The Open Nest

I don’t remember playing with dolls much as a child. I probably did to some extent, but it doesn’t inform any major memories. I did have a red metal truck that I remember vividly. I accidentally left it in Vermont one year on an annual vacation, and it was, amazingly, still there the next year when we went back. I have no such memories of dolls. I do remember, as a pre-teen, having the perfect baby name ready: Cassidy Danielle. And yet somehow my 26-year-old self, and later my 28-year-old self, opted not to use it. I feel like in many ways, and not in ways that recommend me, I was pretty thoughtless about my slide into motherhood. I have friends who have wrestled with fertility issues and with hereditary genetic issues, who have had to lay bare their souls in front of doctors and social workers and other strangers. They were intentional about their decision to parent in ways that I never was, and ways that I realize I should have been. Of course, I didn’t intend to be a thoughtless jerk, to think that I was somehow just entitled to the next stage of my life, though looking back that’s exactly what I was. But regardless of how well prepared you are, think you are, or aren’t, there’s a point where shit gets real. Where all of a sudden, a baby appears. You’re a mother.

We all have our own story. Mine began 7 weeks earlier than expected when my oldest decided she wanted to be a July baby, not an August baby. A couple weeks later, the NICU staff unhooked her from all the beeps and wires that assured us she was breathing, and gave us 4 pounds of baby like we knew what to do. Before that hospital stay, I’d never changed a diaper, never fed a baby. It remains crazy to me that you have to get a license to own a dog, to fish in a stocked trout pond, and to have an (already) licensed contractor roof your house… but a baby? Nah, you’ve got that covered.

And, for the most part, you do have it covered. Mostly. Babies are equipped with their own communication system, a very loud communication system, to remind you that your life has changed and that there is another stomach in the house, or that they don’t feel well, or that they’re lonely, or… well, sometimes you have no idea, but they let you know something’s up. They are amazing, and you are their world. There are periods of crippling doubt, and tiredness so deep and dark that you think you may have put one foot toward the crib and fallen into a black hole. I remember cutting Samantha’s tiny, tiny fingernails and accidentally drawing a dot of blood. I was devastated. When she started crawling and pulling to stand, I found an open box of thumb tacks in an open desk drawer. I took her to the emergency room immediately. Did you see her eat a tack?, they asked. No. Did you hear her cry, or choke? Well, no. So… you just found a box of thumb tacks… out… in your house? Yes. They x-rayed her tiny stomach and sent the baby home with her crazy person. We do the best we can.

Now that my children are older – 7 and 8 – parenting is evolving. I realize that this is still the minor leagues, before dating and driving and things I don’t even want to contemplate. But it does mean being present in a different way. Pinterest makes us feel like motherhood should be about creating not just life, but elaborate and themed rainy day projects, rainbow colored waffles using 6 separately colored batter bags, and let’s not even get into birthdays. It’s a long way from when Caroline Ingalls proved her motherhood-chops by helping Pa hoist logs for a rough log cabin in the wilderness. I’m not sure I’m adept at either model. But this week when I looked around at all the parents standing in the rain at my youngest’s soccer game, I thought … This. This is parenting. It’s being there in the rain, even though you’d obviously rather be dry. And listening to The Three Billy Goats, again, because it’s the book of the week. It’s about the Instagram-worthy moments of cookie baking and soccer goals and summer sprinklers, but it’s also about that time you sat down at the kitchen table and just cried, because you couldn’t imagine going toe to toe with your toddler one more time. It’s about homemade cards made out of construction paper and paint handprints, but it’s also about enforcing time out. It’s amazing and wonderful and fulfilling, and tedious and scary and exhausting.

Sometimes motherhood isn’t about being present at all. It’s about absence. It’s about going out with friends so that your children can see your social world doesn’t begin and end at “mom.” It’s about being away the week of PARCC testing because sometimes responsibilities compete, and we can’t be everywhere at once. These moments teach our children not to define themselves too narrowly. I’m your mother, but I’m also me. I’m a wife and friend and coworker and mother all at once, and sometimes, sweet child, if you’re not bleeding, you’re going to have to wait. As their mother, I wish for my children a life rich and diverse and happy, which makes it my job to model the same.

The bonus of motherhood is that mothers are often the nest from which their chicks can take off, test their wings and return. Recently, our family was on a hike that involved descending a fairly steep hill, walking sideways for balance, when my youngest turned around and said, “Mommy, I’m scared!” There’s nothing quite as sweet as a much smaller hand reaching, in complete faith and trust, toward yours. My husband said to me, “She’s so much tougher when you’re not around.” And you know what? I think that’s okay. She can be tough when she needs to be, but she knows that sometimes she doesn’t have to be. Because Mom’s here, and you can come back to the nest for a breather before setting out again. Because in the end it’s not so much actually returning to the nest as it is knowing you always can.

To the two passionate, creative, loving people who made me a mother, I love you. And to my own mother, thank you for leading the way.