Expertise
I am not an expert. I do not know what the best way to diaper a baby is, what cream to use, how to address diaper rash, how to bring up the burp, why he is crying, why he won't sleep, why my nipples are bloody and raw, why he is still hungry, how to educate him, how to sleep myself. I do not know whether cosleeping is best. I do not know what shampoo to use, how often to bathe her, what to do if she won't wake up, when I should treat a fever, how many pairs of mittens to put on, when it is too cold outside or when it is too hot.
I am not an expert. I do not know why my child hits or screams. I do not know why she won't sleep. I do not know why one child spoke before he was one and the other waited until she was well over 18 months. I do not know how many books to read before bed, when to turn out the light, what foods are okay, how thoroughly to mash them, what to do if all she wants to eat is white food or when to let them scream.
I am not an expert. I do not know what to do when the school calls me about his behavior, about her toileting accidents. I do not know when it is all right to let them go around the block on their own, about when it is all right to let them be at someone's house without me, about what television is all right for them to watch and what isn't. I do not know how to clear a stuffy nose when the child refuses to blow or when she should start wiping her own bottom or how to make hair grow faster.
I am not an expert. I have no answers about why my child gets into rages, why the world is too much with us, about how to make the future work out, about how to keep them safe, off drugs, hale and whole, easy and friendly, happy and lively.
I gave birth. I read books. I learned things. I tried things out. I still have no answers, no reflectors telling me when I'm veering off the road. The night is overcast and I can't see the road. My own headlights stare back at me, reflected in the fog of my unknowing. I am not an expert. I do not know things.
I wish I did.
I recently discovered that the son of Libby Purves, an English journalist and writer of two of my favourite books on parenting, committed suicide last summer. (You can read about it briefly here.) When I first read her books, one of the most comforting things about them was how her son seemed a little like my own, and yet, I thought, clearly things are working out. They didn't, in the end.
The despair I feel, the terror I feel, are, I know, irrational. One sad story does not write a future for my own child, for myself. But it is one of many possible futures I see, and one I fear so desperately. I worry already that I am failing him, that there are better things I could do for him, more I could do, if only I were different, stronger, clearer-headed. I am terrified of failing him.
Yet, what else is there to do but to do my best, whatever that is? What else can any of us do? To reach for the courage we need to do our best, and for that to be enough -- no matter what.
I am not an expert. I do not know why my child hits or screams. I do not know why she won't sleep. I do not know why one child spoke before he was one and the other waited until she was well over 18 months. I do not know how many books to read before bed, when to turn out the light, what foods are okay, how thoroughly to mash them, what to do if all she wants to eat is white food or when to let them scream.
I am not an expert. I do not know what to do when the school calls me about his behavior, about her toileting accidents. I do not know when it is all right to let them go around the block on their own, about when it is all right to let them be at someone's house without me, about what television is all right for them to watch and what isn't. I do not know how to clear a stuffy nose when the child refuses to blow or when she should start wiping her own bottom or how to make hair grow faster.
I am not an expert. I have no answers about why my child gets into rages, why the world is too much with us, about how to make the future work out, about how to keep them safe, off drugs, hale and whole, easy and friendly, happy and lively.
I gave birth. I read books. I learned things. I tried things out. I still have no answers, no reflectors telling me when I'm veering off the road. The night is overcast and I can't see the road. My own headlights stare back at me, reflected in the fog of my unknowing. I am not an expert. I do not know things.
I wish I did.
I recently discovered that the son of Libby Purves, an English journalist and writer of two of my favourite books on parenting, committed suicide last summer. (You can read about it briefly here.) When I first read her books, one of the most comforting things about them was how her son seemed a little like my own, and yet, I thought, clearly things are working out. They didn't, in the end.
The despair I feel, the terror I feel, are, I know, irrational. One sad story does not write a future for my own child, for myself. But it is one of many possible futures I see, and one I fear so desperately. I worry already that I am failing him, that there are better things I could do for him, more I could do, if only I were different, stronger, clearer-headed. I am terrified of failing him.
