Once upon a time I used to write in a journal. I still do occasionally, but not often. In cleaning recently (something else I only do "occasionally, but not often") I came across the following and I wanted to share it with you.
I know so many exhausted young mothers who think this phase will never end. Guess what? It does. Faster than you think. I hope you get something out of this.
Mother’s Day
Unlike my love of cooking, motherhood came to me late. My love of cooking never arrived at all. But Jake arrived when I was forty and Jim ten days after I turned forty-two. My standard joke was that I was a double threat to the ecology. By the time my sons were both out of disposable diapers I’d be going into them. But enough of that.
There are benefits to being an older mother. Perspective is the first thing that comes to mind. What I lack in endurance I’d like to think I make up for in wisdom. Of course, that depends on the day. When you’re in your forties you have figured out how fast twenty years speed by. The sticky fingers on the wallpaper, the endless requests for drinks of water to stall bedtime, the whining (oh lord, the whining) seem as though they will last forever. But I have the advantage of knowing what an empty apartment sounds like. It has its moments, but as a steady diet it wears rather thin. I know that these whirlwinds making circles around my legs as I attempt to cook something edible for dinner will be off with friends and interests of their own before I can say “instant pudding”.
This is a mixed blessing, to be sure. Along with the relief that comes with the thought that these constant demands upon my attention won’t last forever is an ache that acknowledges the same truth. Already the funny little speech glitches are disappearing. I don’t remember when Jake stopped calling strawberries “budda-dyes”, but I know I miss it. One of my great joys is when Jimmy goes on and on about something which is obviously very important and serious, and strangers look to me for a translation which I am at a loss to give. I make several guesses at what he’s talking about and if, by accident, I guess right I am rewarded with “Yah, Mummy, dat right!” That won’t last long and I’ll miss it when it stops.
“Working mother” is such a redundant phrase. While the full time job I’ve held for twenty years is demanding, it pales in comparison to my weekends. By Monday morning when I turn my little angels over to our daycare provider (there should be another name for this woman who runs my family) I am longing for a cup of hot coffee and realizing again that we don’t pay Ellen nearly enough. The day starts at 5:30 AM and after a scramble to dress squirmy bodies and brush gnashing teeth, we are out the door. There is a fight over who gets to press the button to open the automatic door locks. We listen to the same song fourteen times between our front door and Ellen’s door. If they can tear themselves way from “Sesame Street” long enough to kiss Daddy and me goodbye I plant an extra lipstick kiss of the back of each chubby hand “for later”. When I pick them up at 5:30 we race to get Dad at the subway station by 6, then it’s home, throw together a fast meal, pajamas, teeth brushing, story and bed by 8:30. Then I start the laundry.
But at three o’clock in the morning something wakes me more nights than not. It’s not a need to go to the bathroom. It’s the need to get one more peek at these sleeping miracles. Jim’s posterior is stuck high up in the air and he’s sucking happily on the “binky” I worry is ruining his teeth. Jake is usually upside down, his legs sticking further out of his pajama legs than I would imagine possible. When did he get that tall? I cover them with blankets which I know will be kicked off before I reach the door. I pat little curls down and try not to wake them with my need to touch them. Sometimes I wonder when their real parents will come to get them. Then I remember forty-four and twenty-two hours of labor respectively and realize that, oh yeah, they really are mine. I worry about what they will face in their futures. The hurts I won’t be able to fix with a hug. I worry about all the other children out there who are beaten or worse by their parents. The thought of hungry children, of hurting children, of sick children used to depress me. Now the thought grips my guts and twists like an angry fist. I pray to my god in the darkness and give thanks for my healthy and reasonably happy children. I stand awestruck between the crib and the bed and I try as hard as I can to memorize this moment. To memorize what they look like, the sound of their breathing. To remind myself that soon I’ll be up at this hour waiting for their key to turn in the lock. But it’s useless. Already I look at pictures taken when they were babies, and I don’t remember living with those people. And I was trying to memorize those moments, too.
