On the 9th day, he created guilt. No, not the dude in the picture. You know, the dude up there. It is the unseen motivational force behind every decent parent. Let's face it, parenthood is a dirty job. There is no margin for error, which makes for some pretty risky business. I suspect that the human race would probably be extinct be it not for internal feelings of self-condemnation. What no one tells you about motherhood is that you will blame yourself for even the most minor on-the-job screw up. What I will tell you about motherhood is that every parent fucks up at some point, and the remorse is everlasting. I'm not an expert, but I have learned some very valuable lessons. Heed the following warnings, and for the love of all things good and holy, save yourselves....
Letting your toddler take that late afternoon nap.
Telling your kid that it wasn't chicken, it was fish.
Not locking the bathroom door.
Leaving your blackberry on the table, next to a glass of iced tea, and stepping out of the room for just a minute.
Ever introducing bubble wrap to a preschooler.
Establishing the tradition of "It's your birthday, you get to choose tonight's dinner menu! Anything you want!".
Forgetting to put your camera away before you fall asleep.
Teaching your three year how to use said camera.
Not finding a more creative hiding spot for the Christmas gifts.
Choosing your child's birth date as the lock-out code for parental programming on the TV.
Opting to not install that all important lock on mommy and daddy's bedroom door.
Smelling the finger (or hand) of anyone under the age of five.
Taking #5's memory for granted. Especially when it comes to numbers, like 9, 1, and 1.
Revealing any of your own rebellious, teenaged moments with your three rebellious, teenaged boys.
Telling those three, rebellious, teenaged boys that you've seen it all and nothing shocks you anymore.
Letting your husband use his best judgment when approving your pre-teen daughter's school outfit.
Consuming any Mother's Day breakfast food that your five year old prepared by himself.
Forgetting to hang the cordless phone back on the dock (see #13)
Assuring your fourth grader that it's okay to improvise, should he forget the lyrics during his class Christmas recital.
Instructing your five year old to smile his biggest and widest smile on picture day.
Not checking pockets on laundry day, no matter how pressed for time you might be.
Jokingly telling your child, who needs the information for a homework assignment, that you work for a bunch of underpaying asshats.
Underestimating that child's ability to spell.
Passing the toy aisle when you're only running in to grab a few things.
Telling your pre-teen daughter that if she kisses a boy before she's married (you know, before the doctor can give him that special shot) that she'll get worms which will subsequently crawl out of her anus while she's sleeping at night. Telling your six year old son that if he curses, his hair will fall out and he will become bald.
Taking said six year old to visit a sick relative on the oncology floor of a local hospital after that explanation.
Anything that involves glitter, Play Dough, or Moon Sand in an indoor setting. Waxing the wooden banister in full view of two ten year olds.
Telling your ever-increasingly hormonal eleven year old that she was switched at birth. Teaching a three year old, any three year old, the lyrics to The Song That Never Ends.
Forgetting to put your credit card away when you have a very internet savvy kid.
Downgrading any child's ability to comprehend what a guilt trip is after a pediatric or dental appointment.
Assuming that your two year old could never open a nail polish bottle.
Depreciating the power of Super Glue, or the durability of Sharpie markers.
Neglecting that visible seam of wallpaper that you assume is only noticeable to yourself.
Expecting your tweenage son to take "the talk" even semi-seriously.
Presuming that he won't take you up on your offer to "ask you anything about it", "at any time".
Declaring that unless they can give you the proper definition and use it in a sentence, only then can they use that word in your house.
Making any kind of deal or bet with the teenaged species, especially when it involves food or cash.
It was a Friday night, fifteen years ago. The rain poured down as hard as the thunder clapped. I'd been inpatient at a local maternity floor for three days, impatiently awaiting his arrival that wasn't scheduled for another month. But he had other plans. At 5:02pm, the first of many more contractions to come signaled his intentions. By 5:45, my obstetrician confirmed that he was just an anxious as I was. She broke my water at 6:15, and by 7:00, I was teaching my unborn child his first of many life lessons - how to cry like a little girl. Fifteen minutes later, the anesthesiologist was pumping medication into my spinal canal, and I was seriously propositioning his eighty year old ass out of sheer gratitude.
