Sore Eyes

There is a certain "mom look" that I swore I would never have. You know, the a-little-too-much-ruffle, a-little-too-much-seasonal-appliqued-vest, a-little-too-much-floral, all in the wrong places, topped off with the overgrown ponytail look. I used to wonder where these moms would purchase such things, maybe in a Mom Fashion catalog. I didn't know. I remember I would shake my little internal head with pity (ok, maybe a snobbish, condescending type of pity) and say, "how could they leave the house looking like that?'' I think I've been enlightened.

Since becoming a mom I haven't come across any Mom Fashion catalogs, but I have come across a lot of sleepless nights, for starters. Sleep depravity does something to a person. I can't figure out how to describe it. Perhaps it's a thinkless mode, called "I don't care." Usually, the thinkless mode outlasts the outing, as it were, to the grocery store, the gas station, the grocery store again. I remember not being shocked if I heard the expression, "a sight for sore eyes" in reference to me. These days I'm afraid I can make any eyes sore. I just wish the thinkless, "I don't care" mode would always outlast the outing, without exceptions. It doesn't.

A recent day ago, I pulled into a grocery parking lot and in the corner of my eye I noticed a fellow first-time-mom, well dressed and size minus 3, who I sort of knew. Her baby is a couple of months younger than mine. She was walking to the store that I was about to enter. I didn't let my glance rest on her more than a split second for fear that she, too, would see me. I chose the better, non-discriminating option and turned my head and talked to my baby who was unhappily strapped in her car seat. (Between these few lines my baby has already woken up twice! I've got my little prayers crossed that that will be it for at least five hours or so.) I didn't feel like bumping into her and doing the whole, we-have-to-small-talk-since-we-know-each-other's-names-even-though-we-both-think-this-is-stupid, thing, especially when I didn't need to look in the review mirror to remind myself of what I looked like when I left the house.

My shoulders slouched. I wanted them to slouch all the way down to my goldfish/graham cracker infested car floor. Earlier that day I clearly remembered noticing dandruff speckled throughout my year-old haircut. What was that all about? I could feel the crotch of my jeans halfway down my ripply thighs. My hand-me-down shirt didn't fit, but on the bright side, the sleeves had bleach stains. In that split second of seeing that person I was jolted into reality. I don't always like reality. So I promptly did what any reasonable person would do. I quickly exited the parking lot and off I went to another grocery store.

It wasn't a fun ride. My baby was hungry and tired (never a good combination). But I couldn't really blame her, when that combination is going on with me I always want to act like a 17-month-old: scream. That is precisely what she was doing. I acted quickly and broke off pieces of a candy bar that my boss had just given me and eagerly gave it to her as I drove in a panic. (That was her first official candy bar, another one of those, "I would never do that" ideals. Mind you, I had some of that candy bar, too.)

There is something about anonymity. It can be very soothing. Not to be known, not to be spoken a whole lot to. Not to be reminded of all that I hoped to be but wasn't. That's what I wanted at that moment. I don't like that I want that sometimes. The elusive goal of the perfect mom can often plague me. The problem with that goal is the "perfect" part. It doesn't exist. I think all of us, first-time moms, second and fifth-time moms and floral-applique-ruffly-moms alike just need to give ourselves a pat on the back that one more day our baby (or babies) was fed, hugged and kissed an awful lot. That is beautiful. Beautiful enough for any sore eyes.

(Update on the baby: since last mentioned, she has woken up four additional times. Rocked twice, snuggled cheek-to-cheek in mama and papa's bed once and currently, in mama's arm. The other arm is busy typing.)

Squeeze

I heard it, the sound I most dread hearing at night: my daughter’s cry. I know that might sound like a “motherly” thing to say. It might even conjure up certain ideals of motherhood, the compassionate tug at a mother’s heart to imagine that her child is sad or even hurt followed by the innate desire to rescue and to hold. Well, this is not what I’m talking about. None of those so-called motherly instincts are invoked in the middle of the night. It’s like I forget that I’m a mom. It’s more like the feeling of sheer anxiety mixed in with a good dose of selfishness and thoughts like, “what the heck is the matter with this child?” or, “I can’t stand this!” “Why do I have to get her (as if she had another mom)?”

The room was pitch black (which come to think of it, maybe if I saw her little face looking up at me I might feel a bit more “motherly”, but then again, do I want her to have memories of my irritated expression? Nah. I’m sticking with the pitch black thing). Her cry was mournful but soon it turned into rage. This did not help matters much. I picked her up and decided to rock her (screw all the books that say you shouldn’t do that for fear of creating a habit). I was tired, I figured I’d do the quick fix method (translated, anything that makes my baby stop crying with no thought of future consequences). She settled down and within a second she was asleep. So I carefully put her back in her crib. War erupted! Immediately, without hesitation, which was so impolite, she became like a dormant volcano who finally decides to erupt after four hundred years. I decided to do the “book” thing and stay by her side, but not pick her up. Whatever.

Ten minutes or so had gone by, but by “middle-of-the-night” standard this is equivalent to a solid two hours. I had had it! No remnants of “motherliness” left in this one! I wanted to cry. I, too, felt I had good reason to. I wanted to cry because I wasn’t sleeping and wanted to be. I was so tired! I wanted to cry because those stupid books were probably right; rocking your baby to sleep is never a good idea. I wanted to cry because I realized that my left over “baby fat” was sort of “hanging” over the crib railing and it was so infuriatingly uncomfortable! I wanted to cry because some moms are so freakin’ skinny! I wanted to cry because I felt helpless. I wanted to cry because this is not how it’s supposed to go, this motherhood thing. So I did. I cried and cried.
It was quite a sight, if there ever was one, baby in the crib crying her head off and mother gently leaning over the crib a few inches away from baby’s face crying her head off. I could hear my hot tears rapidly falling around my daughter and even on her tummy. I kept praying that my husband wouldn’t come in for fear that the light from the hallway would shine on my face which inevitably would have made my daughter believe in monsters. I am certain of it. My mouth was wide open (and I have a big one) and my face was all crumpled up. A sight it was and one that is never found in the storybooks of mother and child.

I picked her up. I sat down in the rocking chair and rocked her (Screw those stupid baby books again!). This time I just listened to her. She was still catching her breath from all that crying. Her heart was beating fast. Her little pudgy cheeks were hot to the touch, still wet with tears. She put her little arms around me and squeezed me tight. I squeezed her back. And just like that, all my selfishness just melted away. My motherly instincts were back in full force. Nothing is ever better than snuggling with my baby. Her breathing became calm and steady like a light whispering of leaves on a fall day. I could listen to that sound all night.

I remembered that I was a mom. All I needed was a little squeeze.