A book I am reading, which I have to unhappily say I don't think is well-written but does have some helpful ideas in it, reminded me this morning that the true purpose of forgiveness is to reopen the door inside myself that lets positive experiences in. This is relevant because the past few weeks have been difficult ones in my little part of the world, and I've increasingly taken refuge inside myself, building a pretty tough reinforcement between me and the outside, between me and my husband, even between me and other parts of myself.
On the most positive view of things, Noah turned two last month and has begun swimming in language, sometimes repeating what he hears, but mostly tumbling, screaming, exclaiming his thoughts as he has them. He also has taken up basketball, golf, tennis, and soccer, with a joy that is infectious.
Another positive development is that after a year of searching, my husband has found a new job in another county in Maine, and started July 1st. It is over an hour away, so we have put our house on the market and have been looking to purchase a home closer to that neck of the woods. We've been anticipating this change for such a long time, and then suddenly it arrived. I have mixed feelings about it all - the decision to relocate for his job which also brings us closer to the ocean is one that feels right, and yet leaving the home where we married and where I have all my memories of Noah's life so far, is painful. In my own small way, I feel like a homeless refugee, even though we certainly are not in those circumstances for real. I'm upset about it, and I'm upset about all the fleeting summer energy it's taking to go through this transition. I don't know where I belong. Right now I'm nowhere.
As the weeks have gone on, with long days of me looking at houses with Noah while Matthew works, I've worn down. Trying to fit in some summer fun here and there has been difficult while all this other stuff sits in the wings, asserting that it is the real star of the show. Having any time with my husband has been impossible, so all the time we have together is either reentry or preparing to be apart - we are not usually at our best in these times. When my birthday came and went this past Thursday I wanted the day to be over, something I don't think I've ever felt in my life. I'm very sentimental when it comes to celebrating birthdays and other special occasions for myself or others. It was a hard day for me, in the end, when usually I spend that day enjoying things and visioning about the year to come. That added a touch of bitterness to my already foul mood this week.
Now a few days beyond, I understand that what I want is for this TIME to be over, this time of looking and not knowing, of having my roots exposed while we look for our next home, of having too many things to focus on, all while the beautiful but dratted fall air is already starting to fold into the mornings.
And today I guess I am getting tired of feeling lousy. So as this book discusses, the one I mentioned at the beginning of this post, since my valve to outside positive experience has been seriously closing, the answer, to begin to enjoy again, to be thankful for what is behind and what is to come, is to forgive right now. Forgive sounds like kind of a hefty action for some mostly circumstantial happenings, but isn't it all circumstantial? Isn't the slight over breakfast just as big or small as the grief of leaving my home? Isn't it all, as a dear old friend used to say, (and pardon the curse word) just AFGO - Another Fucking Growth Opportunity? It sure is easier to get angry at Matthew or someone else than it is to stay focused on the choice, the one I've made, to leave this dear place I love so much - close to my work, my friends, the place I've centered my life for years. I'm sorry that this feels like it does, I'm sorry to leave this place, and I hope the move happens soon so the equilibrium can right again - I need the outside circumstances to reflect the leaving I'm already doing.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Sunday, July 6, 2008
The Grass Is Greener
This afternoon I was down at Long Pond swimming with Noah. He gazed longingly at a pair of orange goggles that a little girl had slung up on the edge of the lake, and also admired her glittery flip flops. I asked him to leave them alone, when the girl's mother said, "Excuse me, Miss? It's fine if he plays with any of that stuff. We don't mind at all." I said thanks and managed a few other lines of conversation, but was in somewhat of a daze as my head replayed and struggled with "Miss? Miss?" I haven't been called Miss by anyone in a long time. I think it was in my days as a bank teller when I was always being called Miss by the customers. I connect this lakeside experience to one I had earlier this week when I was carded in line at the grocery store when I brought up a bottle of wine to celebrate with my husband, who has just gotten a new job. I looked at the woman at the check-out incredulously and told her that I'm turning 39 next month. She said she never would have believed it.
Now on one hand, I think 38 is a fine age, and I wouldn't take my 20s back for anything. On the other, I honestly received a small thrill from being seen as younger than I am. What this really told me (other than how I am sucked into the yucky culture that values youth over experience), is that suddenly I am on the side of the line where I know loud and clear that I am no longer young.
I have a partially-burned candle in a kitchen drawer from my 30th birthday, shaped like a gravestone, that bears the words "Here lies my youth." I got it for myself as a joyful good-bye to the decade that had been less than fun to get through. It was wonderful sarcasm, because I was leaving an "old" life behind, and heading into a much fresher one. And my reality continues to be that I enjoy aging, especially in recent years. Becoming a mother has, on the whole, made me feel more young inside. So has has getting to know myself better as an adult and letting youthful confusion and inexperience, and the misery it can produce, slide off me.
