Babies cry, don’t take it personally

When my baby was born into this world, I was struck with the reality of it all. She is mine, my baby, nobody else’s. It felt like one of those reality shows when you get to play a part in someone else’s life for a while–but don’t get too comfortable, the camera crew is on its way with the annoyingly chatty host.

Our strange existence as modern women of the 21 century brought many of us to the realization that by the respectable age of 30, we rarely had a chance to handle a newborn, to change his diaper, to feed him or watch him nurse. That was me anyway, a total novice (not to say a nervous wreck). Before my baby was born I wouldn’t have wanted to hold a newborn. I was afraid to break them. I regarded every new, seemingly relaxed new mother with great admiration. “How does she do it?” I asked myself (and her, if I gathered enough nerve). They all looked like mother earth to me. Relaxed and natural.

Imagine my surprise when my turn came to play mommy. I knew newborn babies cry. Just not how much. You change them, they cry. You don’t change them, they cry. You dress them, they howl,; you undress them, it’s the end of the world as we know it. And don’t get me started with her first baths. My husband actually used his ear plugs. And these were the easy ones.

The hardest cases were those in which we had no idea why our little princess was clutching her little fists and screaming in rage, for hours at a time. She wasn’t hungry, she wasn’t wet, our home was warm and cozy and she had mommy, daddy and grandma at her disposal. She still cried. A car ride quieted her alright, just until we entered back in the house. A bath? Grandma suggested, and quickly withdrew, seeing our horrified expressions. I rocked her, kissed her, held her, and swore I would never ever touch cabbage again (thinking I caused her gas). Needless to say, I felt like a failure. Like the worst mother in the world. Where were my motherly instincts when I needed them? Wasn’t this supposed to come naturally? I felt cheated. I was supposed to just “know” what to do, right? Wrong.

Babies cry. They cry because it’s their only way of communication. They cry to let out frustrations, to get attention, to feed or to sleep. They are not named “newborns” for no reason. Babies are newcomers to our world and everything we take for granted must seem very alarming to them. Their familiar world was body-temperature warm, dark, and wet. They existed to the relaxing sounds of our hearts and our digestive systems, our well meaning voices travelling to them from far, far away. Bundled in an increasingly tightening uterus, they were lulled to sleep by our constant movement. Is it a wonder that our dry, loud, well lit, open-spaced world frightens them?

The good new is, ladies and gentleman, that it is a passing phase. Older babies do cry to communicate their needs but they also use body language, cooes and smiles. The newborn’s survival instinct to shout at the top of her lungs at the smallest inconvenience will slowly fade away, alongside the remaining shreds of her parents’ nervous system. As you tend to your baby’s every need, she learns to anticipate your care. She understands that she is not alone and that you will be there for her. As she grows accustomed to her new environment, her constant sense of urgency will disappear.

My point? You do not need to be the baby whisperer to care for your child. She learns to be a baby at the same rate you learn to be a parent. Just be there for her, and you both shall make it safely to the joys of tantrums and potty training.

Ayalla is a mother of a baby and a toddler. A retired scholar, new blogger and an aspiring writer, she lives in the far far (far) north of Quebec. Check out her blog here.

Helping myself

My sister set a New Year’s resolution to try to live her life as if she were 20 years older and suddenly had the chance to go back and do it all again. I have been thinking about that. I know so much more now. I would do things differently. Fifteen years ago I was 30. If I could go back and visit myself, we would sit on that old green couch that got the afternoon sun while the kids napped, and this is what I would tell myself:

• Quit worrying about what people will think. They aren’t thinking about you.
• Buying things won’t make you happy. Doing things will. Instead of buying stuff – do stuff.
• Impressive cars and fancy houses don’t make you impressive or fancy. And they won’t make people like you (see #1)
• Invite people over more. Quit worrying about if they like you (they do) or if your house is clean enough (they don’t care – see #1).
• Pray more. Pray about EVERYTHING. Like: Should we buy a car? Should I home school? How can I help my child? What can I do for my husband? Please help me to stop freaking out!
• Back WAY off the sugar. You’ll feel better. And, while you’re at it, enjoy how darling and skinny you are right now. Start appreciating how beautiful you are – you are much too hard on yourself.

Then after I gave all that advice I would tell myself just how great I was. I would point out all the things I was doing right. Then we, my 30 year old self and I, would wake the kids up from their naps and cuddle while we read books, then we would go play in the garden – pushing the kids on the swings and admiring their daring trampoline tricks.

