Learning to Swim

I hate it when people tell me how hard it is to stay home and care for children, as if that makes the struggles I go through any easier or my anger any more manageable. And there's a lot of anger. It's not the seemingly insurmountable stack of crap piled in front of me- my work has no economic value in society; I get little if no outside validation for the work I do; it's tedious and often boring; it's lonely and isolating; there's no clear demarcation between my family and work life so it often feels and is a 24/7 job; I have no financial security through my work; I'm sacrificing a chance to save for retirement or contribute to my social security earnings (if there's any left for my generation)- ok, maybe it is that. No, it's when I start my day with a toddler crying in my ear at 7am that he can't find his pussy cat that he's just let outside for the morning. It's when a girlfriend calls me to vent and my child whines the entire time about wanting to speak and then continues to whine long after she's hung up. It's the ant infestation that has me constantly itching and scratching and finding ants crawling on my shoulders and in my bed. It's the feline who insists on vomiting up his breakfast on my living room floor.

I know I'm experiencing a low point and that I need more breaks blah, blah, blah. But it's not like complaining about any old job. There is a heavy load of guilt dragging behind this anger. Mothering is the first experience in my life where the expectations overwhelm any sense of reason or better judgment I might have. I feel as though I should have this unlimited reserve of love and patience for my son. That I should be able to facilitate his growth and nurture his sense of well being, understand his emotional tantrums and have the appropriate band-aid or encouragement for every imaginable obstacle. I don't have all of these things all the time and it feels as though the only excuse for failing to measure up is a personal one. It all becomes so personal with child raising. Everything is either my fault, my responsibility, or my excellent parenting. There is so little grey in a raging emotional sea of reds, and yellows, and blacks.




Remove myself, my heart whispers. Understand your child's autonomy as an individual human being new in the world who is in desperate need of a guide and translator. I'm there, I whisper back, I see it. Yes, we're separate. The wetness of emotions begins to dry a little in the breeze and I breathe in fresh air. I turn and see him sitting quietly, transfixed even and I realize that it is this quiet that allows me to breathe for a moment and feel again the love and gratitude that overwhelms on a daily basis my heart for this little curly haired lion of a boy. And then I remember that his quiet attention is held by Baby Bear and Elmo on Sesame Street and that in a desperate attempt for a moment of peace I plopped my toddler in front of the idiot box. Great job mom. The guilt creeps up again.