? I'm so confused! I think I will need to do an experiment to figure it out. Tomorrow, I'm going to do a bunch of stuff and see what she says is gross, and whether it has anything to do with the dogs or not. Until then, here's to being gross!