I wouldn’t be able to stay long. I am needed here in my 44-year-old life. I would probably cry when it was time to go because I miss that time when my kids were all mine and hadn’t found the world yet.

I would hug my 30-year-old self and tell her I love her. I really do love her. And then I would tell her one last thing:

You are better than you think you are.

…………………………………….

Robin and her tall charming husband have 4 kids: child #1 is in college, child #2 should be in college (grumble), child #3 applying to college, and child #4 in 6^th grade. It’s time for her to start her Ph.D. but she’d rather open a garden center and go to cooking school. She experiences a ridiculous amount of joy when her kids brag about her cooking. She blogs at http://robinblogz.blogspot.com/.

Was it something I said?

When I was a girl my mother told me this:

“I’m glad my daughters aren’t beautiful.”

(She had four of them.)

“My daughters are interesting and smart and clever instead.”

We were sitting at a stoplight at Stapley and University.

I don’t remember where we were going.

I had heard this in little bits and pieces all my life, but somehow, maybe my age, maybe the stillness of the car, maybe the car itself as holding cell for an unwitting prisoner—this time especially, the words stung.

And penetrated deep into my soul.

My mother was always pointing out who was beautiful; not just pretty, but really beautiful:  My tall, blonde, confident aunt with high cheek bones and deep brown eyes– oh, yes, movie star beautiful; someone in my peer group at church, who was not especially nice to me–  yes, she was beautiful too;  a smattering of beautiful cousins; the whole population of Czech girls—after the return from a humanitarian trip.  The list went on.

Here’s what I knew about myself:  I had a thin long face and I didn’t look good without bangs.

My mother told me so.

(Incidentally, it was seven years and three children into my marriage before I finally threw the “no bangs” rule out the window.  I actually tried my absolute best to never let my husband see me with my bangs pulled off my forehead.  I laugh now.  What wasted energy.)

Like Mother, Like Superhero

I’m delighted to be able to share the parenting wisdom of one of my favorite writers, researcher and social worker Brené Brown, here on Letters to a Parent. If you haven’t found her site yet, set aside some time, click over, and prepare for a treat. This post is especially appropriate this week as we put away our holiday trinkets & relaxed schedules and return to our routines at school, work, and home. Enjoy! {And thanks, Brené!}

* * *

In January, Ellen and I ran into Nordstrom so I could pick up some make-up. While we were there, we decided to check out the sale in the children’s shoe department. I had on my workout clothes and was looking pretty ragged. When we got to the shoe department, there were three moms picking out shoes while their young daughters tried on boots and sneakers. These women were stunning and their daughters were equally beautiful.

As I tried to stay out of the swampland of comparison, I saw a strange blur of jerky movement out of the corner of my eye. It was Ellen. They were playing a pop song in the neighboring children’s department and Ellen was dancing. Or, to be more specific, she was doing the robot.

At the very moment that Ellen looked up and saw me watching her, I saw the magnificent moms and their matching daughters staring right at Ellen. They looked horrified. Ellen froze. Still bent over with her arms in rigid formation, she looked up at me with these eyes that said, “What do I do, Mom?”

I remember thinking, “Break the cycle! Be on her side.”

I grew up with a suffocating fear of not being cool enough and not belonging. I grew up with a gut-wrenching fear of this moment. My default would be to shoot a look at Ellen that said, “Don’t be so uncool.”

I glanced up at the mothers, then I looked at Ellen. I reached down into my courage, as far as I go, and I smiled. “You need to add the scarecrow to your moves.”  I let my wrist and hand dangle from my extended arm, then I pretended to bat my forearm around. Ellen and I stood in the middle of the shoe department and practiced our moves until the song was over.

Back-to-school is always emotional around our house. Today was Ellen’s first day of class and my first day of class. This morning, she walked up to me in the kitchen and looked at me with those same eyes. The eyes that say, “No matter what happens, I believe what you tell me about myself. Can you put your own fears away long enough to make me feel safe? Can you tell me I belong here – no matter what?”

She said, “I’m scared. Are you scared?”  I said yes. Then, I went into my bedroom and got my incredible superhero necklaces. I put one on her and the other on me. I told her, “My friend Andrea says that we are our own superheros. I believe her. Let’s practice that today.”

I was able to snap a picture of Ellen in her superhero necklace, but I had to get in my car to get a picture of my necklace (talking about goofy).

We both did OK today. We’re both tired and emotionally exhausted, but we have just enough energy left to bust-a-move.