And now as I head forward in this time, Noah marches along beside me, his flags waving. This Friday he will turn 2. Tonight as Matthew used a knife to cut cheese for crackers, Noah said "Knife, knife?" and I explained briefly for the fortieth time that knives weren't for babies and that when he was a big boy he would be able to use a knife. A few minutes later we were talking with him about his upcoming birthday, and I told him that he would be 2 years old. He thought for a minute and said, "Knife?" There it was, he had it - the yearning to be old enough, to be able to do life more fully, like he sees everyone doing it around him. Coupled with my yearning to find my own simple truths again. There we sat, side by side on the stools in the kitchen, holding hands. It's another reason why being a mother is so wonderful - this child gives me the roadmap back, while I give him the one forward.
Now on one hand, I think 38 is a fine age, and I wouldn't take my 20s back for anything. On the other, I honestly received a small thrill from being seen as younger than I am. What this really told me (other than how I am sucked into the yucky culture that values youth over experience), is that suddenly I am on the side of the line where I know loud and clear that I am no longer young.
I have a partially-burned candle in a kitchen drawer from my 30th birthday, shaped like a gravestone, that bears the words "Here lies my youth." I got it for myself as a joyful good-bye to the decade that had been less than fun to get through. It was wonderful sarcasm, because I was leaving an "old" life behind, and heading into a much fresher one. And my reality continues to be that I enjoy aging, especially in recent years. Becoming a mother has, on the whole, made me feel more young inside. So has has getting to know myself better as an adult and letting youthful confusion and inexperience, and the misery it can produce, slide off me.
And now as I head forward in this time, Noah marches along beside me, his flags waving. This Friday he will turn 2. Tonight as Matthew used a knife to cut cheese for crackers, Noah said "Knife, knife?" and I explained briefly for the fortieth time that knives weren't for babies and that when he was a big boy he would be able to use a knife. A few minutes later we were talking with him about his upcoming birthday, and I told him that he would be 2 years old. He thought for a minute and said, "Knife?" There it was, he had it - the yearning to be old enough, to be able to do life more fully, like he sees everyone doing it around him. Coupled with my yearning to find my own simple truths again. There we sat, side by side on the stools in the kitchen, holding hands. It's another reason why being a mother is so wonderful - this child gives me the roadmap back, while I give him the one forward.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Kate Who?
On one recent morning Noah and I sat on my bed after his bathtime, and I was playing our name game with him. "Who is your brother?" Noah made a "c" with his hand and yelled out "Co-Co!" which is his nickname for his 16-year-old stepbrother Colby, who now also goes by "Coke" and "Colby Doo", bless his heart. "Who is Matthew?" I asked, and Noah thought for a second and responded "Daddeee! Daddeee!" with no small amount of glee in his voice. "Who is Sidney?" Noah made the sign for "cat" and said "Catncatncat." Finally, I asked, "Who is Kate?" Noah concentrated very hard for quite a few seconds, and then said with excitement, "Peow!" I laughed and said "Yes, Katy is a plow, isn't she?" (See Katy and the Big Snow, by Virginia Lee Burton, one of Noah's favorite books right now.)
This was both a delightful and sad moment for me. I love the book too, and this plow Katy is one serious go-getter, not unlike myself at times. I also was struck by how I am so totally Mumma-Mommy-Mum now that it's rare for me to ever hear my own name spoken in my home. Even Matthew addresses me as "Mum" a lot of times when Noah isn't even in the room. As I write this, I remember reading in a magazine blurb many months ago that this is a sure sign of impending doom in a marriage. But I digress.
As Noah approaches two years old, and shows his excitement more and more for everything around him, I feel like my own motivation for anything other than him is creeping along like an old camel who has decided she really doesn't need water ever again and she'll just live on whatever she's got stored up in her hump for the REST OF HER LIFE. I am tired of my old mental loops of thinking about how and when and what to do, which personal goal or project to push forward with the minute amount of "free time" I have when Noah naps...How to make it happen for myself, some modicum of my old productivity, doing things for others or myself - that goes beyond getting clean and dressed. I feel today like giving up on all that and just being Mommy. Trying to be anything else often leaves me down and tired, more tired than the regular exhaustion that comes from being a parent. Cosmically tired.
There are days like this when I imagine myself to be the mythological Tityrus. He was chained to a rock for his crimes, while a vulture fed upon his heart and entrails, which were ever renewed as fast as devoured. The doctrine of endless punishment was born and suits me well when I need to see my husband Matthew as the vulture, reaping the benefits of me over and over and over again - me the co-parent, childcare provider (for those times when I know what I'm doing doesn't rise to the level of parenting, but is much more like just keeping Noah alive until someone who can be more responsible comes back to help out), grocery shopper, housekeeper, master organizer... And of course, it's me who's the real vulture, bitterly attacking myself again and again with mean and useless messages, which I really can't be affording to do given that I need to raise this dear boy and don't have a lot of energy for other things, which is the whole point.
My old life is so over. I can't really even pretend sometimes that I have parts of it, and I think that's the way I've been approaching things so far. The endless cultural conversation about mothers doing it all and of course looking good while they do it is a paradigm that is not only unattainable, it seems to me to spell out a formula for not being present with my child, my partner, and myself. On some level, it's absolutely impossible to be responsible for a tiny person's safety and security and to enjoy that little life, and still expect to exercise, celebrate regular intimate moments with my partner, contribute to society, and be socially and politically active, unless I make them part of some new paradigm together. They can't be compartmentalized and ticked off a list.
