Lost at Sea

I grew up on an island. Despite the ocean’s accessibility to me, I was never a summery beach person, preferring instead chilly winter walks along the shore when the blue and white nothingness of it all seemed only for me, as if I was the first person on earth taking up vacancy. I’ve always loved the sheer emptiness of the beach, an oblivion that always spoke to me in a way that seemed to turn off others who loved the warmth and sunbathing of island life. The colder off seasons drew me in as a little girl when I’d take Sunday walks there with my parents, the brisk air awakening my lungs. I’d play hide and seek with my older brother in the sand dunes, taking shelter in the valley, which was always filled with a softer, warmer white type of sand. If a large breeze blew by, it’d whip the grains around me, as if I was one small brown speck inside a giant hourglass. As a lonely teenager, I’d escape the dysfunction in my house by seeking refuge in my first car, which seemed to always automatically steer its way to the beach. I’d stare out at the gray-blue winter water through the windshield as if my longing to be on the other side of that ocean could will it to actually happen.

           

          And years later, after already venturing to the land across that ocean a few times, I still found myself being drawn back to its shores, this time, with a tiny newborn against my chest who was along for the ride whether he wanted to be or not. When I stood at the threshold of motherhood, I arrived there much more dumbfounded, frazzled, and jumbled than I could ever remember my tiny son appearing on his own journey into humankind. Even though Aidan was decidedly frustrated with the limits of newbornhood and all the constrictions that came along with it, he seemed to still maintain a steady and strong will, as if he knew exactly who he was and what he wanted, even at two weeks old. I, on the other hand, felt like my entire soul was an erupting wound of vulnerability and naivety, rocked with the presence of this miniature yet assured creature whom I desired for so long but had no idea what to do with. Aidan as a newborn didn’t like rattles or pacifiers or sitting in his pretty swing or bouncy seat. He’d wail if placed in a stroller and didn’t sleep in the infant carrier that I saw so many other babies sitting contently in. He’d roam his humongous black eyes around the living room, our “campsite” during the early days of feedings and diapers as if to say, “what else ‘ya got?” 

And so, we’d go out. To the duck pond. To the bay. And finally, to the ocean. I’d show Aidan the vast blankness that I cherished so much, and let him hear the cyclical crashing acoustics of the water. Back then, I couldn’t pinpoint why I felt compelled to take a tiny newborn to roam the desolate shores, other than to have a definitive place to go with an infant that seemed to want to see the entire world before he could sit upright. But I suppose I felt a deeper draw to the water, as if its blue depth was a magnet to my rawness as a mother. As if the answers to my confusion would be whispered on the wave crests. I craved its therapy, and how the timelessness of the beach brought me comfort when nothing else could. For, even when I didn’t have the answers, I knew the ocean would remain steady and still, as it always had been, despite whatever immense changes were going on in my life.

I recall one day when I was four months into motherhood, waist-deep in the trenches of sleep training and wide-eyed dawns. Aidan wouldn’t nap and I felt myself becoming more unraveled each hour that passed with his irritability. I had been trying to help him learn how to sleep well for weeks with no success. I didn’t know where to go or what to do, but I found myself strapping Aidan into his carseat and heading the five miles to the late autumn shoreline. I’ve never felt more unhinged in my life. Unhinged and crazed and lost. Completely maddened by this tiny person whom I dedicated every waking moment to. Lost amongst friends of mine who seemed to bounce right back from childbirth, motherhood, and infancy, as if they had acquired a new piece of furniture instead of a creature that required incessant grueling attention. I felt like I had been abducted by aliens the day I gave birth to Aidan, and was returned to earth forever different, possibly appearing the same on the outside but altered and changed nonetheless. The ocean didn’t help Aidan’s restlessness; neither did the rocking of the tide nor the salty cold air. He wouldn’t sleep. I drove Aidan home more maddened than before and wound up locking my keys in the car. Unable to get into the house, I took refuge in my old neighbor’s place and called my husband to make the 45 minute commute to come open the door and rescue my keys. Any hope of Aidan eating and sleeping was lost. I waited politely yet disturbed the whole time, and when my husband finally got home, he magically got Aidan into his crib to sleep, evoking my envy over his grace as a father. When he returned into the living room, I wept uncontrollably onto his collarbone. I felt like one big ocean, waves of emotion upheaving onto my husband’s dress shirt and tie. I cried primitively, like a brand new baby myself, the tears lurching out of my exhausted, red eyes like stinging waterfalls. I howled into him, losing all sense of reality and composure. The ocean had not worked. But I kept hope for its compass-like pull to me, waiting for calm. Listening for answers.

A year later when we relocated six hours away and much further from the coast, I mourned the loss of my ocean and all things nautical. I didn’t know how I was going to leave the shore. I regretted not spending enough time engaging in water activities, thinking I should have gone on more boats and spent more summer days at the beach. But we fell in love with our new location and soon I didn’t think about how much I’d miss my proximity to the beach. Still, its lure was a subtle haunt within my heart; a quiet vestige of our old life that I’d crave often. Aidan got older and turned into an unstoppable toddler, then a feisty older toddler and finally a verbose strong-willed boy. Every disrupting cycle of bad behavior or upheaval in who I thought Aidan was made me crave a drive to the ocean. We managed without it but I missed its soothing vastness. 

 

Recently, we took a family vacation to the beach. I was eager to visit a spot on the coast I had never been to before and to get away for a bit. But I was impatient to fulfill that quiet craving that had been lingering for the last few years. I couldn’t wait to stand in front of the ocean and just be. Aidan, at four, had been well behaved and chilled out for awhile. The insanity of earlier days was behind us. Still, I was antsy to get myself on that sand and feel soothed and solaced. 