Brené Brown is a mom, researcher, writer, activist, wannabe photographer and lover of twinkle-lights (not to mention a former 2-year old beret-wearing free spirit).  She is a member of the research faculty at the University of Houston Graduate College of Social Work, where she’s taught graduate courses on shame and empathy, global justice and women’s issues for the past ten years. She spent the past eight years studying shame, empathy and vulnerability and how these powerful emotions affect the way we live, love, parent, work and build relationships. You can read more about her work here and on her blog, Ordinary Courage.

Grower’s vision

“Try to see your child as a seed that came in a packet without a label.  Your job is to provide the right environment and nutrients and to pull the weeds. You can’t decide what kind of flower you’ll get or in which season it will bloom”

~Anonymous, as quoted in The Blessing of a Skinned Knee, by Wendy Mogel

The chill, then stupor, then the letting go

It was Emily Dickinson who said in her beautiful poem “After Great Pain”:

This is the hour of lead

Remembered if outlived

As freezing persons recollect the snow

First the chill, then stupor, then the letting go

It is strange and amazing how we can read something one day and find it nothing more than haunting and beautiful and the next grasp the fullest meaning of each short word. It is remarkable how the death of a child can bring your senses to a sharpness you never experienced before. It is this sharpness that allows us to feel more intensely at these times though it doesn’t always feel like a gift. Often times I wonder what I would say to parents like these.

At one time I wore shoes that fit in a similar fashion. This doesn’t make me any wiser, but I recollect some of the things people did say to me and I wonder now as I did then, “what were they thinking?” I was blessed to have one woman placed in my life that acted as a guiding beacon to me during these times because of some of the advice she gave me–though not all of it came in the form of words. If I had to pass on anything to other parents who were hurting because of the death of their precious child what would it be? It wouldn’t be enough, it would be lacking, and it would be less than perfect. It would be heartfelt and honest though; it would be something like this:

To Parents that Mourn,

Tears and gut wrenching pain, those will last for some time, but they will not last forever. There will be days when you wish they would stick with you until your very last breath, like the first time you smile, truly smile, or the first time you laugh like you used to. Shockingly these days will also come sooner then expected. Don’t be hard on yourself when it happens; instead embrace it and dedicate those moments to that child you have lost. Until those moments come, live for today. Cry when you need to, sleep when you want to. Don’t live for others and don’t despise yourself for still living without your child.

Keep in mind the simple fact that grief is a one-man vessel and you captain the one you are in. It hurts and it’s lonely. Find others like you. Not that these people will know exactly how you feel, but there is a comfort in knowing someone else who has or is traveling a similar journey. It is nice to have company along this long road.

Stay close to God in whichever form he takes. When the cards and dinners stop coming to your doorstep He will be the only one that doesn’t leave you behind. When others start thinking you should “be over this by now” He will be the one that will listen to your heart while you cry unceasingly. When the well-meaning words of others sting, His will cushion and heal. When you cannot hold onto your child He will be the one solid thing you can cling to. Years later when it comes flooding back to you and it feels like you are going through it all over again it will be God who never tires of hearing about this precious child.

Do not let the “what ifs” and the regrets haunt you. These are your worst enemy. You were the best parent you could be to this very special child and will continue to be that amazing parent in the future. Remember that you gave it everything in your power. Those days when it does not feel like you gave enough remember you gave this baby your all, which is always good enough. Don’t sell yourself short. You are a parent even if you have no living children. Just because you can’t clothe, feed, and watch your little one grow does not mean you can’t still do thing for him/her. You will find precious and special ways of being the mom and dad you can still actively be. This role of yours does not end with your child dying, it just changes it. You can make it all you want it to be.

Embrace life, especially embrace the life of your baby. It was important and real. It had impact and meaning. It had purpose.

- Another mourning mother

Submitted by B.B., who chooses to remain somewhat anonymous.
“If someone were to send out a search party for me they’d only have to look in a few places.  With my kids playing, reading, and snuggling, in the kitchen cooking up a storm, at my sewing machine trying to make something new, or at the computer writing.  When I don’t have my kids glued to my hips I can be found running, cycling, and swimming.  I blog about the quirks of my life and the joys of motherhood after the death of my oldest child on my blog Simply B, Simply Me and I can be reached at  simply.b.simply.me@gmail.com.”

Leaving letters

Today I was talking with a friend.  She mentioned that when she was growing up she loved finding little notes to her from her stepmother, J–in her lunch box, in a box of cereal, inside her backpack. J worked full time as a professor and this was one way of connecting with her kids when she couldn’t be there.  For my friend, the lasting memory was that moment of glee, in finding something unexpected from someone who so completely loved her and told her so often.

