A Sweet Weight

In Search of a Wisewoman

Looking back on parenting is something of a blur, not only due to time, but for that exhaustion that while it defies description, is instantly recognized by all who have known those early months of babyhood. Having a pilot project in the way of an older child then three, was something of a guideline, but most parents will tell you, that each child is unique and that sweet spot of management may not be a template for subsequent infants, that and the time interval where one simply forgets. There is a myth that says women forget labour and hence, since choice was engineered, agree to a repeat performance. Whatever the dazzle of hormonal response or wanting to add to the family tree, parents have that aha moment of finding themselves dealing with shattered sleep and in my case, the recriminations of an elderly spaniel who had been on the scene a decade before the babies arrived. Loyal to the nth degree, she would heave herself up to pad silently to the crib, perhaps merely hoping that the decibel level be addressed and then sighing heavily as she settled by the rocking chair as much as if to say, “Remember the old days when we slept the whole night and sometimes slept late on the weekend?”

One precious memory that filters through is sensory. Rocking gently, the old dog faithfully beside me, I remember the sweet weight of my sated son, sleeping on my chest, a warm, dense boneless weight felt holding an infant. Neither child proved to be ever great at sleeping, a pattern that was at most 2 hours at a stretch, but not the same 2 hours, that went on for for 4 years, no matter what skills I employed. If I had an vestige of energy I might have been violent when the mothers of other babies bragged that little Whoever, slept through the night at 6 months. I remember savouring that moment wrapped in the warm darkness of the house, thinking I should slip my infant son back into bed and return to mine, but just sat in the moment.

By the time one’s pregnancy reaches term, and one is ungainly with what that alien life form lodged under one’s heart does to one’s mobility and balance, one is glad to get the show on the road if only to be able to see one’s feet again. We sign up for the most complex job without a clue or credentials. We commit to carrying that weight internally and then externally and then eternally as we shepherd them through their development and final launch, but the truth is, that umbilical cord has an unseverable filament that is stronger than steel, that twangs the moment they vibrate it no matter how old they get. Sometimes, when we cannot mitigate whatever the weight that threatens them in some capacity, that connection remains a pulsating and vibrant connection which holds them up, trusting they will find their feet.

Happy Birthday, Darling.