But instead, although we enjoyed the beach and the vacation, the satisfaction for being coastal again was anti-climactic. I couldn’t wait to get back to the place I always felt restored, but when I got there, I didn’t feel any big relief or change. Aidan spent most of his vacation tossing around in the waves with Daddy. They’d stand knee high in the water and Aidan would squeal with delight as my husband lifted him high into the air and safely into the surf. He chased the tide and ran backwards with the water as it lapped upon the sand. I spent most of the time standing to the side, watching my two men at play, almost amazed at how effortlessly parenting has found its way to us. I thought back to my early shattered days standing at the ocean like a puzzle piece waiting for its matching pair. I thought of how far I’ve come as a mother and of how I’ve learned to create my own salve for the chaos and trauma that raising a child can bring. I smiled as I watched Aidan playing contently at the shore, thinking of how we’ve both matured these last few years - two composed daily comrades instead of crude adversaries in some sort of apocalyptic babyhood warzone. Peace had­­ found its way to our family naturally.

It is not the ocean, nor the water or shore that is therapy for me. Its presence back in my life didn’t alleviate any sense of isolation or confusion. I realize that what it always did for me was simply provide an environment free from distraction, so that I could return inward and find solace and certainty in my own maternal heart. The magic was never dancing upon the foam on the shoreline or whipping around the ocean air, but inside me all the time. Without the confusing world of parenting advice, other people, internet articles, Facebook, books, magazines, clichés, little old ladies in the drugstore that offered mothering advice – with all of that gone and just the elements of nature around me, I could look within and restore my own knowledge. The answers were already deep within. Once, I was adrift at sea. And eventually, I found my way home. 

Ghosts in the Library

                I’m not sure when it happened, but all of a sudden, my son has crossed over into the “independent reader” section of the library. He isn’t interested in the picture book area, nor the bins of educational toys in the kiddie space that used to entertain him in prior phases of his live. Aidan simply wants to select a few comic books on his own and chill out on the big kid couch. Today we had an impromptu trip to the library to return a few books and get out of Daddy’s way at home while he did some work. After getting his Summer Reading log stamped from the librarian, Aidan heads down the graphic novel aisle, pulls a few superhero and Star Wars hardcover comic books, and makes himself comfortable on the couch furthest away from the noisy children’s area. Feeling idle, I look at my little guy and dare to try something I’ve never done at the library with him before. “I’ll be right back,” I say.

            “”K,” Aidan casually replies as I trail away  to the adjoining fiction section backwards, eyeballs firmly gripped on my son’s small head. Quickly, I scan the aisles looking for a book that grabs my attention. In all these years, I have never attempted looking for books for myself at the library with Aidan. It seemed pointless to try in those beginning years when we made regular trips to our different library chains to meet friends for Storytime or to play with the toys there.

 I recall my very first trip to the library when Aidan was a brand new baby. “I can do this,” I mistakenly thought. Back then, I hadn’t yet learned that Aidan was not like every other baby I thought I knew; he would never come to be OK with being placed in a stroller, never fall asleep in public, never prefer to suck on a pacifier and be silent, never be content with just holding some chewable toy, and never ever for a second let you forget that he demanded constant don’t-you-dare-look-away-for-even-a-second attention. I stood there in my post-partum maternity summer capris, rocking Aidan in his spanking new stroller and staring down the aisles of parenting books, feeling good about my outing, as if I was still a normal person in the world of normal humans going about their business. Aidan fussed and cried. He flailed his red arms about in protest. He pushed his chest out, trying without success to bust free from the straps. I tried the pacifier, the little crinkly toys, the side-to-side rocking that my husband had already perfected. Aidan hollered and continued his stroller-revolt. Sweat started to pool on my upper lip, chest, and back. He looked up at me with angry black eyes as if to say, “what are you thinking? That you can just put me in this contraption and I’ll be cool sitting here doing nothing?” I left the library sans books, struggled a fighting Aidan out of his torturous stroller and into his even-more torturous car seat, dripping from the hazy July sun and returned home to nurse my strong-willed boy in front of the air conditioner, still shaken with naïveté, still so raw from my entrance into motherhood and selflessness.

In later months, the library became the weekly place of communion between me and other mothers finding their way out and about. We made cross-legged Storytimes and Itsy-Bitsy Spider songs and sleigh-bell shaking our important and crucial business each week. As our infants crawled around each other and drooled atop wooden blocks, we touched the surface ever so slightly on the real issues of parenthood, the stories and questions and uncertainties inside our hearts still waiting to be quenched with solace. There simply wasn’t enough time in our 45 minute baby class to share what we really wanted to share about alienation, selfish impulses, fear, and self-doubt. Instead, we joked about stretch marks and checked in on each other’s teething statuses before heading to our cars to go our separate ways for naps.

Even later, as Aidan grew into toddlerhood, the library was merely another place where I chased and chased and chased my itty bitty son as he took off constantly. It almost didn’t matter where I was those days; it was all the same blurry, sweat-inducing dash. Aisles of bookcases were like runways to his unstoppable legs and the four-walled empty meeting room where Toddler Time took place was exactly the confinement Aidan wasn’t going to go for as he jetted towards the door whilst all the other kids seemed to sit contently with their Cheerios. Then, magically, over the last couple of years, the library transformed into a sanctuary for my son’s growingly insatiable curiosity and love of reading. At two and three, Aidan became all business when it was time to head to the library. In his marine biology phase, he pleaded for me to read every single book on deep sea critters and fish. We’d squeeze in together on the smallish loveseat and devour each find. We’d spend hours engrossed in whatever Aidan’s obsession of the month was, and I’d wobble on my knees down the aisles of books, head tilted, pulling as many pieces as I could find that fit his current interests. “Ooo! Can you read this to me?” Aidan would ask, already taking his place on my lap before I would have a chance to answer.

