Unravelled: Life as a Mother

Now, listening to Ann with one ear, I watched Will practice pulling himself up to stand while Jillian crawled around on the living room floor. Ann suddenly paused in the middle of a sentence when she saw what Will was doing.

‘Oh, my God! Look at him,’ she exclaimed. ‘He’s going to be walking before you know it!’

I smiled, trying to look more modest than I felt. ‘You won’t believe what he did this morning,’ I said, and then told her how he had crawled up the steps to the second floor. When I finished, I knew I was beaming, but I couldn’t help it; I felt as proud as I had the moment he had reached the top. Ann, however, was more horrified than impressed.

‘No! Where were you? Don’t tell me you were there and let him do it. Now you’re going to have to watch him like a hawk to keep him from doing it again,’ Ann said.

The smile slid off my flushed cheeks as I took a sip of my tea to camouflage my embarrassment. Of course, Ann was right! What had possessed me to allow Will to do something so foolish and unsafe? Closing my eyes briefly, I vowed to be more attentive to my child’s health and well-being. No matter how clean or well-organized my house was, it couldn’t make up for the shame I now felt as a mother.

No Fooling

I bent down, placed my hands on either side of Will’s face and kissed both of his cheeks. ‘Remember, Muffin, Mommy always comes back,’ I said.

‘Yes, momma, I know,’ he replied, throwing his arms around me for a final, quick hug before running to join the other two year-olds in his day-care class.

For the past year and a half, since Will was three months old, I had been working part-time as a financial analyst for a large telecommunications company. There had never been any question between Claude and me that I would return to my job after taking a maternity leave. After all, we both knew that I was a different kind of mother – more capable and independent than our mothers had been when we were growing up. Besides the fact that we could certainly use the additional income, it was important to me that Will, and any other children we might have, understood that while I was a wife and mother, I was also a woman, who had individual interests and a successful career too.

But lately, the last thing I wanted to do each morning was to pull on another pair of pantyhose, leave Will in the arms of someone else and pretend to care about a corporate job. Becoming a mother had rearranged my priorities in a way I had not expected. I couldn’t tell if it was because I was unusually efficient or shamefully unmotivated that I now seemed to spend most of my time shuffling papers around on my desk, leaving file drawers haphazardly open, and making sure there was a complicated-looking spreadsheet on the screen of my computer in case a manager popped into my office unannounced. Stretching 10 hours of work into a 20-hour week seemed more exhausting than the actual work was.

Now, as I weaved in and out of the traffic, I no longer felt as certain about what I wanted as I had just a few months before. Rather than tailored suits and business meetings, a part of me longed for play dates with other moms and kids, turtleneck sweaters and jeans. It wasn’t that I no longer wanted to be an independent, interesting woman or that I didn’t value the idea of a career; it was simply that I couldn’t help wondering if it might be possible to find a sense of meaning and usefulness in my life that wasn’t connected to the amount of money I made or the work I did.

Monday (#ulink_0983f4e9-72a2-5eac-99ec-9c262d55e976)

MY EYES WERE STILL CLOSED AS I LAY IN BED, INHALING THE cool morning breeze, feeling the weight of the quilt pulled up to my chin. I extended my arms and legs across the full length and width of the bed, savouring the spaciousness, knowing I could stay there as long as I wanted, listening to the cries of the birds greeting the arrival of the rising sun. Too excited to lie still for long, I opened my eyes and sat up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. Through the curtains in the window, I could see golden fields of grass, stretching across rolling hills, to the faraway edges of trees.

I stood up and stretched my body. The silence in the room was as palpable as it had been the night before, but the light of morning had softened its effect on me. As I slipped on my robe and collected my soap and towel, I moved slowly so as not to disturb its spell. Everything seemed tinged with a kind of magic. Even the soap I had brought from home smelled sweeter than I remembered as I showered in the tiny bathroom across the hall.

Drying my body quickly, I pulled on a long cotton skirt and t-shirt, and made my way barefoot down to the kitchen and dining room, one floor below. The night before Mary had showed me where to find freshly sliced bread, granola, yogurt and bowls of fruit. While the coffee brewed, I slathered two pieces of toast with homemade jam and peanut butter. Carefully balancing my breakfast on the tray, I climbed three flights of stairs to the top floor of the barn.

There, in a book-lined nook, I sat in a rocking chair in front of a triangular window, overlooking miles of fields, hills and trees. Sipping my coffee and nibbling toast while I rocked, I felt my body filling with a sense of exhilaration as I realized the whole day stretched before me, unscheduled. I could do anything I wanted, with no responsibility for anyone’s needs but my own. Smiling, I felt my life, like the sun in my eyes, rising into a brand new sky.

As I lay on an old quilt in the shade of a maple tree, a tiny ladybug made her way across the page of my opened journal. Watching her slow, patient progress across what I imagined to be an unfamiliar expanse of white, I appreciated the simplicity of her journey – just a shell, some wings and a bit of determination. By comparison, mine and my children’s journey, which had started in New Jersey three days before, had required the advance planning, packing and logistical consideration needed for a large-scale, military operation.

