A gorgeous day today, and
Yogesh and Deven helped made my 1st Mother's Day special by
- Writing me nice cards - 1 from each of them (yes, Deven's was ghost-written by his Daddy)
- Talking to my
mom (and dad and sis)
- Taking me to lunch at my favorite restaurant, Savor
- Not fussing too much while I ate (that was Deven's gift - yay!)
- Coming with me to (re)join
24 Hour Fitness - AND letting me get a quick workout in, so the photos of me don't continue to show a double-chin forever
- Letting me take a bath for the first time in I don't know how long, with nice-smelling bath salts (no, the birthing tub during labor doesn't count as a bath)
- And finally, as I burped Deven, he held his little head up, all by himself, for quite a while. He loves looking at his Daada's (Granddad's) paintings, and this was no exception. Quite rewarding to see his little brown eyes focused on the paintings for so long.
Got the nicest Mom's Day prose forwarded from a friend, Kaya - so in the spirit of sharing (as Deven sleeps on my lap), I thought I'd share it again below. First, in the spirit of what she wrote, I want to recount the last Mother's Day I remember with my grandmother, Nunu:
In 1999, before I moved to California, my parents (and uncle & cousins) weren't going to be around for Mother's Day - and my grandmother was available. So, I checked with my dad, and got reservations for us to eat dinner at one of her favorite restaurants,
Normandie Farm. The weather was nice that day, thankfully. I got her a nice corsage to wear for the evening, and picked her up on time (for me that's still a feat, but it certainly was then). We had a nice meal, which I paid for (not the norm), and I know we had a nice evening together.
We'd spent a lot of time together before then, going to dinner-and-a-movie together on Saturday nights, where she always insisted on paying (I think she still got a kick out of getting her Senior Discount at the movies). So, for me to pay for the nice dinner was out of the ordinary, but she accepted graciously. I know my parents spent every Mother's Day with her after that, but that was the last one I was there for - she passed away in early 2006, and I still miss her. I wish she could've met Deven. I like to think that she (and my other grandparents) can see him from where ever her spirit is today. Happy Mother's Day!
...and now, on to the nice prose:
All My Babies Are Gone Now
By Anna Quindlen, Newsweek Columnist and Author
All my babies are gone now. I say this not in sorrow, but in disbelief. I take great satisfaction in what I have today: three almost-adults, two taller than I am, one closing in fast. Three people who read the same books I do and have learned not to be afraid of disagreeing with me in their opinion of them, who sometimes tell vulgar jokes that make me laugh until I choke and cry, who need razor blades and shower gel and privacy, who want to keep their doors closed more than I like. Who, miraculously, go to the bathroom, zip up their jackets and move food from plate to mouth all by themselves. Like the trick soap I bought for the bathroom with a rubber ducky at its center, the baby is buried deep within each, barely discernible except through the unreliable haze of the past.
Everything in all the books I once poured over is finished for me now. Penelope Leach, T. Berry Brazelton, Dr. Spock. The ones on sibling rivalry and sleeping through the night and early-childhood education -- all grown obsolete. Along with Goodnight Moon and Where the Wild Things Are, they are battered, spotted, well used. But I suspect that if you flipped the pages dust would rise like memories. What those books taught me, finally, and what the women on the playground taught me, and the well-meaning relations -- what they taught me, was that they couldn't really
teach me very much at all.
Raising children is presented at first as a true-false test, then becomes multiple choice, until finally, far along, you realize that it is an endless essay. No one knows anything. One child responds well to positive reinforcement, another can be managed only with a stern voice and a timeout. One child is toilet trained at 3, his sibling at 2.
When my first child was born, parents were told to put baby to bed on his belly so that he would not choke on his own spit-up. By the time my last arrived, babies were put down on their backs because of research on sudden infant death syndrome. To a new parent this ever-shifting certainty is terrifying, and then soothing. Eventually you must learn to trust yourself. Eventually the research will follow. I remember 15 years ago poring over one of Dr. Brazelton's wonderful books on child development, in which he describes three different sorts of infants: average, quiet, and active. I was looking for a sub-quiet codicil for an 18-month old who did not walk. Was there something wrong with his fat little legs? Was there something wrong with his tiny little mind? Was he developmentally delayed, physically challenged? Was I insane? Last year he went to China. Next year he goes to college. He can talk just fine. He can walk, too.
Every part of raising children is humbling. Believe me, mistakes were made. They have all been enshrined in the "Remember-When-Mom-Did" Hall of Fame. The outbursts, the temper tantrums, the bad language -- mine, not theirs. The times the baby fell off the bed. The times I arrived late for preschool pickup. The nightmare sleepover. The horrible summer camp. The day when the youngest came barreling out of the classroom with a 98 on her geography test, and I responded, "What did you get wrong?" (She insisted I include that here.) The time I ordered food at the McDonald's drive-through speaker and then drove away without picking it up from the window. (They all insisted I include that.) I did not allow them to watch the Simpsons for the first two seasons. What was I thinking?
But the biggest mistake I made is the one that most of us make while doing this. I did not live in the moment enough. This is particularly clear now that the moment is gone, captured only in photographs. There is one picture of the three of them, sitting in the grass on a quilt in the shadow of the swing set on a summer day, ages 6, 4 and 1. And I wish I could remember what we ate, and what we talked about, and how they sounded, and how they looked when they slept that night.
I wish I had not been in such a hurry to get on to the next thing: dinner, bath, book, bed. I wish I had treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less.
Even today I'm not sure what worked and what didn't, what was me and what was simply life. When they were very small, I suppose I thought someday they would become who they were because of what I'd done. Now I suspect they simply grew into their true selves because they demanded in a thousand ways that I back off and let them be. The books said to be relaxed and I was often tense, matter-of-fact and I was sometimes over the top. And look how it all turned out. I wound up with the three people I like best in the world, who have done more than anyone to excavate my essential humanity. That's what the books never told me. I was bound and determined to learn from the experts. It just took me a while to figure out who the experts were.
Posts