Today though, as I experiment with leisurely stepping away and trusting my growing boy to stay in one place while I try to look for something for myself, I feel uncomfortable and awkward, as if I am in the process of relearning a basic skill after years of being out of practice. Isn’t that always the case with motherhood – despite my son’s growing independence, I am nevertheless utterly rusty at being relaxed in my own, lonely skin. I think of those that lose their memory and other functions from trauma and must relearn everything they once knew. Aren’t we as mothers always in a perpetual state of beginning again; striving to reclaim parts of ourselves that have been lost to parenthood – the phantom limbs that extend from our souls, the ones we still believe are there, but haven’t quite been able to touch since childbirth?

I feel rushed and distracted. I drift blankly down a few more aisles, this time allowing the distance between Aidan and me to grow until he is completely out of my vision. I think of the future, and of how I will be releasing Aidan from my supervision in larger increments each year and each phase of his life, until he no longer needs any at all. The notion both excites and terrifies me. It has only been a few minutes since I’ve been away from Aidan but images of him somehow getting up, leaving, or engaging in some verbal scuffle with another preschooler travel irrationally through my brain.

A few moments later, I return to Aidan’s couch empty-handed. I am pleased, but not at all surprised to see his small brown head still motionless as he sits and skims through the same comic book. I creep behind him, not wanting to interrupt him or break his casual yet intense focus. I glance at the rest of the kids in this wing of the library, all larger and lankier “big” kids with their long limbs extending over the arms of the couches as they read their chapter books quietly. And I think of how long I’ve waited for moments like this, where my son and I are together alone; two separate entities that belong together but do not need to be so constantly. I feel like I’ve gotten strange looks my entire career as a mother whenever I say I cannot wait for Aidan to get older. I retrace my words, and joke that I am missing the gene that makes a woman want to keep her baby a baby forever, but it doesn’t seem to help others’ confusion. “It goes so fast, don’t rush it,” older ladies warn me longingly. But the truth is – Aidan has never seemed comfortable in his own skin until lately, as if he was somehow born trapped by the limits of newbornhood and dying to break free from it. In those first few moments of his life and after the initial euphoric joy I felt, I also looked down on him and understood that his huge black eyes were frustrated in a way I have never seen in new babies; an old man aging in reverse. I feel like I’ve spent his entire life trying to satiate his impatience with incapability. And now, finally, I can sense Aidan’s relief. This is who he has been waiting to be.

Standing behind him as he reads, I am a voyeur to his experience as a big kid. And, I am irreversibly not needed in his life in the way I’ve always been. I feel the twinges of mindfulness flutter deep within my chest. My baby is not a baby anymore. It’s a recognition I’ve looked to with excitement, and I am at once exhilarated and overcome with sentiment. Put this image to memory. I tell myself this over and over, and my heart makes peace easily with moving on; onto the next moment in our everyday mundane life as mother and son, onto the next phase in Aidan’s growth, onto his eventual teenage years and manhood. I can feel all at once how utterly special it is to feel emotional about a child’s growing up, and yet respectfully get out of its way and remain a spectator. To stand back and witness the unfolding without letting sentiment interfere with nature.   

“Are you ready to get going, babe?” I ask Aidan.

“Yeah, in a minute,” he sighs casually. I love our nonchalant exchanges these days. I do not miss the tantrums and miscommunication of earlier years. Aidan gathers the books he wants to bring home and we make our way down the long library to the checkout counter. Along the way, I pass the ghosts of our former selves down each aisle. I see the harried, frazzled spirit of who I was as a brand new mother, alien-like and dazed. I see the strong-willed defiant ghost of Aidan running down the bookshelves. He disappears behind a row of books, and I draw my attention back to the real Aidan, who marches forward in front of me. Somewhere in the horizon ahead of him, I can make out another hazy spirit; a woman, her pace slowed and intentional. I try to follow her ghost but she drifts too far and out of my vision. Is she who I will grow into, the relaxed mother of an older child? Will I learn to be as comfortable in my own skin as my son has finally become? I will find my way to this woman. In the meantime, I follow behind Aidan. He knows the path, and I trust his lead.

The Way of the River

          Slowly at first, we lock eyes. He’s dressed in a gray T-shirt, lined with sweat around the collar; gray hair curls behind his ears. His fingers are dirty from construction work, his eyes piercingly pale blue. I notice him staring at me, his icy glaze peering past the hood of my car, past my own brown eyes - longer, deeper, further than he should be able to see. I look back as a zip down the street. At first I am befuddled at his stare but I continue on driving down the street with my son in the car seat behind me. As I pass the man, his blue eyes turn hateful and through the whizzing car surrounding me, I can hear him shouting. My heart beats with aware trepidation, then turns to shameful dishonor as I hear the words. “SLOW DOWN!” he screams at me as I pass him and continue on to the intersection. My face is hot, feeling slightly annoyed yet inexplicably in agreement with him. Suddenly, I am a little girl. I am being punished. I am in the corner, hiding from my parents, shameful for the lie I told. 

