If parenting was a signature cocktail it would be:
- 2 parts joy
- 1 part frustration muddled with fear
- Infinity parts love
- Topped with seltzer (to cut the pervasive guilt)
- Garnished with a cherry that your child will inevitably steal
I went into labor at 1am mid multi-day international conference. I had been on my feet for days. I couldn’t even see my feet. Afterwards, a wise old colleague from Senegal told me “she’s your legacy now”. I didn’t fully understand those words at the time. I was incensed that becoming a mom would shift focus away from my professional legacy. I was on that early upward swing of a career that felt very hard-won.
After Pip was born, I wanted to jump right back into where I had been heading before. A colleague, a mom, told me traveling would get harder when Pip could start asking when I’d be home. I started traveling for work way too soon, while still breastfeeding. My two-week trip during her 13th month started the weaning process unintentionally. And that’s where the deepest trench of guilt lies. When the international development sector imploded and my career went with it, it was guilt that hurt the most. I had sacrificed too much, especially for a career that no longer existed.
Looking back, all the dad colleagues shared the positive advice about legacy and love. While my mom colleagues told me how hard things could be. And now, I continue this trend by sharing stories of desperately pumping in Miami airport after an unexpected delay. Or when I thought our vehicle was heading for a fiery crash in Zimbabwe and all I could think of was my baby at home. I ended that day with a dirty martini in a hotel bar looking like I’d been dragged through a bush.
Fear is the hardest part of parenting. I have a consistent undercurrent of fear that runs through me at all times, an unsettling electrical buzz that I have to very consciously ignore in order to let her experience life. The complete and honest truth is that this is genuinely awful. Some say parenting is like having your heart live outside your body. For me, it’s like being turned completely inside out. It is raw, it hurts, and it’s really fucking scary.
Time capsule from the commute: A note from the train
The train rocks
Side to side
Side to side
I’m swept along
Thinking of you
The train slows
Inch by inch
Inch by inch
Stare out the window
Still thinking of you
The train stops
Station by station
Station by station
Further away
It’s time to go to work
Step by step
Step by step
I miss you
And then there’s joy. You get to experience things anew through the curiosity of your child. Their laugh can automatically elevate your mood (unless it’s that maniacal one that accompanies rebellion). I never prioritized joy. Other things were more important, more serious, more worthy of my energy and attention. My family would shrug and roll their eyes when I would launch into tirades of social injustice at the dinner table, everyone else looking for light banter. Here she goes again. But with Pip, I want her to experience joy so fully that I started to cultivate it more intentionally. I realized that joy is worth the investment. For both our sakes. And that’s where I get my double dose of joy – one shot of it vicariously through my child’s every exuberant laugh and another shot from within as I learn to nurture it for myself.
It’s frustration where Pip and I both really shine. We’re bickerers. She needles me, I snip at her. We storm off into different directions, only to peer around corners making sure the other is still there. When Pip was little-er she threw a shoe at me, removed her pants, and ran away. Me chasing after her, eventually catching up and tackling her to the ground in a neighbor’s front yard. As we wrestled, her with one shoe and no pants, and me an actual adult, I wondered not just what the neighbors would think or whether I would get reported to the authorities, but beneath that, a “this is the rest of my life” kind of moment, and it felt okay.
Another colleague, a dad naturally, told me that he’d never experienced true love before his children. And it’s true. When Pip was born, I wrote her love poems, I was lovestruck.
A Love Poem
There is a love and it is always
It lives in the air between us
Like an animal that breathes
And claws
And nuzzles at my chest
Its presence is constant
It won’t let me be
There is a love and it is always
It sings long and piercing
Like a ringing out of nowhere
It burrows in my ear
And distracts
Its presence is constant
It won’t let me be
There is a love and it is always
It presses warm and firm
Like a hand resting on my back
Heavy and slumbering
And reassures
Its presence is constant
It won’t let me be
The boldest part of parenting is in letting go. And it happens earlier than you think. As in immediately. A child is a complete human being on their own. They’re going to do their own thing with their DNA, any sense of control you have is an illusion.
Letting Go
Your hand is soft and warm
Nestled in mine
As you were once
Nestled in me
We are only briefly joined
As you become your own
Exploring
Not yet too far
Gradually
Still connected by the deepest love
Soft and warm
But I now understand – my feet weren’t the only thing I couldn’t see at the time. Raising a human with character and care for the world, that’s the legacy.
To Pip, to parenting and to the messy middle of life. Salut.
Between Home and Away 