When I planned my return to work after three months of maternity leave, I proposed to come back at reduced hours, and Noah would be with me on-site. As Matthew helped me strategize how to plan that time and what work to focus on, he said something brilliant: that I could approach it as doing the same job with less time, or I could approach it as a completely new job. This was an incredibly novel and helpful way to think about things, and I know that it applies here. Being a mother, and wanting to get outside in the long overdue warm weather, and moving forward with projects through my consulting business, and oh yes, making time with my husband, they all have to overlap now and have something to do with one another in a big, messy, mudpie sort of way. I can't just barrel through until it's all done, in that Katy snow plow sort of way that I used to do. I have to more intentionally find the counterpoints in the day to being Mommy, Mommy the rock, Mommy the thing that Noah can love or safely rage against or whatever else he needs to do. I have to find Kate in this new place, Kate as my source, Kate as my reference point, this new woman, Kate.
This was both a delightful and sad moment for me. I love the book too, and this plow Katy is one serious go-getter, not unlike myself at times. I also was struck by how I am so totally Mumma-Mommy-Mum now that it's rare for me to ever hear my own name spoken in my home. Even Matthew addresses me as "Mum" a lot of times when Noah isn't even in the room. As I write this, I remember reading in a magazine blurb many months ago that this is a sure sign of impending doom in a marriage. But I digress.
As Noah approaches two years old, and shows his excitement more and more for everything around him, I feel like my own motivation for anything other than him is creeping along like an old camel who has decided she really doesn't need water ever again and she'll just live on whatever she's got stored up in her hump for the REST OF HER LIFE. I am tired of my old mental loops of thinking about how and when and what to do, which personal goal or project to push forward with the minute amount of "free time" I have when Noah naps...How to make it happen for myself, some modicum of my old productivity, doing things for others or myself - that goes beyond getting clean and dressed. I feel today like giving up on all that and just being Mommy. Trying to be anything else often leaves me down and tired, more tired than the regular exhaustion that comes from being a parent. Cosmically tired.
There are days like this when I imagine myself to be the mythological Tityrus. He was chained to a rock for his crimes, while a vulture fed upon his heart and entrails, which were ever renewed as fast as devoured. The doctrine of endless punishment was born and suits me well when I need to see my husband Matthew as the vulture, reaping the benefits of me over and over and over again - me the co-parent, childcare provider (for those times when I know what I'm doing doesn't rise to the level of parenting, but is much more like just keeping Noah alive until someone who can be more responsible comes back to help out), grocery shopper, housekeeper, master organizer... And of course, it's me who's the real vulture, bitterly attacking myself again and again with mean and useless messages, which I really can't be affording to do given that I need to raise this dear boy and don't have a lot of energy for other things, which is the whole point.
My old life is so over. I can't really even pretend sometimes that I have parts of it, and I think that's the way I've been approaching things so far. The endless cultural conversation about mothers doing it all and of course looking good while they do it is a paradigm that is not only unattainable, it seems to me to spell out a formula for not being present with my child, my partner, and myself. On some level, it's absolutely impossible to be responsible for a tiny person's safety and security and to enjoy that little life, and still expect to exercise, celebrate regular intimate moments with my partner, contribute to society, and be socially and politically active, unless I make them part of some new paradigm together. They can't be compartmentalized and ticked off a list.
When I planned my return to work after three months of maternity leave, I proposed to come back at reduced hours, and Noah would be with me on-site. As Matthew helped me strategize how to plan that time and what work to focus on, he said something brilliant: that I could approach it as doing the same job with less time, or I could approach it as a completely new job. This was an incredibly novel and helpful way to think about things, and I know that it applies here. Being a mother, and wanting to get outside in the long overdue warm weather, and moving forward with projects through my consulting business, and oh yes, making time with my husband, they all have to overlap now and have something to do with one another in a big, messy, mudpie sort of way. I can't just barrel through until it's all done, in that Katy snow plow sort of way that I used to do. I have to more intentionally find the counterpoints in the day to being Mommy, Mommy the rock, Mommy the thing that Noah can love or safely rage against or whatever else he needs to do. I have to find Kate in this new place, Kate as my source, Kate as my reference point, this new woman, Kate.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Mission Impossible: Episode 10,001
Now wait a minute, what happened to April? The first time I put a note in my calendar to post this particular blog was three weeks ago. It has since appeared on about ten different dates in my calendar. Fruitless planning...and now it is May, and I hear yellow finches calling outside through the open window in our computer room. Some people call such rooms offices, but ours has not graduated to that title as I'm just as likely to be doing my consulting project work on the living room couch or sitting up in bed as here at my desk.