          I drive home and park the car. I want to drive all the way back to my icy blue-eyed man. “You don’t understand!” I want to call out to him. “I’m from New York and I drive only slightly aggressive and fast for a New Yorker! I have a child in the back seat and I am usually a very good driver but I often get frustrated with how slow some people drive sometimes! I abhor very fast drivers and I promise you I am not a danger to society, or anything else that you might be thinking!” 

          But the man is long gone, and I am home, rushing lunch into my son so I can fold laundry while he has some quiet time in his room so I can get dinner ready on time so I can avoid a late bedtime for little Aidan so my husband and I can talk business for our upcoming vacation so we can fall into bed at midnight and start all over again tomorrow. I ignore the road signs along the way, the ones that whisper in a gentle hush, “slow down.” “Slow down.” I overlook the voices and carry on. There is too much to do.

         The following week, we depart for a week long trip to the Adirondacks. I’ve been looking forward to it for months. Vacation Mommy turns out to be very different than Regular Mommy. I savor the crisp air and peaking autumn foliage before me. I slow my pace and spend the entire morning walking the lake shore with my baby as he hunts for pebbles and leaves. I lose track of time. I relish the salty crunch of hot French fries, the creamy goodness of ice cream in the parlor on Main Street, the buttery decadence of the lobster roll I treated myself to for lunch. I sleep solidly. I hold hands with my husband as we walk through town for dinner. I feel slightly more alive and awakened. And, I am not rushing. My attitude towards the immensely long road trip changes too. Seeing my 3-year-old passing the hours in the car by singing and talking without fret, I shed my road trip anxiety from earlier years with Aidan, when he would meltdown and throw fits from his hatred of  car seat confinement. Quite simply, he has chilled out and grown up. My husband and I shrug and toss our detailed mental itineraries to the wind. “We’ll get home when we get there,” we tell ourselves and mean it. And we do. Pleasantly.
         But the next day, the pangs of perfectionism eat away at my relaxation. There are barrels of dirty laundry to do, an empty refrigerator to fill, and neglected rooms that need tending to - a tiny cobweb here or there, an empty tissue box holder, a bill to mail, a birthday present that needs wrapping for the following day. I feel Vacation Mommy evaporate into Bitch Mommy as I ignore my husband and son for the last stay-home day of our vacation before work and school start again. I choose unpacking the luggage over craft time with Aidan, re-organizing the newly stocked fridge over relaxing on the couch with my husband during Aidan’s quiet time, harried bitch-mode tone over a more ladylike one. Later, I remove my make-up and a reflection I am not used to stares back to me. I notice delicate tissues of skin around my eyes that were once not there, and creases underneath instead of the freckly youth I’d always been bashful about. I look at my mirrored brown eyes and think of my sweaty, angry construction worker angel of the week prior and his glaring blue ones. Slow down, he tells me. Slow down. Stop.
         Where have I been rushing to all this time? I think of all the times I’ve snapped at Aidan while getting dressed for school. “Let’s GO!” I finally always bark while he struggles with a sock or pleads to take one more plastic figurine with him. I sometimes make him cry. I race him down the stairs and to the car; some sort of absurd relay with a tiny, half-pint child. I regret taking the “shortcut” road that follows the lovely Rappahannock River to school because everybody drives so slow to obey the very low speed limit. “I should have gone the other way! I should have gone the other way!” I bitch in the car as I trail behind a beat-up car inching along. I think of how the five-minutes-late-to-preschool timing will have a ripple effect on all my errands and things to do before picking Aidan up and tackling the rest of the day. Has it been a race to lunchtime? A race to when Daddy gets home? A race to Aidan’s bedtime? I can hear the voice that has developed out of my breath over the last year or so. I don’t like what I hear. I can sense the pressured pace of my stride. I don’t like what I see. I flash forward to the rest of my days as a mother and am disgusted at what lies ahead of me; an anxious frazzled woman devoid of purpose and gratitude, forever rushing around to futz over minutia and ignore the journey. I’m racing towards an end that is ambiguous and hazed, and along the way, I see a path of regret and dizzied apathy. I see a race to nowhere, and a small precious son, trailing behind.
         We chose to only have one child, in part, of course, so that we could focus on that one little person, centering all of our energy on his needs and still have time to enjoy what we were doing. And for the most part, we have done that. But somewhere in between the first chaotic war-zone days of Aidan’s existence and the newer, predictable big boy childcare period we’re in, I’ve single-handedly found a way to morph my self-identity as a mother into a mutant, unappealing form of itself. It’s so easy to equate the completed chores of motherhood into self-purpose and success. Emptied garbage, check. Clipped baby’s toenails, check. Dinner is cleaned up, check. I pureed yams into twenty containers for the freezer, check. We got some fresh air, check. As baby grew and tasks became more routine, I guess I found a way to complicate the things that made me feel successful. We got out of the house on time, went to Storytime at the bookstore, got your new vitamin prescription filled, read books, had an afternoon playdate with your new friend Dylan, made dinner in time for Daddy to come home, AND Mommy got to scrapbook your six month pictures tonight just as Daddy was drying you off from bath time, check, check, check. Every completed job of motherhood and homemaking became a way for me to feel a sense of purpose and satisfaction. I realize that maybe I have hung onto this way of everyday life far too long. As Aidan approaches four years of age and grows more independent and unique by the day, perhaps I sense the loss of identity I’ve built a life around. Perhaps I fear the journey I will inevitability need to take as I re-define exactly what makes me productive in a new and different season of parenthood. And perhaps, because of all this, I’ve been hanging onto the daily chores and rushing about to this place and that place in an effort to preserve my comfortable spot as mother-of-a-young-child.
         Whatever it is, I decide to listen to my gray-haired construction worker. I slow down. Literally, I start with slowing down my driving. I realize that the speed limit in various spots in town is actually a lot slower than I’ve thought. I obey the limits precisely and take those long, belabored pauses at stop signs one learns in Driver’s Ed. Instead of bitching about slow drivers, I become the slow driver; Aidan behind me as co-pilot. And I discover that by taking our time in the car, we still seem to arrive everywhere exactly at the same time anyway. I take it further, and experiment with what might happen if we are a little late for school or errands or a playdate. It turns out, nothing awful happens. And in fact, I feel my pulse slowing, my voice relaxing, and my mind opening up to the conversations I have with Aidan along the way.
         I challenge myself to linger as long as possible after preschool as Aidan plays in the communal playroom and forget about time frames. I talk with other mothers I’ve seen for at least the last year but never taken the time to say hello to. At home, I try to disregard agendas and my “blocks” of Aidan’s structured day - Lunchtime, Craft Time, Quiet Time, Movie Time. I realize that the formless, go-as-we-please playtime Aidan and I both used to dread when he was younger is something our souls were starving for. We put a picnic blanket under a tree in the front yard and read new library books in the warm afternoon sun of November. It bleeds into other parts of our day and I don’t seem to care. I ask Aidan what he wants to do during the long long afternoon hours and I listen to his answers with an open and interested heart. When Daddy is finally home for the night, I join in their upstairs wrestling matches and silly board game play. I let dishes crust in the sink and emails go unchecked. Our weekend calendar boxes suddenly become blank and the anxiety over how we’re going to entertain Aidan dissipates as we simply figure it out along the way. We play at the park or stop in a bookstore on a Saturday and let the rest of the day form itself around rediscovered toys and niches of the house to ignite imagination. I realize that my husband and I have created our current lives around working so hard to satiate Aidan’s unquenchable curiosity that we’ve been robbing him the opportunity to fill his own empty spaces without our detailed intervention. I’m horrified by my lack of awareness about this. But I relish Aidan’s discovery of boredom, quiet, and simplicity.
         In the light of my new mindfulness, I stumble upon other epiphanies. If I linger or delay with chores or errands, I still manage to find the time to accomplish them. I channel my troubled perfectionism into a game to see if I can “perfect” mindfulness. Can I be the best at imperfection? At going slowly? At blurring borders and time?
         Slowing down reveals a new pathway to listening. I listen. I really listen to what the silence is telling me. And in place of my rushed conscience and precision, I hear new answers that I hadn’t thought about before. Answers about me, not my role as a mother. Read. Read things you’ve never thought of reading before. Write. Write now. Write for your life. Practice yoga again. More answers come. Lay in bed with your husband in the dark, listening the night away to music like you used to do many years ago. Get lost in space and time in those dark hours. Still more. There is a place in the world for you after Aidan goes to school. After this stage of parenthood. There is more for you. Perhaps if I listen closely and be still, I will find my way to that path, as well. I feel an exhilaration about the opening I’ve allowed into my life and what gifts present themselves in that open calm.

