 One hour ago, my entire life changed. I took my girl to school, and came home alone. From this day forward we will live by the school year, and the school bell, and for the first time since her birth we will begin leading separate lives. I will not know what happens in her day. She will not know what happens in mine.
This feels monumental. I am shaking with exhilaration, a heart full of gratitude and pride, a mind in disbelief that this day has finally come. I no longer have a baby. I have a heart-strong, tough-minded, independent child who barely looked up from her artwork when I left her at school today, a girl whose joyful spirit would never lead you to believe that her first years were steeped in heartbreak. Somehow, we made it through. We made something beautiful out of something tragic. As I take in my surroundings at the kitchen table this morning, gazing through our living room to the park outside, the sun streaming through the windows, soon to disappear beneath the shadow of the moon, I am struck by the multitude of turns my life has taken since George left our earth. Little by little, the decisions I’ve made for my family have culminated in this moment, in this home, in this new beginning that is no longer filled with hope, but with certainty. I am where I want to be. We win. Since day one of being a mom, I have coveted my moments alone. It's not that I don't love my child and it's not that I don't enjoy spending time with her, but as a single parent (who wasn't planning to be one) and an introvert who needs quiet time to recharge, I have never shied away from taking time apart.
 This motherhood thing. Man, we really blow it all out of proportion. Yes, it’s hard. Yes, it’s exhausting. Yes, we sometimes, often, want to run away. And we will never admit that to anyone, not even to ourselves. But we definitely dream about it. But come on, guys. Is it really that hard? I mean, yes. Of course it’s fucking hard. Of course it’s one of the hardest things we will ever do, requiring an enormous amount of effort and endurance and most of all, patience -- but is it really -- that --hard? It’s hard because we have to give up our freedom. Another human (or humans) now comes first, from birth until -- well, forever. It’s hard because we’re spoiled and we want to go out for dinner and a movie and then go out for drinks and not have to worry about what time we’ll be home or the babysitter bill. It’s hard because we want to go to sleep when we’re tired and not be required to wake up at 6 a.m. on a Saturday (or 2 a.m., for that matter). It’s hard because we want to go to yoga but the baby needs to breastfeed or we find a few minutes to meditate but the baby starts crying, or we go the whole day and realize we’re cranky as hell because we forgot to eat. It’s hard because when we don’t feel well we just want to stay in bed all day. And it’s hard because we no longer feel as though we’re in control of our lives, though truth be told, we never really were. This is all entirely unavoidable. And no matter how prepared you are for parenthood, at some point you will feel the squeeze of another human being encroaching on your life, and you will want to scream. But this is not the kind of hard I’m talking about. I’m talking about the way we agonize over how and where they are born, whether and how long they breastfeed, what kinds of toys we let them chew on, what kinds of diapers we make them wear, which soaps and lotions and butt creams we let touch their skin, which foods we allow into their bodies, how we teach them language and manners and whether to use the word “no”, how long we let them cry at night, how much television they can watch, what kinds of shoes they should wear to best support their tiny newly walking feet, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. I am constantly judging myself for the choices I make in these and all related (and unrelated) areas and it is, utterly, EXHAUSTING. And let’s be honest. We are fortunate to even have these kinds of decisions to make. We are fortunate to have clean running water to bathe their little butts in. Here’s the thing. At the end of your child’s life, he or she is not going to judge you by these things. He or she will only want to know -- to FEEL -- that you loved them and sacrificed for them and wanted them. They will want to know that you did your best, which is not to say that you researched the hell out of every little thing to make sure you chose the right preschool or toothpaste or sleeping method, but that you followed your instinct, your heart. That you wanted the best for them, and that you tried your hardest to provide it while also maintaining a wholeness for yourself. So every day, just try your best. Tell your kid how much you love them. Spend a few minutes each day making sure they know this. Apologize if you screw up. Tell them you’re learning too. Thank them for being on this journey with you. Those are the things they'll remember. And give yourself a break, Mom. If your kid is alive and smiling, you’re doing an awesome job. Happy Mother’s Day!  I made a big decision last week. It has launched me into so many conflicting emotions and fears and certainties and uncertainties, that I don’t even know how to write about it. Not being able to write about it scares me, it means there is something amiss, that something is out of alignment. But nevertheless, I will try. Because in it there is always a light that comes back to me, an opening that helps me to see the things I cannot see, and the journey is hardly ever about knowing anything concretely. We are all just trying to figure things out. I came to the final realization that my continued pursuit of a degree and subsequent licensure in acupuncture and herbal medicine is not a sustainable path for me and my daughter under our current circumstances. The hard truth is that I can spend the next two years investing a large amount of mental, emotional and financial energy into acquiring a license that will allow me to spend another couple of years pounding the pavement to start a practice or work my way up to a good paying job, which, if wildly successful, will just barely support me and my daughter as long as our cost of living does not go up. It does not allow me to save for retirement. It does not allow us to go on vacations. It does not allow me to indulge her potential desires to pursue music lessons, or dance classes, or skiing, or summer camp. And there is no room for error, or failure. If I am not wildly successful, we will struggle. This is why acupuncture is not the chosen profession for single parents with children under the age of two, in the Bay Area or otherwise. I wasn’t necessarily surprised when I ran the numbers and came to this conclusion. I was, in fact, surprised that it took me this long to do it. I’m sure I knew in the back of my mind that the hard numbers wouldn’t work out, but I wanted to rely on faith and the idea that if I followed my heart, everything would work out. I would pursue my dreams, one step at a time, and the