The Parent We Become
By Lu Hanessian
I'm cleaning breakfast dishes. Eating cold scrambled
egg scraps from my three year-old's plate. “I don't
wike eggie anymore Mom. I just wike cinnamon toast.
Dat's protein,” he informs me, as he shakes the cinnamon
over his toast and three feet of countertop. (Wait,
didn't I just clean this place ten hours ago?)
My husband has his own frustrations. He made rice pudding
late last night with the leftover pot of rice from dinner.
When our oldest son woke up at midnight and groggily
whispered for us from the top of the stairs, Dave quickly
stretched a piece of plastic wrap over his freshly made
dish, left it on the counter, and went to him. This
morning there are four million tiny ants blanketing
the sweet topping underneath the plastic wrap, helping
themselves.
Both of us feel like a compost heap.
In moments like this, parenting feels exhausting, thankless,
draining of selfhood, energy, marriage, finance, and
dessert.
Last week, my six year-old is sitting at the dinner
table quietly chewing, a rarity in and of itself. Sitting.
At dinner. Quietly chewing. None of these typically
find themselves in the same sentence. It's usually balancing
at the dinner table with a foot on the floor and another
tucked under his bottom, chewing with rhythmical humming
and/or tongue syncopation. I remind him about calming
himself while he eats, and he reminds me that he is
doing just that by humming and balancing. True, I think.
I rephrase it, explaining digestive system logic, the
threat of interminable hiccups, and so forth. This has
a positive effect. Hence the sitting at the dinner table
quietly chewing, if for a few moments. He is thinking,
while crunching sweet potato fries in his molars.
“Mom,” he says, “I think you're the best mom in the
whole world, and when I'm ninety three, I'll think to
myself, “I had the best mom in the world.” And I'll
remember all the fun things we did together, and I'll
be so happy as if it was in a dream.”
“Yeah,” echoes my three year-old. “Yer da best mom
in the gawaxy, even Buzz Wightyear!”
In moments like this, parenting feels achingly tender,
temporary, lonely, bittersweet, deeply devotional and
sacrificing, a heart beating full of grief and gratitude.
“Mom,” whispers my older son from his bed in the dark.
“I feel like my bed is moving. It's turning and flipping.
Could you put your hand on me?”
I lay a hand on his back and one on his head. He falls
asleep in minutes. I recall his tears as a baby in the
car seat, early attempts in stroller, one ride in the
bouncy seat. He had vertigo back then, while everyone
called him fussy, difficult, challenging. If we could
all go back in time with the knowledge we have of our
grown child, what would be see and do differently?
In moments like this, parenting feels divine, honorable,
profoundly nurturing and nourishing of the mind, body
and spirit, a blessing and a privilege.
I have gradually discovered that we become the mothers
that our children need. In that process, over time,
we find the woman, the person that we need to be—that
we could have never become otherwise. Parenting is a
spiritual journey of the highest order. No other circumstance
will ask of us the same soul-searching, redefinition
of everything we know, and courage to let go when our
hearts want to hold on forever. This has the effect
of carving out a self.
Even in my pain, my failure, my doubt, I thank my sons
for sculpting me, for whittling the wood with their
primal selves, shaping me with their needs, urging me
to take form as they take flight.
© Lu Hanessian 2006 |