 
         One afternoon, the sounds of Aidan acting out superhero battles in his room dissipate into silence. He’s been playing for about an hour in his room during our much needed Quiet time from each other while I sort bills out to pay. I call upstairs to him but hear no response. When I check in, I don’t see my little guy for awhile, until I notice a small flesh-colored lump on the bed. He’s taken his figurines into his bed for a fight, and in the midst of it all, must have fallen asleep. The late winter light casts itself onto his brown head of hair and drooling, opened lips. I can’t remember the last time he’s fallen asleep accidentally in the afternoon. My mind starts fantasizing about how this unnatural late day nap will interfere with his ability to fall asleep at night, and how my husband and I will have to delay our nighttime plans, discussions, and pursuits. I should wake him up, I think. Instead, I climb onto his twin-sized bed and curl behind him, putting my lips to his fuzzy scalp. I think of a friend of a friend who put her young son to bed several months ago and then died suddenly on the couch from some rare disorder that is still being investigated. I wonder if she had had a few more moments on earth, would she have wanted to rush through that last bedtime ritual with her son, or linger, smelling his innocence and caressing his youthful cheeks? Would she have remembered the chores she accomplished as each day bled into one another, or the still, idle flashes of intimacy with her son? Slow down, I hear again. Be still. Right now, there is only this tiny flesh, breathing up and down on the bed, snoring softly in my arms.

         Aidan and I break out the heavier jackets for the newfound chilly winter air. We head out and start our day. We proceed down our normal route towards school and stop at the light where we always get stuck. Here in the warmed isolation of the car, I feel secure and cozy. Unrushed. “Let’s take the way of the river,” I say to Aidan, deciding nonchalantly to take the winding road that travels along the water with a speed limit of 20. The way of the river; a winding unhurried course, where sunlight strikes the simple blue-brown water, illuminating glorious patches of earth I’ve overlooked for far too long.