universe would deliver to me everything I needed to succeed, including a new life partner and a father for Nova who would share in the responsibilities of this family. In other words, somewhere in there, I believed that someone was going to come and save me. But in these last few months I’ve experienced tremendous growth as a parent and as a widow, and I no longer desire to be saved. I have full-heartedly accepted my role as a Nova's only parent, and rather than being afraid of it, I am appreciative of the opportunity to partner with my child, and to grow with her in a relationship that is uniquely ours. This is the gold. It feels wonderful to embrace the life that has embraced me. But it also means that I must save myself, and my daughter, and I need to put on all the household hats: mama, dada, cook, cleaner, decision-maker, disciplinarian, playmate, and -- last but not least -- breadwinner. It’s time for me to get a job. Here’s the thing. I can cry about it (which I do) and say that it feels like a part of me is dying (which it does), but from 2010-2014, I granted myself the freedom to do whatever I wanted to do. I fell in love, I quit my job, I traveled extensively, I studied Chinese medicine, I got married, and I gave life to an amazing human. During that time I led a life of abundance that many people never experience, and I made decisions that were impacted only by me. I feel incredibly fortunate to have had that opportunity, and the basic reality is that things have changed. The decisions I make are no longer so simple, and the structure of my life has fundamentally shifted. I am, finally, at 38 years old, becoming an adult -- an adult who makes sacrifices for her family. This is what we do when we have children. My parents did it for me, their parents did it for them, and I must do it for Nova. No other choice feels right. Certainly, other voices rear their heads: I’m not fighting for this because I don’t want it badly enough, and I’m disappointed that I don’t want it badly enough. I’m running away because I’m scared. I don’t believe in myself enough to know that I can make it work. I am allowing fear, and money, to rule my life. I cannot dispute these claims. They tear at my heart. But this is where, perhaps, some element of fear is real, and healthy. This is where we as parents want to do everything in our power to not fuck up. We want to give our kids the world. We want them to feel safe, and secure. The opportunities I’ve had to shape and mold my life should also be Nova’s opportunities someday… and if I choose to make the right decisions for us, they will be. This is Adulthood.  from: Joanne to: Nova date: Tue, Dec 1, 2015 at 2:38 PM subject: 16 months! Happy 16 month birthday, Nova! I've been thinking about this letter for a few days now, because it occurs to me that I should tell you what's been *really* going on with me these past couple of months. The letter I wrote to you last month (after 3 months of no letter-writing) was fine and all, updating you on your latest tricks and antics and what we did for Halloween etc, but it didn't really cut to the truth, which is that I've been having a hard time being a mama to you lately. I finally admitted to myself that this was happening, and that the reason I haven't been writing to you was because I haven't known how or what to say. Being a mama to a toddler (which you quickly became after you turned one) is very different from being a mama to a baby, and I honestly wasn't expecting or anticipating the new challenges I would face as you grew into an independent and powerful little human. In fact, I was relieved to have gotten through that first year and was looking forward to some healthy separation as you began to explore the world on your own. Let me first say that I really really want you to grow into your power, and it's fascinating to see you acquiring new skills and speech and strong will at this early age, but it creates a whole new dynamic between us that I have been trying to navigate and understand and, well, cope with. I say "cope" because I am still (sometimes, often) reeling from the fact that I am doing this without your dada George, and (sometimes) I fall into a well of self-pity and fear and doubt and confusion that makes everything more challenging than it already is. I have begun to realize this past month how much fear and resistance I have had to being a single parent, emotions which up until now I have brushed under the rug and tried to keep hidden behind my sadness that George is no longer with us, or tried to assuage by telling myself I will find a new partner (for me) and father (for you) who will help us get through these next many years. I am no longer thinking this way, and I am no longer avoiding these emotions. I have decided instead to uncover and greet them and invite them into my consciousness so that I can work through them, and acknowledge that while I may be afraid of doing this on my own, I must full-heartedly accept this as my path, and as the only path I was meant to be on in this lifetime. I was brought here to meet you. I was brought here to raise you as my child, and to learn from you as my teacher. We are doing this together, just as George and I were doing it together, just as the three of us will always be doing this together. Still, the day to day can be challenging, and lonely, and tiring. Some days I don't know how I'm going to do anything right by you. You are a toddler, doing the things you are supposed to be doing -- exploring, testing, experimenting, expressing, emoting, asserting, debating, declaring -- but this is all new to me. Suddenly (or so it seems), you went from a happy, energetic, easy baby who did whatever I needed you to do, to an assertive, strong-willed, independent child who wants (and needs) to exercise her free will. You are a GREAT kid, Nova, seriously an amazing human being -- but even the most amazing human at 1.3 years old is a handful. On top of that we have fundamentally different natures and energetic qualities -- you an extrovert, me an introvert; you bold and curious, me shy and reserved. Sometimes our energetic needs are so different that we cannot help but make each other crazy. But guess what? I am up for the challenge. I am going to figure this out with you. I love you more than anything in this world, and being your mom is the hardest and most rewarding journey that I will ever embark upon. You are going to change me in beautiful and profound ways. If fact, you already have. And I will do the best I can to raise you with love, mindfulness, compassion, curiosity, patience, kindness, and respect. This is my promise to you. I love you, Nova. I am excited for our life together, knowing it will be full of interesting challenges and difficulties and growth and celebration. This relationship is the most important relationship of my life, and I will constantly strive to be better for you. Thank you for being here with me. Love, Mama (p.s. I will read this to you!) |
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