A little while later, relief. Which did nothing to quell the excitement I was experiencing. In fact, not having to be preoccupied with the pain gave me nothing else to do besides argue with medical personnel that I would be willing to take full responsibility for any complications that might arise from me drinking a few cans of ginger ale (that they ultimately never allowed me to have), and pick a name. A few weeks beforehand, MFH and I had written down several suggestions on little pieces of paper, folded them up, and scrambled them inside a white Panama Jack hat, hoping that we'd blindly pick a winner. But it simply wasn't that simple. Whoever thought it a good idea to market a book with ten thousand possible suggestions for a moniker geared toward pregnant women was obviously A.) high. And B.) Of the male species. But it's safe to say that we narrowed it down to about twenty five at that point. By 8:30, my delivery nurse declared me to be at ten centimeters. I was ready for my close-up. A team of staff began prepping the room. The real drama of childbirth doesn't commence until the bottom half of the pretty and comfortable bed you are resting on suddenly disappears and stainless steel stirrups spring up in it's place. After pushing for what seemed like an eternity, my efforts proved futile. Apparently, too much epidural really can be a bad thing. Junior's heart rate was declining, so Doc implemented plan B. I'll spare you all the gory details of a birth via vacuum extraction, but I will say this: when delivering a baby who is positioned face down, and the doctor asks mid-crowning if you'd like to stop for a minute and touch the baby's head, there is never any shame in telling her she's on fucking crack. Even though Doc had ceased counting, MFH continued. I'd never given birth before, so I went with it. I wasn't quite in the mood to question him, being as I had a human head lodged half-way out of my vagina. Like Dr. McCoy, I gave it all I got. One. Last. Push. And suddenly, at 10:17pm, it was a boy. I had a son. In one push, I went from being a me to a we. And he. Was. Amazing. Five pounds, nine and a half ounces, and nineteen and a half inches of holy shit! Perfection, with ten fingers and ten toes.
I bought and read every parenting book known to man. I subscribed to the perfect parent magazines. I sought the advice of every mother in a forty mile radius. I even watched The Miracle Of Life, twice. But nothing in this world can ever prepare you for that moment. And that moment can never be duplicated. It can't be caught on camera. There aren't even any words. It just is. I will never understand how it's possible to unconditionally love someone you just met, you just do. I knew that by the time #1 checked out of Utero de Momma, he'd probably steal a few towels, as well as my own personal supply of iron and calcium. But I never expected that he'd take my breath away.
We didn't get any amount of time longer than it took to snap the traditional, seconds-after-birth, commemorative, new family Polaroid to hold him. In reality, he was five weeks premature, making his lungs that much immature. He ended up requiring five days of c-pap oxygen following his birth. But that instance of our gazes intertwining was enough for me to know that he wasn't an Xavier Kaejtan. He was so much more. And so we decided otherwise, six days later as we readied to bring him home.
Fifteen years have passed since those cherished and fleeting days. Fifteen years. In fifteen years time, I could have become a neurosurgeon. I could have ran for and accomplished two presidential terms of office. I could have done a lot of things. But I could not imagine not ever being #1's mother. If I ever doubted any decisions I made in my lifetime, this is most definitely not one of them. And if I had the chance to do it all over again, labor and all? I would. In a heartbeat. Because a heartbeat is all it took, from that day to this. Suddenly, I blinked, and he was taller than me. I turned around, and he turned fifteen. I am becoming acutely aware that one day, I will have to surrender him to another woman to hold. But I secretly wish that he will always find his way back to my arms.
Children are nothing if not intuitive. We are all born with the ability of foresight, but somewhere along the way to adulthood, society erases our capacity to see the wolf underneath all of the wool. Politeness blinds parents to the point of disabling our kids, and essentially teaching them how to lie. How many times, as a parent, do we tell our children to play nice? We warn them to mind their manners. And we punish them for being honest, though we cover it with more deceit - we tell them they were disrespectful.
For the past two years, I've watched my oldest four begin to come into their own. It's interesting how incredibly antithetic their personalities are from each other. No two have the same preferences in anything, be it clothing, food, music, or even color schemes. They assert their own choices individually, as individuals should. Yet, concerning their propensities in regards to people, I won't deny that my kids have an unfuckingcanny knack for recognizing poor character.
Admittedly, I've been guilty on countless occasions of misguiding my young in this concern. I wrongfully instructed them not to - basically - be truthful. Basically, I taught them how to lie. Regretfully, it was for the benefit of others and not themselves. Don't say anything about Soandso's suchandsuch, she's going through a hard time right now. Come give Whoever a hug and kiss before we leave. Whathisname is coming over, you should hang out with him. I'm going wherever with Whoever, come with me. In more than one of these instances, the kids clearly did not want to interact with these people. In every single situation, their instincts were spot fucking on.
It's been said that the world isn't always black and white, but that's not true. At one point, we all saw it in just that way. We either liked a person, or we didn't. The only difference between kids and adults is the fundamental ability to always speak the truth regardless of what the consequences might be. And then adults came along and completely mindfucked us. During the past week or so, this realization has been nothing short of an epiphany in our house, and my kids got the albeit rare opportunity to laugh and say "Told ya so, Mom!". For years, I've been force feeding these types of untruths to my brood. I have demanded their compliance in order to spare the feelings of others. And believe me, I've learned my lesson. When a child feels the slightest inkling of proclivity toward someone, pay attention. There is always just cause for it.
Never again will I tell #1 to be nice and make friends with someone he absolutely abhors. Nor will I instruct #4 to attend another godforsaken party because all of her other friends will be there. #5 will never give another solicited hug. Though I will always tell #2 it's rude to stare, I will herein encourage him to speak up and ask why. And #3 will no longer be made to apologize for tellin' it like it is. I don't expect any of these changes to result in accolades. I suppose this will create distances in more than a few relationships, for all of us. But those with genuine intent will be more easily identifiable in a sea of ill-will.