It's Nice to Meet You

          Today, my son is back at the doctor’s office to figure out why a cough won’t go away. We’re waiting for the nurse to come in, and Aidan sits on the exam table, hands spread in between his thighs and legs dangling over the crinkled paper. I am sitting in the designated Mommy chair across from him and we’re staring quietly at each other, having brought no toys or books to entertain ourselves with. It’s taking a long time. The exam rooms are filled with sick children. Aidan and I made silly faces at each other and have staring contests. We occasionally look away and think our own thoughts, surrounded by a patient silence. He glances out the window, bored but polite. I organize a few things in my pocketbook. I take our my camera and click through the pictures I took that morning of Aidan and his friends on a gloriously autumnal nature walk. Golden sunlight glistens through their windblown hair and crackly leaves fall like snowflakes around them as the boys run into the shimmering forest and out of my camera’s lens. They are mere silhouettes in other shots; dark shadows against the golden landscapes around them. Phantom children - there, but not there. Busy exploring their world as their mothers stay behind on the trail to capture the moment before it is too late.
          As more exam table paper crinkles under Aidan’s body, I look up at my son. I am abruptly taken aback at who looks back at me, as if I haven’t noticed all this time. Even though my tiny three-year-old can’t seem to gain weight, get taller, or lose those chubby little chipmunk cheeks he’s had since six months old, he is no longer a baby at all. A little man-child stares back at me and sighs gently as if to say, “this is sure taking a long time, huh?” I snap a picture of him. Something seems memorable enough about this moment to encapsulate on photo. It’s the first time I thought to not join Aidan up on the exam table but rather take my seat across the room as spectator. The distance between us as I sit in the side chair as Aidan is poised alone waiting to be examined evokes deep sentiment from within me. This is a milestone in the making, I think.
          I think about the well-checks Aidan had every few months as an infant, and of how my husband would meet me in the doctor’s office after work so we could co-struggle him into complacently long enough for us to listen to the doctor. I remember the two of us trading smiles and baby talk with Aidan on and off synchronically as the other nodded at the nurse. I think of all the equipment I’d pack with me for every doctor visit - Aidan’s beloved stuffed puppy “Gingee,” teething rings to chew on, books to finger through, little crinkly caterpillars to shake around, extra diapers, extra wipes, an extra onesie, that emergency pacifier just in case, a container of Gerber Puffs, a Sippy of ice water, tissues, a yellow Post-It of New Mother questions I jotted down but hesitated actually asking. I remember explaining to the nurses how Aidan was really an angelic baby but just hated confinement, waiting around, and getting his clothes taken on and off as he wailed and flinched as I pulled a pair of overalls around his head. I remember the overwhelming energy expelled from within as I danced and talked and sung around Aidan while we waited and waited in the little exam rooms for the impending nebulizer treatment or weigh-in or vaccine shot. I recall the new-parent terror and slightly-less-new-parent fatigue and universal-parent feeling of judgment in those rooms these last few years. I remember how damn hard everything was. How vulnerable my emotions were. How defensive I became, how sheer exhausting constant childcare used to be.
          And as I look up now at my son’s maturing face as he waits for the doctor, sans toys or plastic figurines or entertainment from me, I am struck with how rapidly my season of parenthood seems to be changing. It leaves a sweet and sour taste in my mouth. I’ve always looked forward to Aidan getting older, and never seemed to be able to relate to other mothers who just want to go back to having a newborn in their arms, when everything seemed so sweeter, small, and simple. For us, it was harder, scarier, more intimidating. We grappled with breastfeeding, fought the great gaining weight issue, wrestled teething nightmares, pulled our hair out as we dealt with a newborn who didn’t want to sit still, waded through every sleep concern that ever existed with a baby, and grew antsy and anxious over the pressure to stimulate an infant that seemed to require stimulation constantly. We lamented the loss of our own identities, wondered how the giant rift in our closeness as a couple got there, and questioned if we’d ever be able to escape the dark abyss of new parenthood.
          I’ve always grown excited when I think of Aidan getting older and growing up. About having a child that I still parent with 100% spirit and effort, but who is his own man. When I walked into the house we would eventually purchase for the first time, I envisioned Aidan as a teenager and young adult galloping down the stairs and out the front door to get somewhere. That’s how I knew it was our home.
          Over the last year and few months, I see signs that my role is changing yet again. I see full-time school out in the horizon and wonder if I will be content still being the full-time, at-home parent I’ve always thought I would be, or if I may not feel that way after all. I hear the nuanced tones changing in my young son’s voice - sarcasm, folly, frustration - as he experiments with talking back to me and complicating every scenario that is put in front of him. I observe him at play with his close friends and am in awe of his leadership skills and immensely imaginative spirit, and of how quickly he can just pick up and go with a friend without introductions and enthusiasm from me. I make peace with the fact that I don’t really know what goes on in preschool each day, and that Aidan has his own agendas, plans, and relationships that I need not be a part of. I notice the pace in my own body slowing as Aidan and I get through each day, and of how I am not needed for putting on shoes, lifting him into the car, and zipping down jackets. I hear a toilet flush upstairs while I am alone in the kitchen and think nothing of it. I don’t worry about booster seats or special cups for milk at restaurants anymore. I walk out of the house with keys and sunglasses and chuckle at how “light my load” has become.
          I am watching my son growing into a young boy and eventually his own man and feel a thrill and a relaxation. I am enjoying the slightly-less frazzled pace of motherhood these days. But as I look across at Aidan sitting in the doctor’s office, I’ve overcome with maternal protection. Aidan himself is a fleeting moment in time; a boy-child who still needs so much, but who is growing so independent. I try to quickly take note of the peach fuzz on his upper lip, which will be replaced by real hair one day. I put to memory the lines of his round face and cheeks, still soft and supple like a newborn’s. They will never be like this again. And I will never be like this again - the mother of an emerging little boy, both of us on the cusp of a new way of life. We are an axis; two partners orbiting around each other in our own self-molding. I realize it is not about relishing one phase of life or capturing our child’s moments in time with photos or sentiments or memories, but about finding the beauty in the unfolding and ever-changing evolutions. It is not letting go, or holding on, or what season of parenthood is harder or easier. It’s the unraveling of everything we thought we knew and the newfound truths we unearth from beneath and beyond.

