Reflections on Motherhood
Aug. 3rd, 2003 08:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ciroccojIt's funny, yesterday was not a stellar day as far as the kids were concerned - Justin was excessively Stitch-like and Daniel was excessively spacey. And yet I had one of those "I want to remember this" moments near the end of the day.
I'd sent Justin to the basement to play, and he was there for about half an hour. This might not seem like long to most people, but to a three-year old, it's an eternity. Then I woke Chris up from his nap, and went to get Justin. Justin had been fine, but just as I started down the stairs, he started wailing. Sobbing and completely hysterical, unable to even tell us what was wrong. We both hugged him, carried him to the couch, and tried to settle him down. No dice. We asked if he'd hurt himself - no. Was he scared? No. Was he lonely? No. Just sad? Yeah.
OK, can't do anything about "just sad" other than cuddle. So we did. Eventually, Chris got up to make dinner and put on the kid's music CD he made up from songs taken from KaZaA. We listened to Jerry Orbach singing "Are You In Or Out" about four times, as Justin gradually settled himself. But even after he'd calmed down, he wanted to keep cuddling. So we did. Just sitting on the couch, listening to kid's music, not really saying anything, holding him on my lap.
It doesn't seem like much, but so much of the time it's little things like that that are the reason being a parent is so magical. Those moments when you're with your child and you know that your mere presence is comforting to them. And theirs is comforting to you. You're both just existing in the same space. Not spending "quality" time, whatever that means. Your child isn't learning anything, isn't being cute, or clever, or difficult, or anything - they're just being there.
And I have such clear memories of other times like this, that I never wrote down because there would be nothing to write and I never took a picture of because there was nothing happening. Like when we were in Calgary for Christmas one year: I was lying on the couch in the living room, gazing at the Christmas tree, and Daniel, almost two and perpetually in motion, climbed onto the couch, and cuddled up to me, and gazed at the tree as well. I have no idea how long we were there, I just remember that it was like a time out of the normal stream of life.
Another one, a few years later: Justin was less than 6 months old, Daniel was less than 3 1/2, I'd been on maternity leave with them for a few months and was not enjoying it at all (Chris doing clerkship, post-partum depression, Daniel being rebellious, Justin with days and nights mixed up, and a freezing winter that just wouldn't give up). We went for walk around our neighbourhood on a relatively warm, clear spring day, and Justin fell asleep in his stroller. We came back home and I got Daniel a snack and we ate together on the front steps in silence, occasionally checking on Justin as he slept on. Cool breeze ruffling our hair, quiet street, sun warming us slightly, smell of spring. And Daniel eating his snack, sitting very close to me on the step.
It's so hard to convey in words the feeling of memories that are so simple.
I'd sent Justin to the basement to play, and he was there for about half an hour. This might not seem like long to most people, but to a three-year old, it's an eternity. Then I woke Chris up from his nap, and went to get Justin. Justin had been fine, but just as I started down the stairs, he started wailing. Sobbing and completely hysterical, unable to even tell us what was wrong. We both hugged him, carried him to the couch, and tried to settle him down. No dice. We asked if he'd hurt himself - no. Was he scared? No. Was he lonely? No. Just sad? Yeah.
OK, can't do anything about "just sad" other than cuddle. So we did. Eventually, Chris got up to make dinner and put on the kid's music CD he made up from songs taken from KaZaA. We listened to Jerry Orbach singing "Are You In Or Out" about four times, as Justin gradually settled himself. But even after he'd calmed down, he wanted to keep cuddling. So we did. Just sitting on the couch, listening to kid's music, not really saying anything, holding him on my lap.
It doesn't seem like much, but so much of the time it's little things like that that are the reason being a parent is so magical. Those moments when you're with your child and you know that your mere presence is comforting to them. And theirs is comforting to you. You're both just existing in the same space. Not spending "quality" time, whatever that means. Your child isn't learning anything, isn't being cute, or clever, or difficult, or anything - they're just being there.
And I have such clear memories of other times like this, that I never wrote down because there would be nothing to write and I never took a picture of because there was nothing happening. Like when we were in Calgary for Christmas one year: I was lying on the couch in the living room, gazing at the Christmas tree, and Daniel, almost two and perpetually in motion, climbed onto the couch, and cuddled up to me, and gazed at the tree as well. I have no idea how long we were there, I just remember that it was like a time out of the normal stream of life.
Another one, a few years later: Justin was less than 6 months old, Daniel was less than 3 1/2, I'd been on maternity leave with them for a few months and was not enjoying it at all (Chris doing clerkship, post-partum depression, Daniel being rebellious, Justin with days and nights mixed up, and a freezing winter that just wouldn't give up). We went for walk around our neighbourhood on a relatively warm, clear spring day, and Justin fell asleep in his stroller. We came back home and I got Daniel a snack and we ate together on the front steps in silence, occasionally checking on Justin as he slept on. Cool breeze ruffling our hair, quiet street, sun warming us slightly, smell of spring. And Daniel eating his snack, sitting very close to me on the step.
It's so hard to convey in words the feeling of memories that are so simple.