So anyway, lately, when I have trimmed Noah's fingernails by flashlight after he's asleep in bed for the night, or popped bites of scrambled eggs into his mouth as he wildly waves his arms at the bouquet of flowers on the table ("Oooohhh! Dat! Dat! Dat!"), I have increasingly felt what a covert operation motherhood must be to be at all successful. For this boy to be bathed, dressed, fed, happy, healthy, and all the other things he needs and deserves to be, involves stealth and sometimes what feels like a magician's sleight-of-hand. It's simply impossible to negotiate everything outloud with an almost two-year-old. Even as I write that, I know that this is a bigger reality. It's impossible to negotiate everything outloud with a 37-year-old as well (which would be my age), and I sometimes feel a palpable sense of my own prickly behavior when I start to catch either of my own parents looking out for me. As if, "How dare they, those parents!"
In screenwriting, this aspect of things might be considered a subplot. On the surface of things, in the major plotlines, people are saying and doing things, la-la-la-ing along nicely, and in fact lots happens this way. But what makes a good screenplay and story great is when the subplot actively and visibly rolls along underneath. One of the characters says something, and their true wish or need is for the exact opposite, or some other variation. Something happens, and it is what didn't happen that makes the most impact. It is the the subplot that most needs to be reconciled or actualized, driven to resolution, for characters to become our heros and heroines.
So it is with Noah and me. His plot and surface goal for most days, is to do, well, what's fun I guess. Noah wants to do what is fun. Wow, people, what a place to be! If I set aside even a day a week to focus only on what's fun and perhaps three or four duty-driven or responsible-to-others type things, I wonder how much more balanced I'd be. For Noah though, on most days my subplot for him is that he bathe, get dressed, eat, and be active for a good part of the day. Luckily, all of these things can involve fun, as well as some flexibility. I am finding that transitions are potentially the least fun for Noah. He's usually very easy going when given some notice that a change is coming, but still often emits that wonderful energy of "This is great, why stop?" when something truly needs to happen, like a nap let's say because he's lost coordination and has started to fall down every other minute. So the music starts - da-da-daaaaa, da-da-daaaaa - and I become a superspy, plotting avenues to get his late-morning diaper changed and a blanket over him without him noticing too much.
I was reading an article this week that someone sent me in anticipation of Mother's Day tomorrow. It was written by Anna Quinlan and in one part she talks about wishing she had raised her kids with a little less drive to get them on to the next thing, and had been more present with whatever was happening in the moment (I paraphrase). It has taken me a few days to sort out why this actually rubbed me crossways, because I love Anna's writing, and I think it's because for me being a mother is more complicated than being present with your children with where they are at any given moment. For me it is doing everything I can to be open to Noah and to making his life fun, and is also recognizing that it's a major responsibility I have to help move his subplot along. It's also getting out of his way sometimes, and trying to meet my own needs somehow too. I can't forget about that, even though I really have a lot of the time. While there is flexibility with almost everything Noah "needs to do" if I allow it to exist, there is so much about this relationship I have with my dear son that is guiding him and and not letting him see me do it. Ethan Hunt has nothing on me.
So anyway, lately, when I have trimmed Noah's fingernails by flashlight after he's asleep in bed for the night, or popped bites of scrambled eggs into his mouth as he wildly waves his arms at the bouquet of flowers on the table ("Oooohhh! Dat! Dat! Dat!"), I have increasingly felt what a covert operation motherhood must be to be at all successful. For this boy to be bathed, dressed, fed, happy, healthy, and all the other things he needs and deserves to be, involves stealth and sometimes what feels like a magician's sleight-of-hand. It's simply impossible to negotiate everything outloud with an almost two-year-old. Even as I write that, I know that this is a bigger reality. It's impossible to negotiate everything outloud with a 37-year-old as well (which would be my age), and I sometimes feel a palpable sense of my own prickly behavior when I start to catch either of my own parents looking out for me. As if, "How dare they, those parents!"
In screenwriting, this aspect of things might be considered a subplot. On the surface of things, in the major plotlines, people are saying and doing things, la-la-la-ing along nicely, and in fact lots happens this way. But what makes a good screenplay and story great is when the subplot actively and visibly rolls along underneath. One of the characters says something, and their true wish or need is for the exact opposite, or some other variation. Something happens, and it is what didn't happen that makes the most impact. It is the the subplot that most needs to be reconciled or actualized, driven to resolution, for characters to become our heros and heroines.
So it is with Noah and me. His plot and surface goal for most days, is to do, well, what's fun I guess. Noah wants to do what is fun. Wow, people, what a place to be! If I set aside even a day a week to focus only on what's fun and perhaps three or four duty-driven or responsible-to-others type things, I wonder how much more balanced I'd be. For Noah though, on most days my subplot for him is that he bathe, get dressed, eat, and be active for a good part of the day. Luckily, all of these things can involve fun, as well as some flexibility. I am finding that transitions are potentially the least fun for Noah. He's usually very easy going when given some notice that a change is coming, but still often emits that wonderful energy of "This is great, why stop?" when something truly needs to happen, like a nap let's say because he's lost coordination and has started to fall down every other minute. So the music starts - da-da-daaaaa, da-da-daaaaa - and I become a superspy, plotting avenues to get his late-morning diaper changed and a blanket over him without him noticing too much.