          I am putting Aidan to bed after his doctor’s appointment, dinner, and bath. I snuggle into his twin-sized bed for his story and back scratch like I do every night, and as my hands fall over the warm silky skin of his tiny back while I remind him he will always be my baby, I start to cry. “Mommy, are you gonna be sad when I turn into a man?” he asks, his words always accurately calling me out on the truth.

          I gulp back my awe, my fright, my appreciation, my sheer panic at the inevitability of the passage of time. “No,” I lie. “OK, last hand holding of the night,” I say as I cup his little hand for the last time before leaving his bed. There is only this moment. There is only this little fuzzy boy, breathing in my face. We won’t be able to stop the seasons from changing, but we’ll cross over together, forever gazing at each other’s transformation.

Follow the Leader

          I am following his lead up the hill and around the monument. I am positioning my walking stick the way he has instructed, being careful to do so the right way. I am looking up at his stride, matching mine to his as he marches around in a square and towards the steps. I am listening to his commanding and assured voice as we make our way up the wobbly makeshift steps, dodging the insects below and surmounting the vast hill. “This way, everybody! Follow me. OK! Here we are, plant your walking sticks in the ground!” he advises as we approach the overlook, panting from the exercise. We’ve made it.
          I am not on a hiking excursion or following a tour guide in the wilderness. I am journeying up the big hill at our favorite park in town following the leader - my tiny three year old son. His slightly younger friend is with us, and though we’ve traveled up this hill a thousand times since moving here, today, something is different. My son has taken charge of the two of us in a way that makes me surrender to his guidance and strength, as if I am the child, the vulnerable and eager tourist. Although I know this hill, this park, this historic monument where George Washington’s mother came daily to pray and mediate like I know the route of my own home, I find myself looking up to Aidan for direction and reassurance as he makes us track our spots with walking sticks and pretend to go camping. My eagerness and subordination to him is authentic this time, not some make-believe role reversal that parents often engage in. I am mesmerized by the confidence in his leadership, and I surrender completely to him. “OK,” I respond to his commands, legitimately putting my trust in Aidan as he directs us to the next part of the venture.
          Aidan is a natural born leader. I literally gave birth to a brand new infant that swayed his arms about with animation, as if he was conducting an enormous orchestra or managing an entire theatre of puppets by himself. His newborn eyes roamed the room eagerly, as if to say, “what can I control in here?” His defiance of strollers, car seats, seat belts, shopping carts, swings, bouncy seats, and everything else that other babies seem to enjoy, we learned, was not an attempt to drive his parents crazy, but rather Aidan’s way of obtaining mastery over his own life. “So what if I’m two months old? I’m not going to go in that stroller and there’s nothing you can do to control me!”
          Over time, we learned to follow his young lead, and the more power Aidan was able to earn, the more he seemed to chill out. When he started cruising furniture at seven months, we approached the walking stage with relief rather than anxiety. When the little thing did start walking then running a few months later, we followed his lead, trailing behind him as he decided where he wanted to go. We always respected Aidan’s independence and need for freedom. Later, as his verbal skills and personality traits grew and became more nuanced, we realized that his extroverted and theatrical personality plus his strong will made the way for innate leadership quality. A choreographer. A teacher. A politician. An entertainer who can draw you in with humor and subtle tone. Aidan can be all these things in one day.
          But with the gift of leadership comes the disappointment and frustration when things don’t go as planned. After awhile of pretend camping at the top of the hill, Aidan’s friend grows bored and drifts down to find his mother near the playground equipment. Aidan grows perturbed that someone in his crew would jump ship, ruining his whole master plan. His nostrils fume in irritation and his normally mature voice grows cavechild-like again. “Come back here!” he demands. I offer to stay at the plateau of the hill to look for treasure near the evergreen tree. But when Aidan orders me to crawl under the branches to search for acorns and I cannot fit, I continue the mutiny and tell him I’m going to start heading down too. He fumes, he shoves his small pointer finger in my face, he turns angrily demonic for a few seconds as he expresses his anger at me. “But I want you to go under the tree!” he emphatically roars at me. He continues to bully me angrily. His tone approaching the realm of unacceptable behavior, now I need to turn into Mean Mommy. Lecturing Mommy. We are suddenly lost in the wilderness again, my confident tour guide turned savage bully. I explain about respect when someone declines to do something Aidan wants. I remind that we can’t tell others what to do, we can only ask. I threaten discipline for nasty tones. But we’ve veered too far off course from fun, respect, teamwork, and even leadership. In Aidan’s place is his recent alter-ego, Mr. Bossy. I look for an internal compass within to steer us back, but am suddenly dumbstruck at how to handle this little guy, as well as my own feelings about his Jekyll and Hyde pendulum swings.
          I want Aidan to be liked. I want him to always have friends. With his inborn gregariousness, I never worried about this before. But lately, it seems as though my son’s need for control and dominance can turn very, very ugly when he is unable to organize the people in his life they way he sees fit. No one likes a bossy kid. A bossy kid with boundless intensity, high emotions, a flair for drama, all fitting into 27 pounds of small body. It’s an overwhelming combination. I read about bossiness in kids. I discover I am doing exactly what experts say not to do with such a child - tell him that no one will like him if he is bossy. I can’t believe my mouth can utter that phrase, so opposite of the confidence-boosting things I try to instill in Aidan normally. But it seems to just come out when Aidan is in the midst of his freak outs.
