Cutting the Monitor Cord

Before I became a mother, I always assumed that I would experience the proverbial cutting of the umbilical cord once my kid hit puberty. You know, when I was no longer cool enough to be seen in public with, when my son was becoming his own man, asserting his independence. I am mentally preparing myself for the kind of mother I will develop into and hope that my love for him will be reciprocated -- probably via a silent code of acknowledgment; a smile, a look, an occasional hug. Sure, I'll wait up until he comes home from a party, but pretend I wasn't waiting up for him -- Oh, I'm just watching TV. Did you have fun? And then he'll proceed to tell me how his life is going. The life I'm no longer the center of, but only an observer with front row seats (I know people. I'm connected like that).


But, when my video monitor broke a couple of days ago, I felt a pang in my chest. No, I'm not ready for this yet! Of course, it's not like the separation I'm going to adjust to in a few years, but I didn't expect to feel such panic over losing my connection to him while he's drifting into peaceful slumber. I don't know how parents did it before video monitors. I love being able to watch him sleep, surrounded by his stuffed animals, completely oblivious to the world. His arms spread out, moving from position to position in his comfy crib. The video monitor isn't so much voyeuristic as it is my umbilical cord to him when he's in his own world of dreams. I miss him when I can't hear the little patters of his feet running around the house. (Walking is not an option. He must RUN everywhere.) I'm not alone in my dependence on this device, my husband loves it too; it's his only chance to "see" him when he comes home at night. Then it serves yet another purpose in the mornings: watching K talk to his bed buddies -- Big Blue Dog, Happy Dog, Mini Dog and Mr. Bear. He babbles to them, maybe telling them about the dreams he had or just checking how they slept.

I went to see an exhibit of Leon Levinstein's New York photographs at the Met the other day. Each portrait more intimate than the next. But one just grabbed me and didn't let me go. It was a picture of a mother cuddling with her baby on a beach. The way she's embracing him with her long elegant arms, with undeniable love. While her baby is nuzzled up into the crook of her neck. They are both laying there, between wakefulness and sleep. That perfect state of bliss. Well, that's how I see me and K. I want us to stay like that forever, but I know we can't. He's growing up so fast and now that I don't have a video monitor, I can't watch him sleep. I'm not ready to let go yet.

When/what was your moment of realization that your baby isn't going to remain in your arms forever?

Am I Also Allowed to Feel Guilty?

Today, Liz over at Mom 101 (she needs no introductions, of course!) talked about the guilt she feels about being a working mom and missing out on some important events happening in her kids' lives -- from first words to routine pediatrician visits.

As I told Liz, guilt and motherhood go hand-in-hand; it's an intrinsic part of the parenting experience. The large majority of working moms feel like they are missing out on what ought to be their natural right to watch their children grow up and are trying to juggle too many things at once. All this guilt seems to be rooted in our aspirational image of the perfect woman. You know, the one who can attend every soccer game while nailing it at boardroom meetings, the one who has a fully cooked meal waiting for her family after she's worked a 10 hour day and not a single hair out of place. Being a woman, a wife, a mother, a working mom, all strung together so effortlessly. We all know this delicate balance -- whether we experience it first hand or not -- and empathize deeply.

Which led me to wonder: Am I allowed to feel guilty too for not being the perfect mom and wife even though I don't work? I wonder what would happen if I talked about feeling guilty for letting my 21 month old watch more than his daily 20 minute allowance of television or for procrastinating to make his check up appointments or for willing the day to go by faster because I cannot physically do another Lego tower. After all, this IS my job, right? My "job" allows me to be present for every "first" in my child's life, every pediatrician appointment, every laugh and every cry. And perhaps therein lies the issue: there is no more novelty. It becomes difficult to decipher what would be deemed a "special event" from just another milestone.

The reality is that I do feel guilty for not always giving K. a hundred percent. We have good days when I can look at myself in the mirror and say "You get a gold star!" But then there are days I know I could have done better. I could have played more, read more, been more patient, less frustrated... And yet, I don't feel like I'm allowed to publicly admit of my occasional meager performances. What would the reactions be? A few eye-rolls? Some "lazy-mom" comments?

But like Liz's kids, I know that K. doesn't feel less well taken care of than the next kid at the playground. Most importantly, he knows he has two hundred percent of my love. I see it in the way he looks at me, in the way he shows his affection towards me and others, and in the incredible personality he has (He knows my love for him is and will always be there, which allows him to be himself).

Working-mom or stay-at-home-mom, we're all doing our best. And unfortunately, our best isn't always good enough. The quality of our mothering will only be truly judged once our kids are grown (how much time they're spending at the therapist about their mom-issues) and can understand why parenting is the toughest job there is. Until then, we shall all continue to feel guilty about our perceived shortcomings.

The Invisible Line of Parenting

On my Infertility Doula blog, I talked about an invisible line that can sometimes divide an otherwise strong and close community of women (and men) who are all trying to make it to the other side of infertility. This led me to wonder whether a similar visible line exists in the parenting community. I guess, I don't so much "wonder" it, as I visibly notice is daily; whether it's at the playground, parenting blogs and parenting literature.

Like the infertility community, we all have so much in common. Whatever it took to become a parent (au natural, via IF treatments, adoptions, etc.), we are doing our best to raise our kids and turn them into productive adults. And yet, how we go about it can vary drastically. Before we even start raising our kids, there's the natural vs. medicated vs. cesarian groups. Once they're born, then it's all about breastfeeding vs. formula (Stirrup Queen has a great post about that). Then there are plastic toys vs. wood toys only. Or attachment parenting vs. independent parenting (I'm not sure if that's the correct terminology). You get my point.

We sub-divide ourselves into groups of moms who only believe that their way is the only way to care for a child. And chose to solely seek out friendships that will not challenge our mindsets. Sort of like political affiliations, I guess.

As for me, there are certain decisions that I made for myself and K. that I felt/feel were right for us. They were decisions that were affected by my past and what I wanted for my future (one day at a time). And now, as I try to assimilate myself into this world of suburban moms, I've come to meet some mothers/parents who each have their own philosophies about parenting and are accepting of our differences. We don't pass judgement on how we've managed to keep our little toddlers alive thus far (and you know that's a hard task) and we share all the initial wisdom we've acquired thus far.

Motherhood is truly a gift (albeit one that requires frequent diaper changes and patience). I'm not suggesting that we sit around a camp fire and sing Kumbaya, and braid each other's hair, but before we roll our eyes at this mom or that mom at the playground (or in the bloggesphere), let's try to remember that we're all (ok, most) on the same team.