Motherhood

--2002

I never paid attention to the old adage, "Motherhood is the toughest job in the world." The way I saw it, my mom didn't have it that hard; after all, I certainly wasn't any trouble. Oh sure, I occasionally left out a toy or two, and perhaps I never took "no" for an answer, and it is true my mom still shudders when my teenage years are mentioned, but other than that, I was a cinch to raise. I'm sure of it.
Even if I did have my rare moments, I knew my mother barely noticed, much less felt stressed by them. In fact, I knew from watching Mrs. Partridge and Mrs. Brady that motherhood was a source of joy and wonderment. The proof flashed across my television screen for thirty minutes every week. I had no reason to doubt my mother felt the same way. Those naysayers who claimed motherhood was difficult were, I am sure, the same people who said Oreos were not a breakfast food. I paid them no mind. And so, when my first child was born, I gazed with wonderment at his tiny face and squinty eyes, and knew we would share nothing but joyful and tender moments. I was almost right.

Motherhood had started out as I expected: little sleep and much excitement. Almost immediately, my son astounded me with his brilliance and depth of character. Within moments of birth, he was able to cleverly place his tiny fist near his mouth and make sucking noises, much to the delight of everyone in the room, who declared him the most intelligent child born within the century. They may not have actually said those words, but as a mother, I knew they were thinking them.

Our first day together was a breeze: I slept. He slept. No problem. I scoffed at those who had struggled with parenting. We were well on our way and had experienced no major conflicts, unless you count the fact that he refused to eat. However, I knew this minor mishap would clear up as soon as I was awake enough to coo him into eating. Using my "loving mother's voice," I felt certain I could coax him into accepting a delicious meal, thereby sealing forever our roles: me as self-less caregiver; him as grateful recipient of my love and devotion. I was wrong.

For those of you who have never experienced motherhood, or any form of parenthood for that matter, I feel I must warn you about the second day of this endeavor. Imagine traveling on a spaceship to a distant planet and, under the influence of some monstrous jet-lag, trying to care for the local offspring who, besides not speaking your language, seem intent on making as many demands on you as possible in the space of twenty-four hours. Day two did actually happen, but I have blocked most of it out. What I do remember is formed from the thousands of photographs taken by my visiting in-laws, who managed to get pictures of my son mid-blink, in full blink, followed by him with a look of fright on his face, startled by the flashes going off in front of his nearly-blinded eyes. In most of those pictures, I am in the background looking strikingly like a zombie.

Those first days were followed by more just like them. Many, many, more. Inexplicably, the sweet infant I just days before had tenderly carried home had turned into the creature from the swamp. The smell that seeped from his diaper every (it seemed) six hours proved it. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and I began to suspect this child had no intention of agreeing with me on anything. He slept when he wanted, ate what he wanted, spit out what he didn't want, and generally made a sport out of it.

Once he was walking, all hope of our seeing eye-to-eye on anything was as distant as my dream of showering before dinner time. Diapers were merely the precursor of a six-gun holster: he would stand facing me with feet apart, with his chubby little hands poised inches above the small strips of tape and dare me to flinch. We would face off for an interminable length of time until he, with lightening speed, would rip the tape and dash, screaming with delight, into the next room before the (usually full) diaper hit the floor. Shoes, he had determined, were designed to go on the opposite feet, giving the impression he was going both left and right at the same time.
Kindergarten was no easier. I never expected to be arguing with a five-year-old that he did so have to color the word "Red" red, just as his teacher had instructed. He was bound and determined to challenge the color system the rest of us blindly chose to accept. Room-cleaning, bedtimes on school nights, and the redeeming qualities of broccoli all became major points of contention. Obviously, my authority was recognized and respected by only me, and no amount of coaxing, threatening, or pleading could change that fact. I often called my mother and lamented the fact that my son was determined to have it his way, but I knew she wouldn't understand. I am sure her quiet chuckles were the result of embarrassment at not knowing how to advise me, never having gone through a similar situation. Not to be undone, I hung in there, determined to show this child I was both fun and smart, and therefore he would do well to listen to me. We played hours of "dinosaur" and to this day, I still have the best T-Rex growl on the block. We colored a museum-worth of art and explored every crack in the sidewalk between our house and the playground, the approximate equivalent of three city blocks.

Years later, I still had no more control than I had on Day 2. At my son's seventh birthday party, activities included an unsupervised game of Tie The Balloon To The Dog's Tail while I was busy consoling a child who spent the first twenty minutes crying for his mother. After rescuing the dog and attending to another boy's bloody nose, which I was later informed "happens when he laughs too hard," one of our guests showed me the many mosquito bites that were popping up all over his body "like magic," or more accurately, like chicken pox. It was then that I was forced to face the truth: motherhood is, in fact, the most difficult job in the world. They had been right all along. Looking back, I realize I needed to discover this the hard way. Had I heeded the warnings, I probably would have remained childless and missed out on one of the best (albeit hardest) experiences of my life. But thanks to motherhood, I have developed life skills that will serve me well in any job position: I have been a diplomat, a referee, a prison warden, a teacher, a nurse, and a best friend.

From now on, I will trust the voice of experience. I will have faith in those who have gone before me. My first test of my new-found confidence in others presented itself earlier today. A friend told me she gets a bikini wax all the time and swears it doesn't hurt a bit. Before, I would have doubted her. But now? Hey, she’s been there - she’s done that. I’ve made my appointment.