Mea Culpa
The other day, I was browsing the clearance section of the toy department at Target, because it's August and they're moving out last year's toys at 70% off to make room for this years Christmas fare, when I heard the blood curdling scream of your baby. Not the communicative crying that can be solved with a bottle or a diaper change, but the scream of last resort precisely honed by nature to cause every woman in the vicinity to respond with an adrenaline surge. Forced into action by my DNA, I searched until I found your child and determined that he was with you, being taken care of, and not about to become lion chow.
Your red faced infant had not ceased his caterwauling, and you struggled to appease him while determinedly shopping on. I thought to my self, "Shut that child up woman! Why are you here with him?" Then immediately felt sorry for my reaction because...I have been you. That's right. I have been the bedraggled mother dragging a screaming infant through a store. How could I have forgotten so quickly?
During my 'decade of childbearing' as I call it, I was either pregnant or breast feeding, with a mere six months at a time between the cessation of the latter and the commencement of the next former. For that decade I lived in a haze of sleep deprivation and hormone induced short term memory loss. There were moments of unprecedented bliss. Moments, I knew, would never be surpassed. But it was mostly a lot of misplaced urine and fecal matter, and tests of physical and mental endurance that have inoculated me against the idea of "I can't" for the rest of my life. If you survive parenting four children through to age seven, you know there is nothing else out there in the world that you can't do.
At age seven it gets a lot better. If you're lucky, you're not washing wet bed sheets every day anymore. The children can get themselves ready for school each morning and bed each night, and they can at least pull their own weight as part of the family. They don't need someone especially taking care of them every second anymore. When they ask for a drink of water you can tell them to get it themselves, and they won't flood the kitchen.
My youngest is seven now. My brain is no longer fuzzy. As I chastised myself for my uncharitable thoughts toward you, I fully realized the purpose of that hormone induced short term memory loss. When people tell you to enjoy those younger years because they'll be over too soon, it's because of that memory loss. When a woman snuggles up to her husband and whispers, "don't you think we need one more baby?" it's because of that memory loss. When you look at some other parent with a misbehaving tyke, and think they ought to just take care of that situation so the rest of the world doesn't have to hear it, it's because of that memory loss. You'll appreciate that memory loss someday.
Yes, there are moments that will be the greatest natural highs of your entire life, but those moments are pitiful compensation for long crushing lows that seem to move in slow motion, when you're forced to take a screaming infant with you to Target because you're out of teething tablets, or diapers, or food for the rest of your family. I'm sorry young momma. It's my fault I forgot. I'm sure you've got a good reason to be out with that bawling monstrosity. No one would do it for any purpose shy of desperation. I'm not sad those years are behind me. You'll get through this too.
*** This post was featured in the Redwood Empire Mensa Bulletin, Nov. 2013 edition.
The other day, I was browsing the clearance section of the toy department at Target, because it's August and they're moving out last year's toys at 70% off to make room for this years Christmas fare, when I heard the blood curdling scream of your baby. Not the communicative crying that can be solved with a bottle or a diaper change, but the scream of last resort precisely honed by nature to cause every woman in the vicinity to respond with an adrenaline surge. Forced into action by my DNA, I searched until I found your child and determined that he was with you, being taken care of, and not about to become lion chow.
Your red faced infant had not ceased his caterwauling, and you struggled to appease him while determinedly shopping on. I thought to my self, "Shut that child up woman! Why are you here with him?" Then immediately felt sorry for my reaction because...I have been you. That's right. I have been the bedraggled mother dragging a screaming infant through a store. How could I have forgotten so quickly?
During my 'decade of childbearing' as I call it, I was either pregnant or breast feeding, with a mere six months at a time between the cessation of the latter and the commencement of the next former. For that decade I lived in a haze of sleep deprivation and hormone induced short term memory loss. There were moments of unprecedented bliss. Moments, I knew, would never be surpassed. But it was mostly a lot of misplaced urine and fecal matter, and tests of physical and mental endurance that have inoculated me against the idea of "I can't" for the rest of my life. If you survive parenting four children through to age seven, you know there is nothing else out there in the world that you can't do.
At age seven it gets a lot better. If you're lucky, you're not washing wet bed sheets every day anymore. The children can get themselves ready for school each morning and bed each night, and they can at least pull their own weight as part of the family. They don't need someone especially taking care of them every second anymore. When they ask for a drink of water you can tell them to get it themselves, and they won't flood the kitchen.
My youngest is seven now. My brain is no longer fuzzy. As I chastised myself for my uncharitable thoughts toward you, I fully realized the purpose of that hormone induced short term memory loss. When people tell you to enjoy those younger years because they'll be over too soon, it's because of that memory loss. When a woman snuggles up to her husband and whispers, "don't you think we need one more baby?" it's because of that memory loss. When you look at some other parent with a misbehaving tyke, and think they ought to just take care of that situation so the rest of the world doesn't have to hear it, it's because of that memory loss. You'll appreciate that memory loss someday.
Yes, there are moments that will be the greatest natural highs of your entire life, but those moments are pitiful compensation for long crushing lows that seem to move in slow motion, when you're forced to take a screaming infant with you to Target because you're out of teething tablets, or diapers, or food for the rest of your family. I'm sorry young momma. It's my fault I forgot. I'm sure you've got a good reason to be out with that bawling monstrosity. No one would do it for any purpose shy of desperation. I'm not sad those years are behind me. You'll get through this too.
*** This post was featured in the Redwood Empire Mensa Bulletin, Nov. 2013 edition.
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