Love and Imperfection

Standing in my bedroom tonight, I coughed kind of loudly. A moment later, I heard a sweet little voice from inside the bedroom across the hall, responding to my raspy hack. "You okay?" I grinned to myself, as I froze in silence. It was the voice of my newly-minted 2-year-old, coming from his crib, no doubt where he was lying on his back with his feet up in the air, poking them between the rails and against the wall, as he likes to do. Choosing not to enter into a conversation that I knew would mean another 15 minutes of settling him into bed, I didn't respond. Quiet. Then, my concerned caretaker seemed satisfied, as he continued on to other pressing duties, in song. "A-B-C-D-eeeehhhhhggeeeeeee..."

How do they do it? Children are not easy. They whine, they fuss, they don't listen.  They take crackers into the living room against my instructions where the ants find them. They refuse to eat the food I made especially for them. They refuse to eat the food I made especially for me. They refuse to eat any food. They want me to get out a big, awkward toy that requires set-up. So I do it. Then they want me to put it away because it's in the way of the next game they're trying to play. I don't do it. I tell them, too bad, they have to play around it, because mommy wants to sit down for a few minutes. "No, you may not have any candy." "Come here so I can help you blow your nose." "You have to stay in 'time-out' until I tell you." "We can't go to the park right now, it's bedtime." "Yes, you have to brush your teeth." "No, you always need to use your own toothbrush." "Please wash your hands." "I know you don't want to, but we share our things."

I really try to say things other than "no" as much as I can, although it's a lot harder than one might think. I let Mason go to bed in a laundry basket once. He was begging. I think he lasted about 30 seconds. He went through a phase where he wanted to sleep on the floor. Okay. That's fine. I really just care that you are sleeping. Of course, he only spent minutes on the floor each night before he realized it wasn't as great as he thought it would be. Still though, he would have me tuck him in, pulling blankets around him with the perfect tautness. Ok, here's a big one. I let the boys play on our coffee table. More like, climb, jump, slide, and hang on that coffee table. I know it bothers some people who see it. They think I shouldn't let them do it. They don't say it, not out loud. While that used to kind of bother me, now I really don't care. These boys jump from that table onto the couch like performers with great style, twisting, turning, starting backwards and landing with their faces in the pillows. Sometimes it's a sideways fall, or a leap over a brother, and many times a simple straight-forward high jump. They know (ok, theoretically) that it's a special thing reserved for our table and our couch, and they love it. "Mommy watch me!" Then there is the inevitable slip, trip, flop, or bump that brings them to me for comfort. But then they're right back at it and the tears are still wet.

So much of me has always felt like a non-mother. Maybe that's why I sometimes write about obvious things making an impression on me (I don't claim to be extraordinarily insightful, just honest). I never "had" to hold the babies. I didn't enjoy babysitting. I had no younger siblings to help me learn how to be a care-taker at a young age. I was the one with two mothers my whole life (thank you, sister, Renee, a.k.a my second mom), and for the most part, I loved it. I enjoyed being the baby of the family (sometimes I still milk that one). I was freaked out when I realized that I was actually going to have to figure all that stuff out for myself. I was going to have to grow up. And not just pretend. I knew I'd have to actually be responsible. There wouldn't be someone to bail me out when I decided I'd had enough. I had no idea what I was in for. I was scared. And rightly so. It's no picnic.

When I see Max spend 15 minutes "practicing" climbing in and out of his crib before bedtime, I start to realize I may have learned something about being a real grown-up. I'm not sure I can aptly put it into words, but maybe it's that I know I'm still a work in progress myself, needing practice for all the adult skills I've supposedly mastered, or at least all the ones us "adults" try to act like we have. We're secure, we always know what to do, we know how everything works.  Kids, if you need to know something, ask an adult.  They are experts on everything (ha). And sure, I can make a list of crazy things my kids do, but how many ridiculous things did I do this week? Did I say I was going to go to the gym and then not go? Did I say I was going to be careful of what I ate and then scarf down a bunch of dark chocolate reeses peanut butter cups three nights in a row? Did I put off calling the repair guy yet again (seriously, it's been two months)? Maybe I didn't kick or shove anyone, but did I think something unkind about someone? I wish I could say "no" to at least one of those questions.

So, to answer my query from earlier...How do they do it? How do they take so much of our physical, emotional, and mental energy and then turn around and make us feel like it's all worth it?  It sounds crazy, but that's how it works, isn't it? Every time. For all my non-adult feelings, my thoughts of lost independence, lack of time for myself, and a bittersweet pause (if not a total stop) in a career I've enjoyed, I am humbled at the way my heart has changed, opened, and grown, since becoming a mother. Often these days, when I'm losing my patience, feeling like a broken record and like I'm talking to a brick wall, it's only a matter of time before a little Max will ask me if I'm "okay", stunning me with his apparent concern, his obvious ability to watch and learn from what I do, and it will snap me right back into the present, a place where I know that these moments are fleeting, that if I'm blessed enough to watch my children grow into adulthood, that it will always go too fast, and before I realize it, they won't be so completely and utterly dependent on me to teach them about life and to provide them with a good one. I know that as much as I often feel drained, I know I will feel immensely more empty once they are grown and gone and that if I don't relish this time in my life, I will regret it later. And maybe someday, I'll be dependent on them, and they will take care of me, in a thoughtful, gentle manner, loving me in spite of my imperfections.

Tomorrow, maybe I'll agree to read "just one more story", or break a few of the rules. And maybe, I will care a little less what other people think, and pause before my voice rises in frustration, when I remember that I, too, am not perfect.