On the day we left, I had risen before dawn and loaded the minivan with suitcases, coolers of drinks and snacks, and several backpacks full of books and toys. It was a two-day journey from our home in New Jersey to where Will, Margaret and Madelaine would be staying with my sister and her family in Michigan, but we had packed enough supplies, games and activities to last us for four. After waking the children, I had fed them breakfast, helped them get dressed and then made sure each of them went to the bathroom before they climbed into the car. Claude had come downstairs to see us off, embracing each of the children, but barely looking at me. As I backed the minivan out of the drive, all three kids had waved to their dad and then shouted ‘Ya-hoo!’ in unison. The four of us could have been headed west in a covered wagon for all the excitement we felt.

Now, rolling over onto my back, I felt the matted comfort of the quilt under my bare legs and the soft cotton of the white eyelet pillowcase under my head. Lying in the cool shade, I caught glimpses of the afternoon sun as it danced between the spreading branches of the maple tree above. The colour of the ladybug’s shell, the whisper of the maple leaves tossing in the breeze, the scent of crushed grass beneath my quilt – as I inhaled the sounds, colours and scents of life around me, part of me wished that my children were here to share the beauty and simplicity of the moment.

Yet, I also knew that it was only in being alone that I would have any hope of remembering everything I had almost forgotten.

It was late afternoon, and I was pacing around my room, feeling unhinged and restless. The residue of warmth and peace from my time under the maple tree had been tossed aside. My brow was wrinkled. My heart pounded inexplicably in my chest. I was out of breath but not tired, rested but not at peace. I couldn’t help wondering if I had made a mistake in coming. After all, a voice whispered in my heart, what kind of mother would so willingly be separated from her young children for 10 days?

I could not shake off the feeling that something was coming, that I was here to meet someone. It was entirely possible, I reasoned, that my sense of loneliness and the pain of separation from my kids was causing me to wish for someone else to talk to, to reassure me. Either that or I was going slightly crazy in the unfamiliar solitude and silence.

I heard a phone ringing in the office downstairs. I raced to answer it, but the door to the office was locked. While I tried to figure out if there was a way to get in, the phone stopped ringing. Standing outside the door, I began to panic: what if it had been Claude trying to call me, or my sister Laura, or one of my kids? Although I knew they all had the phone number to my cell phone in case of an emergency, it didn’t matter. The fear I was feeling now was not rational; it oozed like lava out of a dark place in my heart.

Plodding slowly up the stairs to my room, I began to cry. I felt helpless, impotent, disconnected from everything I had known as my life: my house, my family and my routine. Part of me felt frightened by the idea that Claude and my children could go on with their day-to-day lives without me. I missed my kids and longed to feel their arms wrapped around my neck, to inhale their sweetness, to listen to their voices telling me about their day. I felt guilty, physically sick inside, for having felt excited about being able to come here on my own, for choosing to spend time away from them.

Throwing myself on my bed, loud, hiccupping sobs began to pour out of my chest. My heart felt waterlogged, overwhelmed by a sense of loneliness. I wanted now, more than anything, to be able to take my children into my arms and apologize to them for every angry, frustrated word I had ever uttered. I knew that my family deserved to know the happier, grateful, joyful woman I had been in the shade of the tree, hours before, rather than the wife and mother I had been lately, an uptight, angry expression of my frustrations and fears.

Finally, exhausted from crying, I sat up in bed, wiped my nose and blotted tears from my cheeks. My eyes fell on the kneeling bench, along the wall, beneath the second window. I stood up and walked over to it, then slowly lowered my knees until they rested on the padded edge. Bowing my head, I closed my eyes and breathed. Gradually, as I allowed myself to rest there, I felt my heart begin to beat more slowly and a sense of calm filled me.

I became aware that even though my children and I were not in the same place, in some important way we shared the same heart. And my responsibility to them, to my family, was to use this time on my own to grow ever more appreciative and stronger. Then, and only then, I would be a better mother for having gone away.

Heart on a Limb

Claude and I were holding hands, our bare feet making side-by-side tracks in the white sand. Will, his bare bottom already tanned from days in the Florida sun, ran ahead, chasing sandpipers fanning across the beach in waves.

Weeks before, when Claude had asked me where I wanted to go on vacation, I had said, ‘California’ as I always did. We had both laughed when he replied, ‘No, I’ve already been there. Let’s go somewhere else,’ because that was what he always said.

After having endured the shared pain and disappointment of two miscarriages in the past year, all the ways we were predictable together felt like a tremendous relief. It was also true that another baby was now alive and growing in me. This pregnancy, three and a half months along, seemed to have passed the critical point. I was finally coming closer to being the mother I had always wanted to be, now that we were making the leap from one child to two.

As Claude and I walked along, following Will, I savoured the feeling of my smaller hand in Claude’s larger one. It was comforting to feel his presence, his strength beside me. Inhaling the salty air, I was aware of a deep sense of contentment rising in my bones, and I prayed that Claude was feeling it too. Losing the two pregnancies had catapulted each of us into a kind of isolated aloneness as we tried to cope with our disappointment and grief. At the same time, we had been brought closer together, feeling more determined than ever to create the larger family we both wanted.