Yet, what else is there to do but to do my best, whatever that is? What else can any of us do? To reach for the courage we need to do our best, and for that to be enough -- no matter what.
posted by Francesca Amendolia at 11:47
14 Comments:
What a beautiful post about the anxieties that accompany motherhood! There's no guarantee that what we provide will be enough, but that we have courage and love them, as you say, is the best we can do.
I've never been so challenged on an emotional than by my three children - I need to provide enough for all three, despite each other, and despite my own limitations. Like you, I'm no expert, but I hope against hope that what I do provide will suffice.
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
We will all fail our children in some way, just as our parents, no matter how terrific a job they did, failed each and every one of us in some way.
We are humans raising humans. Imperfection and failure are our only guarantees.
I don't know why the suicide attempts of some of my friends failed while the attempts of other friends succeeded. I don't know if their parents had much to do with it. I can tell you that one of the reasons I didn't attempt suicide when I was growing up was that I didn't want to do that to my parents--I already knew, at a young age that it would be devastating for them and I just couldn't bring myself to is try. Some would suggest that this was a sign that I didn't really want to die. Perhaps. But there is something inherently selfish about suicide, something unforgivable and, for some reason, I grokked that even when I was 16. I don't know how much my parents had to do with that, though. We never talked about depression or suicide (but we did talk about charity and honesty and social responsibility, so maybe that was it.)
I feel that your willingness to embrace your fear makes your chances of success (whatever that means) all that much greater.
This captures perfectly the gap between the parent we wish we were and the parent we actually end up being--a gap I think is there for everyone, even the "experts."
As you said, the best we can do is to do our best.
And you know, his suicide could have absolutely nothing with her parenting.
The most stellar parents in the world can have kids who commit suicide.
Who become unwell, depressed.
Mental health problems don't discriminate always based on upbringing...
No one told me that motherhood would bring with it such terror.
We live in a world where mothers are given the idea that we can control everything that affects our children, from choosing the proper TV to choosing the proper school, to most nutritious foods and the right way to correct their behaviors. There is an expert for everything, reminding mothers that if we just did it right, our children and our families will be OK. We just have to make the effort.
I think often of my sister-in-law, the typical high-achiever, type-A perfect Mom, a vegetarian who did not drink or eat anything vaguely unhealthy for years, and lives a very eco-correct life. She lost a daughter to a birth defect.
And yet she still controls every blessed aspect of her two sons lives. From telling them when to take a bite of their pancakes for fear it will burn their mouths if they eat too soon to interrupting a lovely family outing to apply another coat of lip balm for fear of the chapped lips.
But our children are not the amalgamation of our choices. And truly, we do not have control over the ultimate outcomes.
And that is what is so scary. Because there is nothing that we have ever cared about more.
What we often view as failure is actually the raw material of success...
wow.
that is a difficult thing
to hear, to find out, to think about...
and like you said,
irrationality aside,
it's scary.
but i think you are doing just fine...
A toast to courage.
Thank you for sharing your thoughts and fears. I know many of us feel the same bafflement and longing for a set of "operating instructions"!
So sorry to hear about Ms. Purves's terrible loss. Unfortunately, good parenting does not inoculate your child against every ill. I often think parents have much less power, both for good and for bad, over our children than we believe we do.
If a new car, or refrigerator, comes with an instruction manual how much more important that a baby should? And yet they don't. We're not even required to pass a test....That poor woman is living all mothers' worst nightmare. She could so easily be any one of us....and that is terrifying, because, as another commenter said above, we have never cared so much about anything. My heart goes out to her...
Thankyou for sharing those sentiments. Some days parenting feels like I'm fighting blind, other days I think I'm doing okay. On the whole I think I try to do my best, but there are days when I just do what I need to do in order to get by! I felt such sadness for the Purves' family and such admiration for their dignity and honesty in the face of their grief.
I just loved this post. thanks. i related to it all ...
Beautifully written, as usual, Francesca. How terrible about poor Libby.
So many Moms suffer under the weight of these demons?
Post a Comment
Links to this post:
Create a Link
<< Home