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.

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.

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.

To me when I was sixteen years old

Dear Celia,

You say you don’t want kids, but you should have them anyway. It is the only way to get out of working full-time. You’ll like them when you get them, I promise. It isn’t all changing diapers and wiping noses like you’ve done your whole life with your younger siblings. You will love your own kids more.

You say you want to be free from responsibility, and while that sounds good, really it is boring and empty. Having kids will make your life meaningful and interesting. When you are responsible for something or someone, you love it more. And when you love something a lot, then life is worthwhile. Think about how much you love your Honda Elite 150 scooter. A lot, right? Well, imagine loving something 100 times that. You know how you wake up every morning and feel happy to see your scooter? That is how you feel when you wake up and see your children every day.

You say you just want to have fun. Here’s a secret you don’t know yet: You get to relive your childhood with each kid. Childhood is fun, remember? It wasn’t too long ago for teenaged you. Not only do you get to be excited about Christmas and Disneyland again, you get to be excited about your children achieving milestones like walking, reading, playing instruments, babysitting, and on and on.

You think YOU are the most interesting person in the world. As it should be for now, but trust me, there isn’t anything more interesting than a little person who reflects you and your husband’s personalities. When one of your children starts walking around with his nose in a book or putting together cute outfits, you’ll know where it came from. You. And what is more interesting than you?

I don’t really need to convince you. I’m pretty sure you are going to have children someday. I predict you’ll have four and that they will be the best things that ever happened to you. Better than a new car or a trip to Europe or a kiss from the cute boy. I promise.

Love, An Older And Hopefully Wiser Me

Celia, mother to four children, lives in the California Bay Area. She writes about it at Groundhog Day with Celia Fae.

Relax and enjoy

{This letter is really a talk given by my great-grandmother about motherhood}

When Dean asked me if I would give a short talk on harmony and beauty in the home, it really startled me. I remember I said, “Harmony! Dean, didn’t you know my husband? Because we had companionship, spirituality, love, beauty, excitement and loads of fun but I think harmony would have been the last adjective anyone would use to describe the Brockbank home.” So he thought I could perhaps give the young mothers some advice, and that I’ll try and do, because there isn’t any experience you will be likely to have that I haven’t had.

First, relax and enjoy your children. 99% of them turn out all right anyway. Just let your memory go back to all the obnoxious little boys and girls you used to know and think of them now. They’re not delinquents. They’re married now and going to work each morning, coming home at night to work in the yard, play with their children, go out with friends. They don’t get their names in the papers as the 1% who are delinquents do, but they are the salt of the earth and yours will be among them, so love them and stop worrying.

Especially ease up on the oldest one. My, we expect a lot of the first one. We set out to show the world what we can do, and it is a wonder they survive at all with our constant, erratic, unreasonable supervision. It is a good thing that children are resilient and so loyal. They forgive us and love us anyway.

The second thing is don’t hold grudges. Let what happened yesterday go. There’ll be another crisis tomorrow you can put your mind on, so let the old ones pass and don’t be afraid to say you are wrong. It’s no disgrace. It only shows that you are smarter today than you were yesterday, and besides, it disarms your opponent.

Three, try and see the child’s point of view. They have one and it may well be as good as your own.

Four, the really biggest problem, I think, to a mother, young or old, is trying to help her children over the trials and disappointments that come in everyone’s life. It is all right to say trials help us grow, but it is cold comfort to a child who is hurt either in body or spirit. The greatest help and comfort here is prayer. It is surprising how early and completely children will accept the fact that God loves them and can and will help them and how often he does. Once they have this assurance (and God is very cooperative) they will learn to accept what trials they must face with their shoulders square, knowing that things will be all right.

Five, they must be taught to be kind and to share, and there is nothing as good for this nor as easy as a big family. I hate to say that, with all the current talk about the population explosion, but it is true. They discipline each other and they help each other. A family is the best place in the world in which to learn to get along with other people.

Well, there are days you think you can’t live through, and then suddenly it is all over and you are babysitting your grandchildren….Of course, your children know you very well and may not regard you with the respectful awe they might if you were not their mother.

Elsie Booth Brockbank (1894-1978) was the mother of nine daughters and 50 grandchildren