This week last year I was 38 weeks pregnant— full term. Somehow, Luke is already almost a year old. This morning, Zilla said: “I just realized that the first birthday party is really for the parents: We survived! We kept him alive.”
Survival was never on my mind. Waiting for Luke (which took a while—labor never progressed, induction failed, and he was evicted by cesarean when things got complicated, at 42 weeks) I wondered how this giant bulge in my belly would make life change.
Change is only something you can measure if most things stay the same, and nothing has. Having a new baby, trying to find time to work, negotiating child care, being a parent and a partner and still a child—and childish–myself, installing car seats, breastfeeding in public… It has been like moving to a new country, in a far-away time zone, with different hygiene standards and sleep customs and negotiation tactics and a new language and a very messy cuisine where eating involves putting food in your hair.
I am me. I am totally different. You really have to visit. A post-card or Facebook picture, your friends kids or babysitting, everything your mother ever told your, all the books you could possibly read—which I realize makes writing about parenthood comical if not fraught—don’t even begin to explain it.
Practically, friendships have shifted—people I thought would be there have disappeared and many new friends have arrived. I feel more connected to humanity that I ever have. I love people simple because they are someone’s mother or son. And yet, sometimes I feel lonely, but I am never alone: All exercise involves a baby stroller or pack. All sleep includes my little man. All toileting—you get the idea. The rare moment that I am without Luke, the dogs crawl in my lap, thinking that, now, finally, I belong to them. This can also be true of the husband.
My schedule has changed. I work whenever I can sneak in a minute and I guard that time like a rabid animal but feel less certain that it is time well spent. Even when I am so glad to be working, work does not have the same place in my life: being a mom has made me bigger. Work is a smaller part of who I am.
And even though I miss them, and have more time to think of them—while Luke naps, while I push the stroller, while I read Luke an old book my Mom read to me– it is hard to find time to talk to family or old friends. And equally hard to explain why: even though there is so much to say, so many changes in Luke every day, they are also imperceptible, huge and small. And sometimes I am so spent that I feel like I am unable to form syllables with my tongue, and I can’t listen, my ears just don’t hear.
I often hear people say that you need time away, time for yourself. This is true for me too. But it is also true that when I am with Luke, really with him, my problems seem to go away. I am able to let go of those knotted petty fears about the size of my jeans and the size of my paycheck, the state of my book, and everything I think I should do or want to achieve or become, I feel a kind of peace I have never known, and a confidence too. A friend of my recently said that parenting is a continuing education program devised for adults. This sounds about right. I have a lot to learn. But I think I am starting to get the idea: Don’t worry about what worries me. It’s summer! So what if I haven’t washed my hair or the car or the dog. So what if it’s been a year since I posted here and all I can think to write or talk about—oh, the cliché– is babies or motherhood? I have to remember not to try to understand everything or—my biggest temptation–plan too much.
For all its complications, the job can be pretty simple, if I let it: just love.
P.S. Thanks, Laura.