The Mama Politic: Growing Pangs
On Friday morning of Memorial Day weekend, my mom called. She lives across the Cascade Mountains, four hours away and my sister was going to make the trek to visit her for the long weekend. Mom tentatively asked, "Can you send that baby with your sister so we can have her for the weekend?" Without thinking, I looked up and asked my nearly four-year-old daughter if she wanted to go to Grandma's. Without hesitation, she popped up from playing "dog" on the kitchen floor and yelped, "Yes." She then proceeded to gather the toys she wanted to take with her. I wasn't prepared for that answer or for her to leave for the weekend. We had park, beach, and dog-walking plans. We wanted to hunker down in our neighborhood and relax. I called her dad and he said, "I want her to stay." I wanted her to stay, too. What had I been thinking by asking her opinion?
I'd like to think I'm growing out of my possessive-mama phase. That I'm backing off, lightening up, and figuring out how to be on my own again. There have been occasional weekends, evenings, and afternoons where I have allowed, and even asked my sister or my mom, to take her. I often leave her with her dad for a few hours. Sometimes during these excursions, I feel free and relax; other times, I'm anxious and spend the entire time awaiting our reunion. The last couple of years I have urgently felt the need for a break regardless of my anxiety but as she approaches four, I just don't want to be away from her. With the constant "need stage" mostly behind us, our days are more about discovery, adventure, and exploring the world together. Her dad and I are in love with seeing the world vibrant and fresh again through her unclouded vision. In all honesty, I did not realize that my daughter was going to grow up. I actually thought she was always going to remain a baby. I know this sounds absurd, but it is absolutely the truth. Somewhere deep inside, I knew she was not going to fit into her newborn onesies for her entire life—but I just could not see beyond babyhood. And as much as I cherished her babyness, it was also terrifying. I had visions of her nursing forever, of always having to walk her to sleep in the sling, and of never being able to venture into the world again alone. But, as she grew, I relaxed and began to wish for all those difficult stages again. I clung to her lingering baby ways. When she was a toddler, she was still my hairless-wonder baby. When she turned three, we were visiting a friend who sent her kids to the basement with food, and my daughter stayed happily on my lap while my exasperated friend called her a lap-baby. I know it was suppose to be some sort of insult or reprimand, but I took it as a reassurance that our babyhood years where still fully intact. Despite our bond with our daughter, we want to be parents that really listen to our child. I knew she would have a blast at Grandma's house, so we packed her suitcase, piled her stuffed animals into her backpack, and headed out to my sister's across town. The entire time, I kept talking to her about going. I told her repeatedly that she would be sleeping with Grandma instead of sleeping with me. I explained that I wouldn't be able to come and get her if she wanted to come home. I was afraid she didn't quite know what she was getting into, but she was still insistent that she go. As we neared my sister's house, I turned into sadistic mama and said, "If you stay home, we could go to the dog park." Oh, how I suck. I'm not this parent. I try so hard not to use bribes or manipulative tactics, but I really didn't want her to go. Five minutes from my sister's she said, "I want to stay with mama." As relieved as I briefly felt, my own selfish needs had done this. So I kept driving. When my daughter was born, I didn't just love her, I was in love with her. I was in love like a Catholic schoolgirl, like a punk-rock junkie, like a 1990's Taster's Choice coffee commercial. We were half-naked, in bed, and skin-to-skin for months. We spooned. We made out. It was as if we were stuck in a French film amoré, amoré, amoré with no end in sight. I never put her down. My husband could have vanished from the Earth, the planets could have aligned, and aliens could have taken over the universe. I was in the moment. I was living as the clock ticked in milky wonderment. The entire bedroom smelled like blood, breast milk, and the sweet, sweet odor of sweat from nursing, sleeping, and nursing some more. Nevertheless, here we watched my sister running toward our car; ready to take my not-quite-still-a-baby from me. My daughter was ecstatic. We got out of the car and she ran off to play with my sister's dogs. "She changed her mind and says she doesn't want to go," I said, "but we'll see." I didn't have the heart to say what a giant blubbering boob I was for planting the dog park seed in her head. I felt torn, indecisive, and a little panicky. I felt like maybe there was some sort of premonition in the air about the drive over two mountain passes. I looked out the window at their brand-new Volkswagen SUV, and I knew they would never let anything happen. I gathered my rational self, got my daughter's attention, and then explained that we could go to the dog park as soon as she got back. She still didn't want to go, so we headed back to the car. Midway across the lawn, she turned and said in all earnestness, "I want to go to Grandma's." I knew she really did. We unloaded her gear and car seat and I snuggled her into their car. I kissed her, hugged her, kissed her, hugged her, kissed her, and hugged her again. I got in my car and drove off. I think part of me hides behind her babyhood. It gives me definition. I am mama to a baby therefore, I am. She hides my wrinkled clothes, she is camouflage for my stretched out baby tummy, and she gives me something to talk about with strangers and acquaintances. Fulfilling her needs is often fulfilling the needs inside of me. She also gives me a buffer between her dad and myself. I don't know how to be the mom that I am and the partner I was. I only have enough for one intense relationship at a time. After six years together before she was born, and now four years with her, we aren't quite sure what to do with each other when she's not around. Although we do eventually find each other again, it takes time to reach our childless symbiosis and relax into one another. Two blocks away, I was trying to figure a way to keep her home or maybe I should go, too. This entire scenario felt overly melodramatic but I just couldn't help myself. It was just a weekend, but it felt in so many ways like something different—like independence. My mind reeled into the future—five years, ten years, and fourteen years. I panicked. I decided I could not go through with it and I called my sister. What was wrong with me? How many times had I wished for her to be whisked off for a long weekend? How many times have I flat out said, "No, you can go another time," if I was feeling unsure about the situation. My sister tried to talk me down but after I hung up, I drove back to her house. My sister and her boyfriend looked at me as if I was coming unhinged. I was still somewhat holding it together as I walked to their car. My daughter was playing with her animals. I asked for another kiss and she said, "Mama, I already gave you one. Go get in your car." So I did. After I was out of sight, I started to sob. I called her dad and cried into the phone. Instead of being his typical irritated self by my over-protectiveness, he was understanding and wanted me to meet him at work. Getting closer to giving in, leaning on him instead of being the one to lean on, and feeling that old familiar need for him and him alone, I cried and drove. I cried for her years of needing me without hesitation and for my willingness to give up everything else to give this to her. I cried for all the ways her being in the world had broken her dad and I apart—and how she is the one thing that always brings us back together. I cried for her strong opinions and her determination to make up her own mind despite my selfishness. I don't want to stop her from living her life even if she is only four years old. Now it was time for me to grow. And so, I let her go. |
Michelle Taylor
 Michelle Taylor has taught in a New York City public school, at a New York Penitentiary, and at Sarah Lawrence College. She is currently a teacher at a community school in Seattle where she has packed her daughter Autumn-Wilder around in a sling, a backpack, and upside down for the past four years. You can find her other work at Mama Out Loud and The Living Classroom. Read more of Michelle's Mama Politic column. search mamazine:
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