Remember when you were planning to have babies?
I don’t know about you, but when that Baby Urge hit my body, I likened it to a deep and primal craving… Like a pre-menstrual woman on the hunt for chocolate, I needed a baby. My body was aching for it, my biological clock ticked so loud, it sometimes kept me awake at nights…
And so, after some drink-infused “debates”, Dan and I went for it…. Threw the birth control aside, and enjoyed the freedom of that strange and ethereal lifestyle of “trying for a baby”…
Little did I know I could get pregnant merely by thinking about it…
So, years and years later, those delicious, sweet, milky babies, with chubby rolls and innocent breath; bright eyes and gifts of unequivocal love have become a memory. Nights of colic and snuggles, sore nipples and diaper rash are faded recollections. The length of my children stretched against my body, breathing in rhythm, giggles making me swoon, just photos in an album now. My life becoming real, my existence becoming purposeful. The worries of potty-training, the guesswork at vaccination. Such giant problems at the time. If I only knew…..
ABSOLUTELY NOTHING compares to pre-hormonal angst, the likes of which has descended upon our house like a furtive storm; a sneaky thief making away with our bright-eyed bunnies and replacing them with sighing, eye-rolling, discontented angst-ridden beasts.
And they’re not even teenagers yet.
I struggle in finding that balance of understanding and compassion and wanting to kick their asses so hard I leave my boot print permanently on their butt cheeks.
To toot my own Mama horn, I do shine (sometimes) in finding that sweet place of love, relating to my kids with stories of my own youth… so that they may feel a teeny bit of normalcy amidst their own churning doubts.
But Grilled Cheesus, there are times when the attitude and belligerence and abuse and blame gets to be too much. In that space I wonder how I will survive the upcoming storm season of the dreaded teenager years. Copious amounts of wine aside, I know deep down they will need to work their way through it with loving and supportive parents.
I am entering the Dark Ages of parenting. The Renaissance is years away…. and already I am fantasizing about my children, grown up with offspring of their own, coming to me to complain about their children’s terrible and obnoxious behaviour. I can only hope.
And how I will laugh and laugh… and then I will crack open a bottle of wine, to share with these beings who have blessed my life beyond anything I could ever compare to, and sit with them to commiserate, to observe and offer what little help I may and to rejoice of the never-ending revolution of life.