I was reading an article this week that someone sent me in anticipation of Mother's Day tomorrow. It was written by Anna Quinlan and in one part she talks about wishing she had raised her kids with a little less drive to get them on to the next thing, and had been more present with whatever was happening in the moment (I paraphrase). It has taken me a few days to sort out why this actually rubbed me crossways, because I love Anna's writing, and I think it's because for me being a mother is more complicated than being present with your children with where they are at any given moment. For me it is doing everything I can to be open to Noah and to making his life fun, and is also recognizing that it's a major responsibility I have to help move his subplot along. It's also getting out of his way sometimes, and trying to meet my own needs somehow too. I can't forget about that, even though I really have a lot of the time. While there is flexibility with almost everything Noah "needs to do" if I allow it to exist, there is so much about this relationship I have with my dear son that is guiding him and and not letting him see me do it. Ethan Hunt has nothing on me.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Homeland Policy (part two)
Report on night number two of the closed-door policy: Noah went to bed last night just after 7:00. He woke briefly at 8:30. Matthew was working furiously on a job application in the office under Noah's bedroom, and when he telephoned a friend to request a reference, his voice carried through the ceiling. I held my breath as I heard Noah cry briefly, go to the door, and then returning to tumble back into bed. Total time awake, three minutes. He awoke next in the middle of the night, for seven minutes, and then slept again until 6:00 in the morning. I am filled with gratitude at his goodness. I am not yet relaxed about this whole thing, as evidenced by my complete attention to the total number of minutes he is alone and awake in his bedroom, but I creep toward adjusting.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Domestic Policy and (En)treaties
The prolific musician Paul Simon released a greatest hits collection in 1988 called "Negotiations and Love Songs" and yesterday I woke thinking how apt and wry a title this is becoming for my newest experiences of Noah's toddlerhood. Parenting Noah in the last several weeks has brought me the farthest out of my comfort zone as I've been to date. I'm sure this is just the beginning, but it has been a hard realization after so many truly blessed months of feeling like a competent mother.
Noah is 20 months old, and exploring his world as much he possibly can. This includes strengthening his independence, while of course continuing to be very dependent. A situation none of us would find easy or fun, and yet it has startled Matthew and I at moments to see Noah asserting so LOUDLY and ADAMANTLY about how he doesn't want us to pull off his shirt before bathtime, or doesn't want us to touch the tower of blocks, or any number of things that we've coasted along doing forever until now. It's not about rhyme or reason, and largely causes us to smile a lot and offer empathetic support for Noah finding his way while we try to stay out of the way. Except, of course, for the point of this blog - the real rub. Noah's sleep has been really disrupted, for nights on end, more than ever in his life. Therefore, so has ours.
Our history with sleep involves co-sleeping with Noah until he was 16 months old, when he then moved to a single mattress bed on the floor of our room for two months, and then in January moved down the hall into his own room. He's never slept in a crib. Once he'd really settled into his room, I weaned him from breastfeeding at night, and then weaned him from having me lie down and/or sleep with him, which brings us to where we have been for some weeks now - I have continued to respond to his wakeful cries in the night by going and sitting by him on the bed until he falls asleep, and then would creep back to my own bed. A few weeks ago we hit a plateau as this "I want...Can I get?" phase started and it started to be five times a night that he would call for me. Then he wouldn't fall asleep deeply enough so I could get out his door before he woke and cried for me again. Then he was getting out of bed and padding down the hall to get me several times a night.
While I've had tired nights before, and actually Noah has never slept all the way through a night, what was excruciating about this was that as a parent I had arrived at the edge of a new cliff. Each transition before I had been able to help Noah make by remaining physically close to him. Looking back I don't know whether this was more comforting to him or me. As Matthew and I gathered information and talked in the last two days to come up with a new plan together to help Noah get better sleep and stay in his room at night, it became clear that he would not be able to enter a process of disorganization and then problem-solving to learn to comfort himself if I (or Matthew) was always there to do the job for him. And the fact that all three of us were now sleeping poorly despite my dogged response to Noah's cries was telling us that change was again upon us. So Matthew and I wrangled and struggled and talked and finally agreed that we would do the most scary thing we've had to do so far with Noah: shut his bedroom door.
To type that, it seems very inocuous compared to the strong negative connotations both Matthew and I had with doing this. Neither of us are proponents of the "cry it out" method and we know that our tolerance for Noah's crying, discomfort, and distress is pretty low. We both feared traumatizing him by withdrawing from him and containing him in his room. But we finally agreed that we could talk with him about this plan, would place a new nightlight in the room, offer a lovey to him that he could use or not use, and would try it. A child development specialist we rely on for assistance had offered in a phone call yesterday afternoon that we could try 15 minutes of waiting after Noah wakes in the night, and Matthew and I agreed that we could tolerate this much distress on Noah's part, but not much more more. We enjoyed a bath, putting on pajamas, reading books, and I nursed Noah down to sleep. Matthew and I went downstairs to watch a little t.v. and try to unwind, both basically thinking that the night ahead could be pure hell.
