It’s sleeting unforgivingly outside as all of the parents shuffle into the cafeteria. We take off our jackets and begin the vaguely uncomfortable dance of trying to find seats. Babies are plopped onto laps and parents make quiet chit chat with each other. The lights dim and “shhhhhs” of various tones can be heard around the room. The space has been turned into a makeshift theater- it’s the holiday show, and the beaming round faces of 20 or so toddlers can be seen filing out. A collective “aw” can be heard. Not from me, though. I’m too busy holding my breath and waiting for the inevitable. I clutch my one-year-old tightly to my chest and look up to see my son. As expected, he is darting off the stage after a few seconds, making an (honestly kind of impressive) break for the door. One of the teachers runs after him. “And, we’re off.” My husband says under his breath. I sigh, hand him the baby and get up to help. My son’s shrieks can be heard-over the singing of all the other kids? “How is that even possible?” I think to myself as I pry his fingers off the door handle and begin the business of trying to shuffle him out of the room while he wails. I bend down to pick him up and almost drop him as he bends his body into contortionist poses. I feel eyes burning into me as I try to prop open the heavy door. The wailing continues and I awkwardly maneuver my body and his out of the room. A Mona-Lisa type smile is pasted onto my face.
My son is what some folks would label as spirited. He is a sobbing before he even makes it down the stairs in the morning kind of kid. A thrashing and screaming during each and every diaper change kind of kid. A constantly sensory seeking, shattering glasses, biting his little sister the moment you turn your back kind of kid.
Even inch of our home has been worked over in an attempt to keep him safe. He is a talented escape artist-each door in our home now has an extra lock drilled into it, and a knob protector to keep him from escaping and sprinting off down the road before anyone knows the wiser. Extra latches line the gates in our backyard. Our stair case bannister has a net to stop him from his frequent attempts to squeeze his body through and torpedo himself off of the top. The oven is studded with plastic knob protectors. He has what feels like an unrelenting need to put himself in grave physical danger upon entering any given space.
And it’s just…well-it’s a lot. The total lack of impulse control coupled with constant, undulating emotions that are far too big for him to hold in his body. I wasn’t prepared for the type of heightened awareness it would take to mother such an emotionally on-edge, hold my beer kind of kiddo.
It’s been three years of inevitably being the mom that people stare at in public. Three years of unsolicited parenting advice from every stranger that encounters me kneeling on the grocery store floor and supporting him through a meltdown. Three years of not being able to do even a single dish while he is awake- because turning my back for even a second has time and time again proven to be quite dangerous. Three years of extra appointments on the weekends, three years of figuring out the right types of support.
My nervous system is exhausted. Which I know is a universal mom thing. But before you remind me of that, please don’t. Because the point of exhaustion that this journey with him has led me to is beyond what I could have ever planned for. And there is a comfort in this knowledge. I hold that truth tightly in my fist, balled up close to my chest on the hard days. On the days when I lose my temper, when I feel like a failure, when I spend my time clawing at the curtains of the mother I have always wanted to be- I hold the truth that yes, this is so hard. He is hard. I close my eyes and remind myself “You couldn’t have planned for this. This is so challenging, and you love him beyond measure. You are here with him, trying your best.”
It is challenging. And, I try to take moments each day to remind myself that it’s the most meaningful work of my life. To be able to mother such an incredibly sensitive, intense little soul. There are times when I am honestly overcome with the feeling of how perfectly matched we are. I always say that meeting him was like meeting the sun. After so many years of infertility and failed rounds of IVF, he was our tender “I can’t believe this is actually happening for us!” Our little embryo that could. My earth rotated on its axis the day he was born. This huge, wild, burst of light into my life. And he still feels like that, every day. My intense, sweet, nervous, chaotic, beautiful firstborn. It takes my breath away to have the honor of being his safe space, of being able to consistently send the message that “yes, you are real. Your feelings are real. You are loved in every season.”
He has been a lesson that mothering does not have to come with ease, that it’s ok to struggle, and to toss out the advice and judgment of the world. Mothering is both my greatest purpose, and my greatest challenge. And it’s ok if most of the time, there are no answers. No chapters in parenting books that wrap up the situation neatly. Just questions, and their arms holding me tightly as each day turns to dusk.
Spirited
Thank you for your vulnerability. Reading this also reminded me I am not alone. Some days it feels like I am the only mom struggling with my spirited 5 year old. Your doing amazing.
So brave of you to write (and so beautifully too) about the challenges of raising a kiddo who is strong, spirited, and challenges us. I can relate. Thank you for this.