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The Writing Life

Pulling your hair out with deadlines, interviews and active kids?
You're not alone! Check out how these mom's cope.

Baby Impulse
by Laura Hible
(Sept 2000)

No one prepares you for how fast your children grow. A few experienced parents may warn you, but in my case, their timing proved poor. A woman once approached me at the grocery store to admire my sleeping baby. This baby had stolen my previous night's sleep, and fatigue threatened me. The stranger cooed at my innocent child and advised me to treasure the infant days. I almost growled at her. Another time, both my boys raced around a clothing store, whooping and laughing. Here, a fellow shopper witnessed my aggravation and reminded me to enjoy them, because soon they'd be off and grown. How quickly I wished that time would come.

Too soon, my boys raced through several years of school. For so long, I tied shoes, wiped faces, made cereal; they do it all themselves now. I grumbled of how I had no time for myself or for my interests. At last I did. Solitude brought with it the opportunity to read or write. I even made an occasional trip to the coffee shop or bookstore, alone. I had desired this freedom since the boys were babies, yet the unaccustomed feeling did not content me.

I still sense them around me, babies. My head swings toward them, inner radar attuned, as they pass in someone's arms. I remember their warm smell, the silkiness of their skin, the perfection of ten perfect, tiny fingers. I see in my mind's eye pursed lips in sleep, clasping fingers, stretching torsos. I crave small, sleepy smiles, a face burrowing into my skin, the pull and rhythm of a nursing child.

Adjusting to the unfamiliar silence takes time. I notice most the absence of questions. The interruptions frustrated me as I tried to work, but today even one of their serious observations would bring a smile to my face:

"Mommy, why do we have skin?"

"Why do farmers eat so much corn?"

"Why did God make mosquitoes?"

Children see the world in all of its wonder. In their innocence, my boys thought that I did too. They pondered its curiosities, and their persistent questions implied that I shared their interest. They're learning that I don't have all the answers, but I wish they'd still ask me for them. The fewer questions they ask me, the more clearly I see the separation of their ideas from mine. More and more, they rely on their own knowledge of the world for information.

They keep busy now without my constant presence. Reading alone occupies them, though we still read together. Video games, language of young boys, claims them, though I swore it never would. More and more, they play with friends in he neighborhood. Not satisfied to simply enjoy my new solitude, my mind devises worries. I worry when they read alone, wondering if I should be reading to them. I worry when they play video games, thinking I should entertain them with more educational toys. When they run off to play in the neighborhood, I worry because I can't always see them.

Though I finally have time to myself, my instincts as a writer and mother press me to reflect on all I've lost of my children to gain this independence. I can't turn back the clock, but I can welcome a new baby into our family. He offers me the chance to acknowledge his fleeting time and need. When no one but I can console my inconsolable child, when my child won't sleep without his goodnight kiss from me, I experience love's assurance without comparison.

Each time I see a mother hurrying a young child along on a walk and hear her say, "Come on, hurry up!" I'm filled with pity and regret. I feel pity that she's missing out on appreciating her child as she could, and regret, that I, too, have hurried my children. The overwhelming urge to tell her to enjoy them while she can threatens me, and I have to turn away. These mothers will be no readier to hear it than I was.

I still fight the chaos in our house, still try to write my book and understand simultaneously the workings of boys' minds as they present me with dead worms, tar lumps, scraped shins, and salty tears. I still consider bringing a baby into our lives, for the second chance he would offer me as a parent, though my memory recalls nights without sleep, spit-up on my clothes, and diapers that leaked. The early years test your endurance, but the rewards that follow add to your life in ways you'd never have guessed. My boys act today like they need me less. In truth, they need my support and attention more than ever. The challenge lies in seeing them just as they are now.

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Laura Hible lives in Illinois and is the mother of two -- Michael and Sean, ages 9 and 7. She is a reading aide at an elementary school and enjoys reading, inline skating, walking, and traveling. Laura's work has been published in various publications including Valleykids Parent News and Writer's Exchange.

Read previous submissions to The Writing Life:

Aug 2000 - "Ambitious Moms Storm the Maui Writers Conference" by Kendeyl Johansen

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