Noise Reduction
quiet reflections on life in a loud worldArchive for October, 2008
Confessions of a Mad Mom
I have a lot of good times with the Hobbit, but not every day is filed with bliss. Some days, like this one, are downright unpleasant. Nothing goes smoothly. He fights everything. He insists on doing annoying things like putting lotion all over the table and rubbing sausage in his hair. He lies on the floor asking to have his diaper changed about a half hour after I just changed it, shouts when I suggest we wait a little while, then gets up after I’ve removed the diaper but before I’ve replaced it, thus risking an “accident”, which I dread, not only because I’ll have to clean it up, but also because lately the Hobbit becomes hysterical over messes.
On days like these, I’m increasingly filled with self-doubt. I flip flop. One minute I say to myself, Fine, whatever, let him run around without a diaper, what’s the big deal. But then I envision him standing before a puddle of his own pee crying, “MESS! MOMMA! MESS!” And I know the shouting will get on my nerves more quickly than it should. And I worry not just about a set back in potty training, but also about the onset of some neuroses about the potty in general. And I think about my own total lack of interest in cleaning pee off the floor and I say to myself, Dammit! Who’s in charge here? Put the stupid diaper on already! And to the Hobbit I say, Listen! We need to put the diaper on because I don’t want a mess and neither do you. And my voice is too stern, and the crying and kicking and shouting begin. And my temper flares. And I grow afraid of the difference between my strength and his. So I take deep breaths until the diaper is on. And I find a calm voice. And the Hobbit finds some calm within his little self, too. Then I lift him gently and he says to me, “Hug, Momma? Hug?” And we hug. And then we move on to something else, a bit weary, a bit worn.
Days like these are days like these because of an accumulation of moments like these. Because of an accumulation of battles and encounters that feel like failures. After the diaper incident, I say to myself, What we need is to get out of the house. Recognizing that we are not feeling our best, I decide we should go for a drive to the supermarket – something we generally enjoy. But when I try to get him dressed, another fight ensues, this time over putting on his jeans. Then, when we go to the garage, I find that I can’t access his carseat with the car parked the way it is. So I set him free in the car so I can safely back out. But then we have a fight over putting him in his carseat. He kicks, he screams, he cries; he makes his body rigid as a post while I push and struggle and want to scream myself. I try to keep cool, but at this point – I’ll admit it – I want to shake him. I want to really exert some of that disproportionate strength of mine. It’s an ugly feeling, and luckily, I don’t pursue it.
Instead, I step away and close the door. I look up at the sky while the Hobbit rages inside the car’s back seat, and I try to think of what do to. Then I tell myself not to think, to just be, and I force myself to inhale and exhale deeply. Eventually, the Hobbit stops screaming, and I open the door and pick him up. We hug as I carry him down to his room and, having decided that what he needs is sleep, I get him ready for bed. He starts to fight again but I put him in bed anyway and over his crying I tell him I love him. I kiss his forehead and tell him to get some sleep. I shut the door, and come upstairs. And as I force myself to write, feeling rage at just the sound of his whiny cry, I hope, hope, hope that he stops soon.
He does, and soon after that he falls alseep. It is a small reward for both of us, and I’m grateful. But I tell ya, I sure wish we could just bypass days like these.
Babies and Bonsais
Tuesdays are my babysitting days. At nine o’clock, Ana comes. “Ana bus!” the Hobbit calls her, because when she comes, he gets to take the bus with her out to the library for some story-telling, dancing, singing and bubble-blowing fun. Meanwhile, I have a few hours to myself in which I can engage as an adult with the world. The point is to feel free for a little while, to stimulate my mind and my imagination, to find a little inspiration. So, I go to cafes and people watch and eavesdrop on conversations; I read newspapers or magazines I don’t usually have time for then sit back and process what I’ve just read; I wander in open space – on the beach, in a park, at the zoo – or read a novel, or head downtown to wade through the sea of working people. I buy a hot dog and sit eating it in a sunny spot while watching bike messengers kill time between assignments, professional women walking fast in skirts and running shoes, homeless men and women organizing their possessions in shopping carts or asking passers-by for spare change. I do any of these things and usually, by the end of my babysitting hours, I not only feel more aware of being alive, I also feel ready, excited even, to face the blank page.
Last Tuesday I started my Ana hours with a drive to the beach. It was a spectacularly clear day – the sky was a pale blue, the Pacific was sparkling, the temperature was mild and autumnal – and I thought some sea air might clear my head. A few blocks from the beach though, spotting a large garden center that I’d forgot existed, I changed my plan, pulled over, parked, and went in. (Ah, the spontaneity of the Ana hours!) I’d been thinking about getting some house plants and thought a little interaction with nature, tame as it would be in a garden center, might be refreshing.
Refreshing it was, and enlightening. Especially when I got to the bonsai section. It was a small section, befitting its subject, and when I spotted it, my heart fluttered with excitement. Bonsais! I thought, and I walked over, thinking maybe there was something of destiny in my happening on the garden center that day: I have long loved the tiny beauty of bonsais, and have, on a few occasions, thought of investing in one.
Hoping to find a variety of bonsais to behold, I was a bit confused if not disappointed to find the section contained tools I’d never seen before, and gloves, and seed packets and books. Where are the tiny trees? I wondered. I want to see some tiny trees! Figuring there might be some answer in one of the books, I picked up a guide to bonsai cultivation, and as I began to read, it dawned on me that the idea of walking into a garden center and buying a bonsai was pretty much at odds with the bonsai tradition. Bonsai cultivation is an art, I read. Bonsai cultivation is a centuries-old tradition based on Chinese ideas about the relationship between humans and nature. It is a meditation, a spiritual practice, part of a long, steady journey toward enlightenment. Honestly, it sounded wonderful and rewarding. But pretty quickly, I lost all interest in taking on the practice myself, because as I read about the planting, pruning, fertilizing and repotting of bonsais, I realized that I already have a bonsai of my own: the Hobbit. Every day, I’m cultivating a person. From delivering him into the world, through all those long, long nights in the early days when he’d wake two or three times, I’ve been cultivating him. And the ongoing cultivation – the feeding of him, dressing of him, bathing of him and putting him to bed; the playing with him, reading with him, and laughing with him; the establishment of an environment in which he can grow and become his best self, the introduction of other people into his life, the letting go and the being there with extra care during the harsh winters of his life – has rich rewards. The Hobbit blossoms. I blossom.
So, who knows. Maybe there’s a bonsai or two in my future. But for now, I’m more than satisfied with the challenge of being fully present in my life with the little guy. Especially when I have those Ana hours to balance things out.
Happy Birthday, Hobbit!
Two years ago, at this moment, I was getting out of a taxi, nauseated and in serious pain as my husband helped me into the hospital. The hobbit was well on his way into this world, and five hours later, he had arrived. We called him a little red devil from the start because he came out bright red and a little furry. But o, was he cute, with the funniest little facial expressions I’d ever seen. I remember the first night in the hospital, after everyone was gone and I was there alone, with him in his plastic hospital-issued bassinet beside me – I just cried and cried. I couldn’t believe the pregnancy was over and my little creature was on the outside now, in the world with the rest of us. Wow. And now he’s two. And he’s excellent. I’m so glad he was born. For me and for the world. Yay, hobbit. Happy birthday!
