(S)tumbling Toward Grace

We give our children life. How, then, can we expect our own intact afterward? But we do. We haven't yet recognized our new position in the natural order of things, and we keep trying to return to where we were before... So goes the battle between the old and the new, the giver and the taker, the parent and the child. -Karen Maezen Miller, excerpted from "Momma Zen: Walking the Crooked Path of Motherhood"

My cozy blanket of contentment began to unravel three days in. Once W went back to work, I was outnumbered by dependents. We were fine at first. Low expectations. High novelty. But slowly, a snag here or there. My first clue may have been, when sitting down to nurse Cookie, Nug threw herself down in a sudden tantrum, flopping at my feet and yelling out "owie!" over and over until I was done. Or, maybe the day she filled the car with her sobs because seventy-six goodbyes to Mama wasn't enough, she needed "one more hug." Her cries woke Cookie, who then began to cry, which stopped Nug from crying just long enough to adjust her volume and begin again louder. Subtlety is not for three-year-olds; I think my little girl was hurting.

Unfortunately for us all, my exhausted adrenal glands are on extended vacation. I rode the adrenaline wave for the first month, but inevitably, it washed me ashore. Dazed in the face of my responsibilities, I woke one day with a pile of metaphoric sand in my crotch. By that ghastly image I mean to say: I mark it a good day if I don't yell. Pink Floyd's "Comfortably Numb" runs through my head. I've gotten used to the feeling that Nug can be my worst enemy. I feel like SuperMom for the mere fact that I left the house with two kids (is that a red cape curling around my back? Oh no, just a burp cloth). I look five months pregnant, without the perky boobs. During one particularly hard week, I flunked the postpartum depression test. My back is so sore that it hurts to lie down at night. I eat for comfort. A lot. And I wonder if I have enough love to get through this.

My bright, loving, generous child, just as predicted and expected in the face of major change to our family, was regressing. But I couldn't see it. Through my tired eyes, all my ego could see was red, challenge, time to mount the defense. "Why won't she listen to me?" I searched. "My arms are so full, can't she see that?" "I'm so tired, doesn't she see how hard I'm working?" This, followed by my not so unconscious mutterings of "Nug, give me a break," until one day she reached me in language I could hear. With eyes rolled and a defeated tone, she said it back.

So I went to work looking for a solution. I cancelled play dates, slowed our daily pace, fed her more often, and paid attention to trigger moments. I made it my job to enjoy ourselves, dammit. So serious was I about smoothing out this transition that one night, in a wave of hormones, I broke down to W. Tears streaming down my face, I confessed, "it actually feels strange to smile." I had been so intent on avoiding more conflict between Nug and I, that I was avoiding joy as well.

Here's the lesson that parenthood keeps teaching (here and here too): the goal is not perfection. Conflict exists. Difficult transitions exist. Preschooler drama exists. Nice mommies sometimes lose it, and not everything can be sorted out in a week's worth of cancelled play dates. If all you can manage is authenticity, you are managing a lot.

Practice acceptance of yourself so you can be kinder with your child. Practice nonjudgmental awareness of your life so you can save your loved ones from the cruelty of your impossible standards and your hard-headed disappointment. Practice greater faith and lesser blame. Take this blink of time when you are still stumbling at the gate, still awkward at the tasks, to turn down the sound and tumble freely in a state of grace. -Karen Maezen Miller, excerpted from "Momma Zen: Walking the Crooked Path of Motherhood"

In the month of W's maternity leave, eager to prolong the closeness that had developed, we created a new bedtime tradition. After bath and brushing and stories, once we're snuggled warm and clean, we light a candle. With Nug (and usually Cookie too) nestled in my lap, we gather around the light and exchange gratitudes. "I love Cookie because she works hard in the yard," was one of Nug's professions, and both Mama and I are often acknowledged because we are "bootiful and cute," or "nice to other people." A few nights into this love fest, Nug paused before blowing out the candle. "No!" she interjected, "but what do you love about yourself?" Stunned at the wisdom of her addition, I answered quickly. But now, with reflection, here's what I truly love about myself: that somehow, somewhere, despite the conflicts and failures and drama and tears, I managed to raise a daughter who would ask that question.

Knuckle dimples, now that is perfection.

***If you've read this far, you must be a fan of the blog (thank you!), and were probably a fan of the original blog as well (snugglynug dot blogspot dot com). I long ago deleted that blog, but someone else took over the url. Please disregard any notices from that url, or sent them to your spam filter.