Rituals For the End of Baby-Raising

Last week I felt horrible and didn’t know why: walking through mud, thinking like mud, seeing through a tunnel of mud. Detached from Ingrid, and reacting to her clingy reaction by pushing her away. Honking at everyone who didn’t use their turn signal.

I didn’t get why. It seemed like it came overnight and for no reason, and it scared me that it hit me out of nowhere, in the middle of summer—the opposite of Eliot's midwinter spring.

Then my therapist, whom I hadn't seen in months but who listened on Friday as I stumbled through various ideas about the sudden blues (clouds, sugar, sleep deprivation, maybe my period) proved herself worth many times my ten dollar copayment. I mentioned in passing that Iris had turned one on Monday, and she said, "She turned one on Monday?" in a way that totally sounded more like, "Why have you spent the last forty minutes blabbing about insignificant things when this is so clearly the thing that is getting you down?"

That's it, of course, and you are most welcome to unsubscribe in disgust now if you want, because I know I've mainly spent the past year gnashing my teeth about not being a baby person, wanting to sleep more, wishing we could get on to the good part where they are both a year older, etc. etc.

It has been hard, and a baby's first year is not my favorite part and not the thing I'm best at, and with three quarters of my heart I'm thanking my lucky stars that we don't ever, ever have to do it again. But I'm still sad that it's slipped by. There will be no more babies in this house. I won't be pregnant again, won't doze with a sleeping newborn on my chest, won't thread anyone's boneless little arms through itty-bitty onesies. It hasn't been my best season, but it's one that I looked forward to, and it was studded with fantastically sweet moments, and it's over forever. Iris is one. She walks. We're done with babies.

What's made me feel the most foggy-headed and heavy-limbed is that the transition sneaks by without ritual. Iris takes her first steps; she turns one and we eat cake. She turns from baby to toddler, and we mark that, sort of, but what about going from mother of babies to mother of older children? From woman with the intense, close, physical work of baby care in her future to woman who's done that, who's done with it, who sees it now from the other side, in her past?

As with many important passages these days, the rituals our culture offers are either medical (insert the IUD or give the husband the snip) or consumeristic (get rid of the Bumbo seat and the nursing pillow; buy a little red wagon). I need something richer than that.

So I'm going to make something up.

Because I write, there will be lists: what I'm sad to leave behind, what I'm glad is over, what I've learned. What's not required of me anymore, and what strengths I need in this new, ever more babyless time. And what else I can be—creatively, spiritually, physically—as I move slowly, slowly away from the time when tiny, tiny girls were my every waking thought.

I imagine I will need to burn some lists and enshrine others in a little bottle. I'll probably have to take a dip in some body of water. And maybe there should also be wine. It has to be part funeral, part baptism, part graduation party.

What will you do (what would you do, what did you do) to mark the end of your time as a mother of babies?

The 140 gallons is going to clinch it.

Dear Boss:

As we discussed this morning, I am hereby submitting in writing my request for a one-year sabbatical from the posititon of Mama.

I’ve been in this position nearly three years now (closer to four if you count the preliminary gestational phase), and, though there’ve been rough patches, I’ve headed up a team that has achieved a great deal. We’ve gone from four microscopic gametes to two whole human beings, a total of 56 pounds of girl.

As head of nutrition, education, hygiene, entertainment, discipline, planning, logistics, and spousal management, I feel a great sense of pride in the two terrific children we’ve raised. Ingrid pees in the potty, says thank you, “reads” like a maniac, and (for some reason) can identify all 50 states, on a map plus several European countries and Cuba. Iris can crawl, woof, and eat avocados with her own hands. And they are both as adorable and healthy as I can imagine two kids being. It’s hard to argue with that evidence.

And let’s not forget my important role as producer and procurer of food for the family. During my tenure here, I’ve not only personally produced over 140 gallons of milk (conservative estimate), I’ve supervised the cultivation of three summers’ impressive crops of herbs, tomatoes, and pumpkins; made at least 200 trips to the grocery store, and prepared at least 1000 meals.

You have been well aware of my dissatisfaction with the working conditions here, and yet I have also made clear that I consider it a great privilege to bear the title of Mama and have on occasion found sublime joy in carrying out my work. I hope to remain in this position for many years.

