Little red swing

Little boy's nap schedule was off today, and so instead of our usual Tuesday trip to the gym, we went for a late morning trek to a couple of my favorite places in Houston (where we live)--the Rothko Chapel and nearby Menil Park.

There's a swing in Menil Park--an old-fashioned rope swing, bright red with graffiti etched in it, and it's nearly always occupied. When we first arrived, sure enough there was a woman in it. As she saw us approach, though, she relinquished it to us without my asking. I took E out of the stroller and sat on the swing with him in my lap. Then I pushed off, allowing us to swing gently back and forth. My sweet little 12 month old smiled brightly, showing off his dimples, and giggled in delight. And then as we continued to sway, he rested his head on my shoulder. Back and forth, rhythmically, lulling us both into a deep calm.

I wanted to capture that moment in words because it was so perfect. A gentle breeze ruffled our hair as we swung together, a mother and a child holding each other tightly. I felt such a radiant, generous love at that moment I can scarcely describe it. In that simple little moment, everything felt right in our world.

We played a little more in the park, with him practicing walking while holding on to my index fingers, and laughed some more. Then we packed up and walked home.

I still feel the swaying in my body, though, and my son's head nestled near the crook of my arm. I think I'll continue to feel it for a long time.

Like looking in a mirror

I spent a little time looking at a photo album of my baby pictures the other day. And I was struck by the similarities between these photos of me and of my son. (Top photo is me; bottom is my little one).

I mean, come on. That's the SAME smile. Identical. Obviously, this is not a shocking revelation, being that I'm his mother, but still, it floors me all the same. Looking at him really is like looking in a mirror sometimes. And sometimes, that can also be a bit painful.

You see, when I was a little girl, I came to believe at some point that I was flawed. Deeply, irrevocably flawed. I was too much in so many ways--too sensitive, too emotional, too chubby, too difficult. I heard many stories about what a pain I was: I had colic and kept my mother up all night; I threw temper tantrums in public; I talked back to adults; I was scared of everything; I was overly emotional. I heard these stories after my father had left us (when I was 3 years old) and came to a miserable conclusion--he had left because of me. I was just too much trouble and clearly not lovable. And I carried that belief with me from then on.

I'm sure I was a handful as a child--highly sensitive, intelligent, easily overwhelmed by the world. I'm sure it was difficult for my father, who had deep-seated problems of his own, including addictions to gambling and pills, to manage parenting me. But I look at this picture of me, and I see that I also was full of joy, light and love. I wasn't a flawed child, I was radiant and perfect. Just like my son is radiant and perfect.

When I look at my boy, I see such light, and my heart just overflows. And then I think about where that light came from--it came from me. I have it too. I am not inherently lacking in worth. Sure, I'm human; sure, I have faults. But my being is not defective, just as surely as his isn't. His reflection has helped me to better love and appreciate myself.

As for how I was as a child, yes, I was sensitive and challenging. That's because I am a deeply empathetic person who feels things, including the pain and fear my parents felt at that point in their lives. I threw tantrums because I was a toddler, feeling things intensely, as toddlers do. I talked back because I was smart and observant. I was scared because I felt the fear of others and sensed the dangers in the world. I was emotional because that's a fundamental part of my being. All of my qualities are assets if they are nurtured and understood. There was nothing wrong with me as a child--I was just a child.

There was nothing wrong with me. Just like there's nothing wrong with my son.

Of course we humans develop traits that aren't helpful. But I believe at our essence, our core, we are beautiful and good enough. Although I believe that with all my heart, I've often had trouble extending that belief to include one person--me.

As I look in the mirror that my son offers me, though, I see more clearly now. I see the truth about me. That's something I needed to see.

Stolen moments

There are secrets about becoming a parent that few people really talk about. One of them is that you grieve your old life, even as you feel guilty about it. And perhaps I do that more because I became a mother in my late 30s--which means I had quite a few years of childlessness. So I might have more to miss.

Please don't get me wrong--I love being a mother. I can't imagine the world without my son now. But there are things about my previous life that I miss. Maybe there are those of you out there who yearn for these things too.

Here are some experiences I miss:

• Being able to decide, "hey, I'm going to the museum/the movies/out to dinner today," and just doing it. No need for a sitter, no need for an arsenal of baby supplies or scheduling around naps or bedtime. Just doing it.
• Sleeping in. At all. Ever.
• The luxury of a long heart-to-heart with a friend that isn't sidelined by a baby having a meltdown, or babbling, or doing something new, or just generally drawing all the attention of the people in the room.
• A long, uninterrupted chat with a friend on the phone.
• Possibility. Even if you might not do it, daydreaming that you could suddenly move to Paris, or join the Peace Corps, or work on a cruise ship, without immediately realizing the practical downfalls of said plan for a one-year-old in tow.
• Still being able to feel like the child yourself, even if you're a 30-something with a full-time job and a car payment.
• Having the full attention of your parents--being able to chat with them about something other than the grandchild.
• Having people notice you as a separate person, and not merely the child's mom.
• Your pre-baby body. Yes, it's OK to miss it.
• Being your own, whole, separate woman with interests and a well-rounded life. I know, that probably sounds horrible. But at least in the beginning, it can feel like that goes away, and it takes a while to get it back. Or so I hear--I haven't completely gotten it back yet.

Again, I love my son, dearly, unendingly, and I wouldn't change anything. I wanted to have him. I'm lucky to have him. But these are the truths no one tells you going in. You will miss your old life. You will grieve. You will yearn for it. You will yearn for those moments that seem like pure luxury now--those moments of being able to think for yourself, dream for yourself, be yourself.

I hear balance returns, and it has returned for me at times. But I'm still finding my equilibrium, and I'm still sad sometimes. And life will never be as it was before.

For now, I relish stolen moments to think, to be--to be me. Stolen moments like this one.