Noah woke around the time he usually does in the night - the clock said 11:59. I tensed and both Matthew and I were immediately completely alert and listening. Interestingly, Noah called for Matthew first, an unusual thing for him. Since I had done most of the talking at bedtime about the plan, I think Noah knew that I wasn't going to come tonight. He usually knows when I mean business. So he called for Matthew for about 30 seconds. Then he called for me. Then he called for the cat. "Cat! Caaaaat!" At this time Matthew said "He's so smart." We could hear Noah thinking, trying to figure out what to do. Then he started knocking on his door really loudly. He rattled the doorknob. Matthew and I held hands and listened. Four minutes had passed. Noah started to cry hard, and then quickly began to gag and choke, a really painful thing to hear as any parent knows who has a child who has this secondary response to an unwanted event. A few times when Noah has cried really hard for a long time he has done this. It's AWFUL. Matthew and I had agreed beforehand that if he did that for more than 30 seconds, then Matthew would go in and comfort Noah and try to calm him down and get out of the room again as quickly as possible. Noah stopped and it got quiet for a minute. Matthew said, "He's thinking." I had enough room in my brain to notice how different Matthew and I were responding. I was lying there stiff as a board warding off thoughts that I am a terrible mother, and he was a sports announcer giving an empathetic play-by-play of our son's words and deeds. "He's on his bed," he said next, with some amount of wonder in his voice. It had been six minutes. Noah went back to the door and started really yelling loudly for me. He did this for about another six or seven minutes and unbelievably, 14 minutes from his first cry, we heard him go to his bed. "He's going to safety," said Matthew. At exactly 15 minutes Noah was silent, asleep. I got up and turned up the monitor to hear Noah breathing for a minute, and then got back in bed. Matthew and I debriefed for a few minutes, and went back to sleep. Noah didn't wake again until 6:00 a.m.
The light was coming in the window, and Matthew and I went and got Noah when we heard him stir. On his bed with him was a book, a diaper, the container of diaper wipes, and his sippy cup of water. The things he'd take to a deserted island if stranded. I felt, well, like we'd all made it through alive. So great was my fear, my wanting to do the right thing for Noah.
I can't say that I slept well last night, from listening so hard, but I learned my own lessons, distinct ones from Noah's. First, what felt so intensely like a parenting issue, negotiation, and decision, was so much really a developmental issue for Noah. It's his job to ask for what he wants and what he knows, and to work to gain control of his own little life. It doesn't mean he always gets what he wants, because new things become appropriate as he grows. Second, while the goal was to give Noah the opportunity to learn a new skill, he was teaching us at least as much. Creating space for opportunity is not abandonment or brokenness. A hard one for me to remember, as this is a vulnerability I've long lived with. Finally, I am so blessed to learn that all those earlier months and moments of giving him love and space to be himself are mattering already, because he has the support to use what he has inside him to step off his own little cliff and find - amazing! The net is right there for him. What more could a mother want for her child than this - resourcefulness and strength.
It's this mix of having to take the lead, make the rules, have control, use force, guide and shape, give up, nudge and allow, and let go. This impossible mix that had us pleading with Noah two days ago, and making a plan as his parents the next. On this day I feel so blessed that my deepest belief has proved out that with the closing of his bedroom door, a host of new bridges are built.
Noah is 20 months old, and exploring his world as much he possibly can. This includes strengthening his independence, while of course continuing to be very dependent. A situation none of us would find easy or fun, and yet it has startled Matthew and I at moments to see Noah asserting so LOUDLY and ADAMANTLY about how he doesn't want us to pull off his shirt before bathtime, or doesn't want us to touch the tower of blocks, or any number of things that we've coasted along doing forever until now. It's not about rhyme or reason, and largely causes us to smile a lot and offer empathetic support for Noah finding his way while we try to stay out of the way. Except, of course, for the point of this blog - the real rub. Noah's sleep has been really disrupted, for nights on end, more than ever in his life. Therefore, so has ours.
Our history with sleep involves co-sleeping with Noah until he was 16 months old, when he then moved to a single mattress bed on the floor of our room for two months, and then in January moved down the hall into his own room. He's never slept in a crib. Once he'd really settled into his room, I weaned him from breastfeeding at night, and then weaned him from having me lie down and/or sleep with him, which brings us to where we have been for some weeks now - I have continued to respond to his wakeful cries in the night by going and sitting by him on the bed until he falls asleep, and then would creep back to my own bed. A few weeks ago we hit a plateau as this "I want...Can I get?" phase started and it started to be five times a night that he would call for me. Then he wouldn't fall asleep deeply enough so I could get out his door before he woke and cried for me again. Then he was getting out of bed and padding down the hall to get me several times a night.
While I've had tired nights before, and actually Noah has never slept all the way through a night, what was excruciating about this was that as a parent I had arrived at the edge of a new cliff. Each transition before I had been able to help Noah make by remaining physically close to him. Looking back I don't know whether this was more comforting to him or me. As Matthew and I gathered information and talked in the last two days to come up with a new plan together to help Noah get better sleep and stay in his room at night, it became clear that he would not be able to enter a process of disorganization and then problem-solving to learn to comfort himself if I (or Matthew) was always there to do the job for him. And the fact that all three of us were now sleeping poorly despite my dogged response to Noah's cries was telling us that change was again upon us. So Matthew and I wrangled and struggled and talked and finally agreed that we would do the most scary thing we've had to do so far with Noah: shut his bedroom door.