But I think you’ll agree that this past three years has been an exhausting period of time. The lack of sleep, the intense demands on my body, the requirement that I be present at nearly all times, the absolute rarity of any time at all to myself; anyone would agree that after three years of this, a person needs and deserves a substantial break.

I believe it is to the advantage of the whole family—children, father, and myself—to bring in a fresh, energetic temporary replacement to fill my position for this coming year. Someone unmuddled by sleep deprivation; someone with fresh solutions to the perennial whine of I’m cold but I don’t want to wear my coat and the ongoing cry of I want to nurse and practice crawling at the same time.

During my sabbatical, I plan to sleep, write, go for leisurely runs, and, as funding permits, spend several months near the ocean. I am confident that I will return to this position rejuvenated and ready to assume again the great responsibility and honor of being the primary caregiver for these two lovely children.

Sincerely,
caro

It will make a perfect baby shower gift.

As soon as I get a minute I am going to write a book of affirmations for mothers and mothers-to-be. It’s going to have a pastel cover design with some sort of soft-focus photo of a mother and child, and the title, written in sparkly, curly letters, is going to be: You Are Not A Bad Mother.

It’s going to have a lot of short chapters, and, like all parenting books, it will be marketed as being for all parents, even though it will probably only really fit some of us. The titles of the chapters are going to sum up truths about mothering: Who Cares If You Never Clean Your Oven; Everyone Loses Their Shit Sometimes; Eventually They Sleep; It’s None of Their Business; You Only Have Two Arms; Sometimes They Just Want To Cry; Next Week Will Be Different.

Chapter one is going to be called “Sometimes You Hate It.” It is going to go like this:

The worst thing a woman can say is “I hate being a mother.” We are supposed to like this. Good mothers like being mothers.

But what no one ever says is that sometimes you do hate it. For days or weeks or months, or, I guess, if you’re lucky, just for a few minutes here and there, you wonder why you decided to become a parent at all. You just want to eat your cereal by yourself. You are tired of doing puzzles. You don’t have any more ideas. You want to walk across the living room without stepping on a Lego.

If it took some effort to bring your child into your life (like if you were infertile, or went through a long adoption process, or if you had an awful pregnancy) you feel especially dumb and guilty about this. You longed for this life. You made a lot of noise about wanting it, and you and your partner and maybe your family and community put their hearts into making it happen. And now you don’t really like it.

And unless you are very, very lucky, you can’t say this to anyone. The other moms in your play group complain about being tired or about a list of daily frustrations, but no one ever says, "I just hate this. This is not for me after all."

Not only that, but there’s always someone who beams and says that it is her dream job. That in spite of how hard it is there is nothing on earth she’d rather be doing. You want to chew up a fistful of play-doh and spit it at her, and so do probably half the others who are nodding and smiling, but no one says it. No one busts out with "I hate it. Sometimes I think it was all a mistake." Some echo her, some stay quiet, some dig a burp cloth out of the diaper bag.

But the key word—for all of us—is sometimes. Even the beaming play group mom has moments—even if she never, ever admits it—where she hates it, too. Where she’d like to leave the children in the living room, check into the Holiday Inn with a novel and a loofah and spend the next month doing nothing but exfoliate, sleep, order french fries from room service and NOT be a mother. And when you hate being a mother? That’s a moment, too. Even if it’s a month or a year. You’re not a baby person, or not a toddler person, or not into hanging out with 7-year-olds, even ones you love, or for whatever reason you just need a break. That’s not forever. You hate it now. That will end.

But I don’t want to gloss it over: You DO hate it. "Just a moment" is not the same as "just a mood". I believe you when you say that right now you hate it. What’s to love? You are tired. You are doing, over and over, things that are just not that interesting. Hard is not the same as challenging. Vital is not the same as lovable.

You do hate it. But before you start thinking of yourself as a miserable ogre for feeling that way, ever, consider this. These three things can all be true—unequivocally, absolutely true—at once. Without contradicting each other:

1. You wanted your children so much you would’ve given one and a half of your lungs to bring them into your life, and if you hadn’t been able to have them you’d never have really gotten over it.


2. Your children are the most important people in your life. They are beautiful and brilliant. Losing them would kill you.


3. You hate being a mother and can’t stand the thought of continuing with this gig for even one more hour.

The cliché is that your heart grows when you become a parent, and this is why: to hold all of those things at once. You want your children, you love them, and right now you hate taking care of them. It is all true, all at once. You are not a bad mother.