And that, in a nutshell, is the difference between having your first baby at twenty and having it at forty. Happy Mother’s Day.
I know so many exhausted young mothers who think this phase will never end. Guess what? It does. Faster than you think. I hope you get something out of this.
Mother’s Day
Unlike my love of cooking, motherhood came to me late. My love of cooking never arrived at all. But Jake arrived when I was forty and Jim ten days after I turned forty-two. My standard joke was that I was a double threat to the ecology. By the time my sons were both out of disposable diapers I’d be going into them. But enough of that.
There are benefits to being an older mother. Perspective is the first thing that comes to mind. What I lack in endurance I’d like to think I make up for in wisdom. Of course, that depends on the day. When you’re in your forties you have figured out how fast twenty years speed by. The sticky fingers on the wallpaper, the endless requests for drinks of water to stall bedtime, the whining (oh lord, the whining) seem as though they will last forever. But I have the advantage of knowing what an empty apartment sounds like. It has its moments, but as a steady diet it wears rather thin. I know that these whirlwinds making circles around my legs as I attempt to cook something edible for dinner will be off with friends and interests of their own before I can say “instant pudding”.
This is a mixed blessing, to be sure. Along with the relief that comes with the thought that these constant demands upon my attention won’t last forever is an ache that acknowledges the same truth. Already the funny little speech glitches are disappearing. I don’t remember when Jake stopped calling strawberries “budda-dyes”, but I know I miss it. One of my great joys is when Jimmy goes on and on about something which is obviously very important and serious, and strangers look to me for a translation which I am at a loss to give. I make several guesses at what he’s talking about and if, by accident, I guess right I am rewarded with “Yah, Mummy, dat right!” That won’t last long and I’ll miss it when it stops.
“Working mother” is such a redundant phrase. While the full time job I’ve held for twenty years is demanding, it pales in comparison to my weekends. By Monday morning when I turn my little angels over to our daycare provider (there should be another name for this woman who runs my family) I am longing for a cup of hot coffee and realizing again that we don’t pay Ellen nearly enough. The day starts at 5:30 AM and after a scramble to dress squirmy bodies and brush gnashing teeth, we are out the door. There is a fight over who gets to press the button to open the automatic door locks. We listen to the same song fourteen times between our front door and Ellen’s door. If they can tear themselves way from “Sesame Street” long enough to kiss Daddy and me goodbye I plant an extra lipstick kiss of the back of each chubby hand “for later”. When I pick them up at 5:30 we race to get Dad at the subway station by 6, then it’s home, throw together a fast meal, pajamas, teeth brushing, story and bed by 8:30. Then I start the laundry.
But at three o’clock in the morning something wakes me more nights than not. It’s not a need to go to the bathroom. It’s the need to get one more peek at these sleeping miracles. Jim’s posterior is stuck high up in the air and he’s sucking happily on the “binky” I worry is ruining his teeth. Jake is usually upside down, his legs sticking further out of his pajama legs than I would imagine possible. When did he get that tall? I cover them with blankets which I know will be kicked off before I reach the door. I pat little curls down and try not to wake them with my need to touch them. Sometimes I wonder when their real parents will come to get them. Then I remember forty-four and twenty-two hours of labor respectively and realize that, oh yeah, they really are mine. I worry about what they will face in their futures. The hurts I won’t be able to fix with a hug. I worry about all the other children out there who are beaten or worse by their parents. The thought of hungry children, of hurting children, of sick children used to depress me. Now the thought grips my guts and twists like an angry fist. I pray to my god in the darkness and give thanks for my healthy and reasonably happy children. I stand awestruck between the crib and the bed and I try as hard as I can to memorize this moment. To memorize what they look like, the sound of their breathing. To remind myself that soon I’ll be up at this hour waiting for their key to turn in the lock. But it’s useless. Already I look at pictures taken when they were babies, and I don’t remember living with those people. And I was trying to memorize those moments, too.
And that, in a nutshell, is the difference between having your first baby at twenty and having it at forty. Happy Mother’s Day.
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