To type that, it seems very inocuous compared to the strong negative connotations both Matthew and I had with doing this. Neither of us are proponents of the "cry it out" method and we know that our tolerance for Noah's crying, discomfort, and distress is pretty low. We both feared traumatizing him by withdrawing from him and containing him in his room. But we finally agreed that we could talk with him about this plan, would place a new nightlight in the room, offer a lovey to him that he could use or not use, and would try it. A child development specialist we rely on for assistance had offered in a phone call yesterday afternoon that we could try 15 minutes of waiting after Noah wakes in the night, and Matthew and I agreed that we could tolerate this much distress on Noah's part, but not much more more. We enjoyed a bath, putting on pajamas, reading books, and I nursed Noah down to sleep. Matthew and I went downstairs to watch a little t.v. and try to unwind, both basically thinking that the night ahead could be pure hell.
Noah woke around the time he usually does in the night - the clock said 11:59. I tensed and both Matthew and I were immediately completely alert and listening. Interestingly, Noah called for Matthew first, an unusual thing for him. Since I had done most of the talking at bedtime about the plan, I think Noah knew that I wasn't going to come tonight. He usually knows when I mean business. So he called for Matthew for about 30 seconds. Then he called for me. Then he called for the cat. "Cat! Caaaaat!" At this time Matthew said "He's so smart." We could hear Noah thinking, trying to figure out what to do. Then he started knocking on his door really loudly. He rattled the doorknob. Matthew and I held hands and listened. Four minutes had passed. Noah started to cry hard, and then quickly began to gag and choke, a really painful thing to hear as any parent knows who has a child who has this secondary response to an unwanted event. A few times when Noah has cried really hard for a long time he has done this. It's AWFUL. Matthew and I had agreed beforehand that if he did that for more than 30 seconds, then Matthew would go in and comfort Noah and try to calm him down and get out of the room again as quickly as possible. Noah stopped and it got quiet for a minute. Matthew said, "He's thinking." I had enough room in my brain to notice how different Matthew and I were responding. I was lying there stiff as a board warding off thoughts that I am a terrible mother, and he was a sports announcer giving an empathetic play-by-play of our son's words and deeds. "He's on his bed," he said next, with some amount of wonder in his voice. It had been six minutes. Noah went back to the door and started really yelling loudly for me. He did this for about another six or seven minutes and unbelievably, 14 minutes from his first cry, we heard him go to his bed. "He's going to safety," said Matthew. At exactly 15 minutes Noah was silent, asleep. I got up and turned up the monitor to hear Noah breathing for a minute, and then got back in bed. Matthew and I debriefed for a few minutes, and went back to sleep. Noah didn't wake again until 6:00 a.m.
The light was coming in the window, and Matthew and I went and got Noah when we heard him stir. On his bed with him was a book, a diaper, the container of diaper wipes, and his sippy cup of water. The things he'd take to a deserted island if stranded. I felt, well, like we'd all made it through alive. So great was my fear, my wanting to do the right thing for Noah.
I can't say that I slept well last night, from listening so hard, but I learned my own lessons, distinct ones from Noah's. First, what felt so intensely like a parenting issue, negotiation, and decision, was so much really a developmental issue for Noah. It's his job to ask for what he wants and what he knows, and to work to gain control of his own little life. It doesn't mean he always gets what he wants, because new things become appropriate as he grows. Second, while the goal was to give Noah the opportunity to learn a new skill, he was teaching us at least as much. Creating space for opportunity is not abandonment or brokenness. A hard one for me to remember, as this is a vulnerability I've long lived with. Finally, I am so blessed to learn that all those earlier months and moments of giving him love and space to be himself are mattering already, because he has the support to use what he has inside him to step off his own little cliff and find - amazing! The net is right there for him. What more could a mother want for her child than this - resourcefulness and strength.
It's this mix of having to take the lead, make the rules, have control, use force, guide and shape, give up, nudge and allow, and let go. This impossible mix that had us pleading with Noah two days ago, and making a plan as his parents the next. On this day I feel so blessed that my deepest belief has proved out that with the closing of his bedroom door, a host of new bridges are built.
Monday, March 24, 2008
While My Baby Gently Weeps
Matthew and I continue to say that Noah is an old soul. He seems to express deep emotions that are years beyond his years. Matthew and I have thought for a very long time how amazing it is that he would sit on the floor in front of our shelf of photo albums, pull them out, flip through for a long time, and then would begin weeping. Not the frustrated cry, not the angry cry, not the "I want something right now" cry, but weeping. We would hear him sniffle, and then he'd drop his head, and then he would cry big sad tears. Weeping with the sweet sentimentality that I thought we were imbued with only when we get older.