Ahead of us, Will stopped short, turned, and began running fullspeed towards Claude and me with arms outstretched. ‘Mommy,’ he said, wrapping his arms around my legs, ‘I want to give our new baby a kiss.’

Claude and I smiled at each other as I bent down on one knee and lifted my shirt. Will leaned over, ran his small hands over the top of my bulging belly and gently gave it a kiss. As Will stood up, Claude reached down and swung him up into his arms.

‘Hey, buddy, do you want a baby brother or a baby sister?’ he asked.

‘Oh, Daddy,’Will replied, ‘I want a big brother, bigger than me!’

Poetry

I stumbled into Hannah’s room, barely able to open my eyes as I made my way in the dark. My full, aching breasts had begun leaking down the front of my nightgown at the sound of her first cry. The light of the moon filtered softly through the blinds as I lifted Hannah out of the crib, settled into the rocking chair and she began to nurse. Leaning my head back, I closed my eyes and drifted off into some version of sleep. I felt a part of myself carried into the dark behind my eyes and lowered into a deep pool, while the rest of my body, although exhausted, stayed awake, aware of the soft weight of Hannah’s diapered bottom in the palm of my hand.

I lost track of time and place as the two of us drifted there. Just as when she was inside my body only months before, it seemed as if there was no distinction between us. The only movement was my rocking and the back and forth sucking of Hannah’s lips, the only sensation the tingly drawing down of the milk from deep inside my breast.

Eventually, Hannah’s sucking began to slow and, not wanting her to fall asleep before finishing, I raised my head from the back of the chair and slipped a finger between her lips and my swollen nipple to break the suction. As I lifted her away from my breast, a few drops of milk spilled warm from her mouth onto my skin. I lightly kissed the top of her forehead, one, two, three times, and then lay her against my body again, guiding her mouth to my other nipple before she had a chance to protest. I smiled as her tiny fist closed around one of my fingers and she nuzzled closer and began to nurse.

As I gazed at her in the moonlight, at her long lashes lying against the translucent skin on her cheek, I felt myself drawn into a softer more primal awareness of the night. This silence, I knew, was the secret source of every mother’s strength, a place where the quietest work of the universe happens, while the rest of the world sleeps.

Showdown with Robin Hood

It was a showdown between Robin Hood from the Dark Side and me, his mother. Will, now four years old, stood defiantly, hand on his hip, wearing a pair of green tights, a green felt cape and a red cowboy hat. A plastic bow hung like a necklace around his neck. In his other fist, he was gripping an arrow, jabbing it in my direction.

‘Grrrrrrr…’ he growled, his face scrunched into a fierce grimace, teeth clenched together.

I stayed where I was, three feet away. Crazy with fury – I had passed angry long ago – if he moved any closer, I thought, I might grab him, whack his bottom and stuff him in a closet. At that point I would have done anything to make him stop. Two hours before, I had been congratulating myself on having orchestrated a perfect day. How fast my fortune had changed.

Earlier that morning, I had woken before anyone else, washed my hair, put on make-up and packed the diaper bag. When the kids and Claude woke, I had unloaded the dishwasher and packed Claude’s lunch, then spoon-fed Hannah in her high chair while Claude and Will ate breakfast. Later, after Claude left for work, I had dressed Hannah in new pink overalls and said a brief prayer of thanks when Will, without argument, agreed to wear a clean pair of jeans and a matching shirt.

Well-rested and organized with two perfectly groomed children in tow, I had arrived at Friday-morning playgroup promptly at 10 am. Sitting at my friend Karen’s kitchen table, sipping coffee with the other mothers, I had breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Although being a mother felt the most natural thing to me, whenever I compared myself to others, I felt an anxiety that I wasn’t doing it the way it was supposed to be done. I listened without comment while friends obsessed over their children’s diets – whether foods were organic or contained too much sugar – too embarrassed to admit that I had, more than once, opened a bag of Oreo cookies at 9.00 in the morning simply to keep Will quiet in the car.

That wasn’t the only secret I was harbouring.

Something was happening with Will. In the past few months, he had begun talking back and openly defying me, sometimes poking and pushing other kids. It was as if he were overdosing on testosterone. I had patience with him at first – my parents had spanked me when I was a child, and I had vowed not to revisit the same sin on my children. I was on a mission to create perfect children by being the perfectly loving, non-violent mother.

But, as the days and weeks wore on, Will’s behaviour hadn’t changed. In fact, it seemed to get worse. And so did I. I had started yelling, which initially appeared to shock him into listening. But then he got used to it and began to ignore me again. I had tried putting him in time-outs next, but when he refused to stay in one place, I would get angrier, grab him and roughly sit him on the edge of the bed. Finally, I began spanking him – not hard or often, but enough to feel ashamed and sorry later. I also made plenty of tearful apologies to him after, which only seemed to confuse him more. But I was at a loss at what to do, and it seemed that whenever I got aggressive and angry, Will’s defiant, aggressive behaviour stopped. I desperately wanted to believe that Will’s difficulties were temporary – a problem that I could nip in the bud before anyone else noticed.