Parenting is full of these heartbreaking moments when your child utters something so sweet and unwittingly profound that it brings tears to your eyes, shortly before running off to smear poop all over the bathroom. So there you are, feeling weepy about his proclamation that "when he's an adult, he'll still want to live with you," and in the next moment you are cursing his curly head as you douse the bathroom in disinfectant, bleaching your incredibly sexy sweatpants in the process. Such was the scene in our house last night.
I just finished reading Anne Lamott's memoir about the first year of parenthood,
Operating Instructions. It is a very conversational book that must have been written as she went, so full is it of tiny little details no one remembers because they were part of the sleep-deprived beginnings of a child's life. One of the things she describes with dead-on honesty is the way your heart expands when you have your first child, when you become so overcome with a brand of love previously unknown to you that you can scarcely breathe. And at the same time, you are suddenly so attuned to all the grief and misery in the world, because now you've got this person whom you need to protect from all of it (even though that person will one day smear poop in your bathroom). And at the SAME time, you have your moments when you sort of hate your baby because the damn thing won't let you sleep.
For some reason, my new-mother-blues were all about the Holocaust. During Oliver's first few months, we spent most of our time in the hideous La-z-boy we bought for his nursery (which, in a vain attempt to improve, we had upholstered in fabric that literally cost three times as much as the chair itself). The chair was next to a tall window that let in just the right kind of light for reading but not too much for sleeping, and I would rock and read while Oliver nursed or slept in my arms. One of the books I read in that chair was called
A Thread of Grace, by Mary Doria Russell, about Jewish refugees from France hiding out in northern Italy during the Holocaust. Incidentally, I once recommended this book to a friend, who later called to tell me that she couldn't find
A THREAT of Grace anywhere. This struck me as hilarious. A story about grace being foisted upon the decidedly, purposefully, un-gracious. Anyhoo.
The book recounts the refugees' passage from France into Italy, over cold mountaintops, on foot. I was consumed by this image of women carrying little newborns. I spent a significant amount of time trying to gauge whether I would have made it, what I would have carried, how I would have kept Oliver quiet when we were hiding from SS patrols and whatnot. We have friends who live in San Francisco who have an elaborate earthquake escape plan. In those first few months, I found myself concocting all sorts of escape plans - what to do in the event of fire, flood, and even the unlikely Nazi invasion.
That sort of hyper-insane terror of the world and all its perils lessens over time, mostly because as your baby becomes mobile, real consideration of all the dangers that lie outside your door would render you a rocking crazy person, catatonic with fear any time you venture anywhere with him. And your extreme irritation (somewhat dangerous itself) lessens as you get more sleep, though the fury can be resurrected from time to time by poop smearing and other unholy incidents.
One thing that never shrinks, though, is that overwhelming sense of love you feel for these funny little beings you create. One of my favorite moments of the day comes at the end, when I sneak into their room after they finally collapse into sleep and tuck them in. I lean over their heads and become so intoxicated by their sugary scent that it brings a stinging sensation to my nose, every time. Even after a night like last night.
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