Last week he had another reason to weep. He's been missing his "Dadn" while he is away at work. At first, the only love object that got this special pronounciation was our cat, Sidney, who for some time was referred to as "Catncatncatncat." Now he has taken on another completely different pronounciation that is kind of a Snagglepuss-with-Long-Island-dialect, "Cyaaaaat. Cyaaaaat. Cyaaaaat." Anyway, last week, "Dada" became "Dadn," which Matthew takes to mean that Noah truly loves him now in some way he didn't before. So anyway, one day after bathtime in the morning, Noah took the largest of the rubber ducks in the tub and proclaimed it "Dadn." Then he carried the duck around with him all day, and wept on it. He would play with me for a while, or we would read, and then he would hold up his "Dadn" duck while making the baby sign for "Daddy" at the same time, and big crocodile tears would roll down his cheeks. I'd hold him tight and tell him I miss Daddy too, and this would prompt Noah to open his mouth wide and wail with the saddest sobs I've ever heard. I would nurse him and he'd have to stop nursing to cry and sob. I've never seen anything like this. Much of my young life I worked as a personal caregiver and watched over many babies who never revealed this absolutely sweet heartbreaking behavior.
We called Daddy at work on both of these days, and Noah would listen intently while Matthew talked to him, and then would burble and chat himself whenever Matthew paused. He would do well for a while after the call, and then would weep again. Those two nights he also wanted Matthew to sleep in bed with him in the middle of the night, a huge first. Usually, if Daddy tries to help out at night he is met with arms pushing him away and screams for "Mamaaaaa! Mamaaaaa!" But on these nights Matthew got into bed with him and held him tightly and slept beside him. I prayed that Noah didn't know something tragic that I don't, because he acted like Matthew was going away forever, or had been gone forever.
After those two days, there was another sea change. As many people have said, there is no getting comfortable with any certain stage, and even calling behaviors a stage seems ridiculous when it's only two days of said behaviors, but he was back to our light-hearted love of a son. He was happy, didn't mention Matthew much when he wasn't around, and slept wonderfully and happily again at night with only a few wakeful moments.
It's a mystery, this parenting thing. While I can probably count on my two hands the times I've actually panicked because of either being afraid for his safety and well-being, or because I absolutely didn't know what to do, many more times do I watch in wonder like a student looking at an admired teacher, and do what I can, amazed when things make a difference to him, or when he shifts gears seemingly effortlessly, from joyful to bereft, or from pain to peace. He is moved by tides and waters deeper than I can see. And when he shows us his tender heart so plainly there is no more sweet and sad song out there.
Last week he had another reason to weep. He's been missing his "Dadn" while he is away at work. At first, the only love object that got this special pronounciation was our cat, Sidney, who for some time was referred to as "Catncatncatncat." Now he has taken on another completely different pronounciation that is kind of a Snagglepuss-with-Long-Island-dialect, "Cyaaaaat. Cyaaaaat. Cyaaaaat." Anyway, last week, "Dada" became "Dadn," which Matthew takes to mean that Noah truly loves him now in some way he didn't before. So anyway, one day after bathtime in the morning, Noah took the largest of the rubber ducks in the tub and proclaimed it "Dadn." Then he carried the duck around with him all day, and wept on it. He would play with me for a while, or we would read, and then he would hold up his "Dadn" duck while making the baby sign for "Daddy" at the same time, and big crocodile tears would roll down his cheeks. I'd hold him tight and tell him I miss Daddy too, and this would prompt Noah to open his mouth wide and wail with the saddest sobs I've ever heard. I would nurse him and he'd have to stop nursing to cry and sob. I've never seen anything like this. Much of my young life I worked as a personal caregiver and watched over many babies who never revealed this absolutely sweet heartbreaking behavior.
We called Daddy at work on both of these days, and Noah would listen intently while Matthew talked to him, and then would burble and chat himself whenever Matthew paused. He would do well for a while after the call, and then would weep again. Those two nights he also wanted Matthew to sleep in bed with him in the middle of the night, a huge first. Usually, if Daddy tries to help out at night he is met with arms pushing him away and screams for "Mamaaaaa! Mamaaaaa!" But on these nights Matthew got into bed with him and held him tightly and slept beside him. I prayed that Noah didn't know something tragic that I don't, because he acted like Matthew was going away forever, or had been gone forever.
After those two days, there was another sea change. As many people have said, there is no getting comfortable with any certain stage, and even calling behaviors a stage seems ridiculous when it's only two days of said behaviors, but he was back to our light-hearted love of a son. He was happy, didn't mention Matthew much when he wasn't around, and slept wonderfully and happily again at night with only a few wakeful moments.
It's a mystery, this parenting thing. While I can probably count on my two hands the times I've actually panicked because of either being afraid for his safety and well-being, or because I absolutely didn't know what to do, many more times do I watch in wonder like a student looking at an admired teacher, and do what I can, amazed when things make a difference to him, or when he shifts gears seemingly effortlessly, from joyful to bereft, or from pain to peace. He is moved by tides and waters deeper than I can see. And when he shows us his tender heart so plainly there is no more sweet and sad song out there.
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