          How can I find an equilibrium for Aidan - gently balancing his gift for leadership and his imperfection in being too bossy? Over his three years, I’ve come to develop such high expectations from this little man due to his overwhelmingly complex language and imagination. How could I not expect emotional maturity from someone who wants to discuss life and death and relationship issues ad nauseam? We’ve never struggled with hitting, kicking, biting, extreme sharing issues, or the like. Instead, my challenge has always been reining in his intensity, holding the delicate gift of Aidan’s fiery spirit in my palms and finding its power, dispelling its toxicities.
          The current Mr. Bossypants matter has thrown me. How can I control someone who wants control? Instead of stroller and car seat protests, this has to do with personality, spirit, and a sense of self. How can I let Aidan’s leadership strengths shine brightly enough to overshadow his dominance and grouchy disappointment when things go wrong? I hear the gentle whispers of truths blowing through my mind. This is not my balance to find.
          Two days after following Aidan up the hill, we are walking downtown with friends, having just taken the boys to watch trains go by at the small station. On our descent from the ramp, Aidan wants to lead the way back. His eyes gleam with the opportunity to pilot our crew, his elbows bend in right angles as he speed walks precociously down the street. “Come on everybody, this way!” He is in his glory. Soon, other mothers lost in conversation begin to stride faster than him, innocently moving their way in front of the miniature tour guide. Left behind and stunned by another mutiny, Aidan regresses to young toddlerhood again. “No one else can be the leader!” he growls from his gut. He stomps his foot on the cement, eyes white with possessiveness.
          I kneel to the ground on Aidan’s level and, embarrassed by his snarling bossiness, I snap. “Aidan, you may not speak like that to anyone! Ever! Everyone is allowed to take turns being the leader.” A reasonable parenting response. “You are going to lose all your friends if you keep being bossy to them!” I add impulsively, hoping the shock value will finally drive home the point. Aidan crumbles to the dirty ground, tiny palms over his shut eyes. Hmmm, maybe that was a not-so-reasonable parenting response. At first I think he is just upset I have snapped at him.
          It’s only when we drag ourselves a few blocks to the heart of downtown and Aidan sinks again to a heap on the cement sidewalk crying that I realize what’s happened. My social son, the boy who saunters out of preschool casually tapping his friends on the back to leave as he says, “’bye Jack, ‘bye Matthew,” like a mini John Travolta walking the streets in Saturday Night Fever - my little extrovert whose livelihood relies on the attentive ear of others has just heard that he is going to lose all his friends. He’s taken it literally. His heart has been broken, trampled not by a first girlfriend or the inevitable void that grows within friendships, but by his own Mommy’s gloomy prediction. I’ve been so worried about others breaking the strong spirit of my son that I have unknowingly crushed it myself in the process.
          Our friends head on to get home for lunch and naps, frowning sympathetically at us as Aidan and I sit on the sidewalk in the midst of midday downtown business. I look up to say goodbye, as I know I will be there for awhile, holding my tiny guy, trying to undo the mistake I’ve just made with tender touch and soft words. The two of us hold each other, and my mouth begins to redraft a warm, appropriate response to Aidan’s domineering intensity. As I talk, apologize, modify what I said into what I should have said about being a leader and being bossy, I think back to all the times since Aidan’s birth that we’ve found ourselves here in this place of forgiveness, humility and rebuilding. For every time I snap, bitch, control, and act impatient with Aidan, we inevitability find that these routes never work, and only lead to trying again with love and understanding. And perhaps Aidan’s leadership issues are not at all dissimilar to how I parent him. Perhaps he needs to make the mistake of bossing people around and dictating and demanding, if only to pave the way for better leadership and communication. And perhaps this is something he needs to do without my management.
          We sit on the pavement of the sidewalk as mail carriers, businessmen, and tourists walk by us and time stands still as we mend our bond of trust. There is only Aidan and me. After awhile, we rise and make our way south towards the river. We’re hungry, and need a reprieve from intensity. I’m struck by how my historic town reminds me so much sometimes of the little towns in Europe I‘ve strolled through. Today the sky is overcast and the air smells of French fries, musty historic architecture, and exhaust fumes from passing buses. The combination is sweetly nostalgic for me, and brings me back ten years ago to the first time I made my way across the Atlantic completely on my own. As Aidan and I wander through the streets of our little tourist town I’ve come to know so well, my upper lip sweats with the afternoon humidity and I somehow feel lost as I search for a café that can satisfy my child’s craving for a simple grilled cheese sandwich. Ten years ago, wandering through the hilly streets of Europe, feeling at the mercy of Italian street names I could not understand, alone - I felt the same drifting anxiety. I was where I was supposed to be, but yet didn’t know it at the time. I returned from my journey a slightly wiser young woman with a better sense of direction, knowing that it was not exactly the trek to a foreign country alone that allowed me to find myself, but the drifting through humid streets, the dead ends and wrong corners that paved the way for me to figure it out on my own. Today I am a tourist yet again, this time with a young child walking in synchronicity through the dense air. I am disoriented, but Aidan is assured, his little arms pumping his body down the cobblestone streets towards his goal. This is his journey towards self-discovery, balance, flaws and strengths, not mine. And these are his streets to walk and to lead. I slow my pace and follow the leader. He already knows the course.