I found myself in the midst of a totally stereotypical motherhood moment while going through CC's old clothes the other morning. When I pulled out the tiny little gender-ambiguous sleeper that he wore home on the day he was born it slayed me. He was so tiny when he was born – less than 5 1/5 pounds! Ten months later (has it really be that long?) he is a sturdy little chunk of a kid – resilient, adventurous, and hungry as ever.
He's almost a toddler and I feel like I'm already missing my baby boy – his sweet soft little cheeks, the way he lights up when I smile at him, the weight of his tiny body pressed against me when he's nursing. It hurts to know it won't last forever, that one day he won't let me scoop him up and stick my face into his hot little neck. Even if he likes me as a teenager he certainly won't want to sleep on my chest. That would be weird for both of us.
I know that I should be at least somewhat relieved to know that the rigorous pace of sleepless nights and demanding days won't last forever, but even as exhausted as I am I know that this has been the best year of my life. It's totally neurotic to be missing it now because I'm sad about missing it later. This is my daily challenge: to be present. To exist in the moment because it won't come again.
I read a book while I was pregnant filled with stories from Buddhists who'd had children. Though the stories differed from one to another, the takeaway was clear. Parenting is a spiritual practice – if you let it be. I've certainly found that to be true in my own experience. When I was pregnant I had to share my body with another person. I took that opportunity of discomfort and that lack of control as practice. If there was one thing I knew about life with children it was that it involved very little control and plenty of discomfort. It just started a little sooner than I realized. I reminded myself that I wasn't my body. My body is a vessel that I travel in, and it has room for someone I love. Even if that someone sticks his bony butt into my ribs at night.
Then there was labor, an ordeal that was endured one moment at a time. When each contraction hit I would count away the seconds as the wave rushed through me. I would let myself feel it and I would let it go. I knew if I let myself consider how much longer I would have to go through it I might panic, so I stayed there – minute to minute – until the morning came, and with it, transition.
Which brings us to birth, something utterly and unbelievably different for every woman. CC's took me quickly – like a force of nature. When my body decided it was time to push there was nothing on Earth that could have stopped it. In a way I had given myself over to birth, but the act of pushing granted a sense of control. I felt like I was working to bring my baby into the world, and even though it felt painful it still felt good – like a dam breaking or a cage opening up.
And after that? Well, they don't call birth a miracle for nothing. Witnessing such a miracle changed me. It pushed the boundaries of the world as I perceived it just a little further out. The edges of that new world became fuzzy and dilated as I focused in on my baby. One challenge I face now is to stop that world from shrinking down to just him. And it's hard! So much of me just wants to run away into myself, focus on nothing but my baby, and forget about the rest of the world. It's amazing how vulnerable I became the moment he was born. Suddenly it felt like my whole heart was detached from my body. And it's new owner looked so fragile and small!
But running away wouldn't do either of us any good. The very reason his baby clothes make me cry is the reason I have no right to hide him away. As much as I love him (and I do – like nothing else) I know he doesn't belong to me. I can only enjoy him. I can never own him – and he started moving away from me the moment he took his first breath. All I can do is try to be present now, and try to keep this time fresh in my heart so that I look back and enjoy it later.
Staying grounded in the present also goes a long way when it comes to enduring the less pleasant aspects of motherhood. Sleepless nights or long stretches of childcare while sick, stressed, exhausted, or all of the above can sometimes feel like torture. But these struggles can present excellent opportunities for Buddhist practice. I can't always (or more like EVER) change the fact that my baby is up all night, sick, teething, crabby, or fussing. What I can do is focus on eliminating the desire to be elsewhere. I can choose to stop wishing I were asleep or that someone would come through the door and take this squalling child off of my hands. I can decide to accept the situation as it is and be present for it.
Of course, this is not an easy thing to do. Monks spend lifetimes trying to break free from the cycle of desire and suffering. I don't expect myself to get there every time. But it gives me something to reach for – something that I believe serves me better than breaking into tears over how exhausted I am. (Believe me, sometimes I do that too.)
So during those nights where I find myself wondering how I'll stay awake one more minute while knowing I'll need to stay awake for at least one more hour, I reach for the present. I listen to the sound of his voice or the rhythm of is breath. I feel the weight of his little body in my arms, and the slow ticking of time as the hardship passes and he eventually goes back to sleep.
One night, around ten months ago I was leaning against the wall of my bathroom and thinking "Just one minute. I can survive anything for a minute." These days my mantra from labor has been replaced with "Just one year: 365 nights. He'll only be a baby once."
What are your strategies for getting through hard days and long nights? Do you struggle with letting your little one grow up and away?