Recently J received a cancer diagnosis, a blow to their family world. My friend has decided (in addition to giving support with rides and visits and food) to sneak into J’s house and leave notes in her cereal box, makeup case, purse. To give her that moment of glee in finding something unexpected from someone who so completely loves her.  Full circle, now.

It reminded me of an article I chanced upon in Esopus magazine (via Ali Edwards) about a dad who wrote daily letters to his two children. According to the Esopus 10 website, “exhibition designer Robert Guest has been getting up at dawn every school day for the past 15 years to write a note to each of his two children, Joanna and Theo. Included in Esopus 10 is a sampling of the thousands of letters written by Guest and collected by his wife, Gloria, from lunchboxes and laundry piles.”   Here’s the text from one of them (above left):

“The world Joanna–you can’t imagine how beautiful it really is.  Think of the different places–tropical islands, snow-capped mountains, deserts of sand, miles and miles of green fields.  It’s awesome! Think of the kinds of weather–bitter cold – blinding sun – stormy wind and rain – cool breezes – warm winds.  It’s awesome! Think of the people in the world –black & brown, yellow and red, and white – old, young and babies of each.  It’s awesome! And just think. You get to be here in the middle of it all. So what do you do? You smile, you say “thanks” and you live!  Love, Dad”

Every once in a while, I come across an idea that makes me wish I could go back and start parenting all over again.  Looking through a couple of these letters, this is one of those ideas (click on the above photo to get a closer look).  What I love about these is that they aren’t just about his love for the children (which of course is important) but it’s also about sharing his thoughts and perspectives about the world and life.

Luckily, it’s not too late to write something, even if it’s not the fantastic, letter-a-day idea.  Maybe starting with notes or drawings on napkins.  Or a yearly letter.  Or a shared notebook to exchange thoughts we might not be able to say face-to-face.  Or a post-it.

Here’s what I believe: Writing it down has power and longevity, more than the earnest lectures on responsibility or the new shiny birthday bike. Those tucked messages to our kids eventually nestle in pockets and fists and musty shoeboxes carried from home to apartment and home again to be pulled out and remembered.  Or at least that’s what I do with mine.

In the meantime…

Summer is slowly winding down around here and my thoughts are turning back to Letters to a Parent. I am excited to hear from the next batch of wonderful letter writers and hope you’ll join us here starting in September.  

In the meantime, head over to This I Believe for some lovely essays to buoy your parenting spirits.  They’re currently featuring a handful of essays about beliefs handed from parents to children.

I especially loved the ones about silly dances + being yourself, leaving the kitchen light on, and integrity. Click on over for some inspiring reads.

Scrambled Heart, Part 1

I have spent countless days in hospitals: Someone checks you in, you fill out papers, they take copies, you wait. Someone else rolls your son in a wheelchair down the wide corridor, past the grand piano where elderly volunteers play “Let Me Call You Sweetheart” or “Five Foot Two” or “Amazing Grace,” up the elevator to a private room on the sixth floor where you’ve been before. You follow behind, making small talk and smiling, packing the necessary equipment – cell phone, laptop and an unread book – you will need to stay occupied while you wait. And wait. You wait for blood tests and x-rays and doctor visits while you play with your cell phone downloading worthless ring tones and pictures of purple mountains you will never look at again. You watch the black shadows move down the concrete walls on the buildings outside the window. You rub your son’s palm with your index finger, the way you did when he was a baby. You try to read, but your eyes blur. You fill up the room with balloons from the gift shop, because no one even knows that your son is in the hospital, again, and no one sends balloons or stops by or calls. So you fill in the space.

Scrambled Heart, Part 2

{Continued from last week’s essay}

Because of the Hepatitis C diagnosis and subsequent cirrhosis doctors later agreed to evaluate him for a heart/liver transplant, quite rare, but several have been successfully completed around the country. Doctors wanted to do some lung studies first, before sending him to Seattle for a heart/liver evaluation. The doctors discovered his lung functions were extremely poor, possibly due to fibroid tumors, probably from anti-fibrillation drugs: he would need a heart/liver/lung transplant. Although multiple organ transplantation has been successful, the three big guns have been transplanted only once before.

After six months of waiting for results and decisions, a letter from Mayo Clinic arrived stating the “constellation of his anatomy” was in too great a state of disarray and he was pronounced a non-viable candidate. The sand in the hourglass draining, Mike and I began measuring time as though a bomb were set to detonate at the end of the two-year death sentence. We never told Zeke about the letter from Mayo. We told him only that the doctors said “not now” on the transplantation. Doctors agreed to respect our decision.