Seeds of Something Fine
Listening to things that go boom in the night
Staff writer
It’s happening, right this second. As I sit here and write I am neck-deep in thoughts I swore I’d never indulge in as a mom. I am everything I promised myself I wouldn’t be.
It’s well past Lyla’s bedtime on the Fourth of July. Outside it sounds like our street is no-man’s land. Our backyard is worse. We did our noisy celebrating last night, knowing tonight we’d be needed to cuddle and assure a little girl that all was well despite the din.
It’s been crescendoing on our block for hours. About an hour ago, Michael put her to bed as usual and sat a few minutes in the rocking chair, as usual. Several minutes after he left her room a nearby neighbor unleashed a flurry of pops and bangs that brought sobs from behind Lyla’s closed door. I went in and comforted her. Re-tucked blankets, rubbed a smooth little arm in the dark, and sat in the rocking chair. When she seemed settled, I left. No big deal.
Until about 30 minutes later when another battery of celebratory pyrotechnics — this one much louder than before — awoke her in screams. I went back in. Soothed again. Comforted, again. This time she was sweating. She asserted over and over “I don’t like the fireworks, Mommy.”
“I know sweetie,” I told her, “but it can’t hurt you. You’re OK. We’re all OK. I’m sorry it surprised you and woke you.”
“Yeah, I don’t like fireworks noisy, Mommy. Are they all done?”
“Well, no, but after today they will be I promise.”
“Sit in the rocking chair?”
“Sure I will.”
Silence. Tiny deep breaths from the crib where my hands were smoothing sweaty curls from her forehead.
“Are they all done?”
“No, sorry sweetie, but I promise promise when you wake up they will be all done.”
It was one of those conversations where I never know if I’m striking the right balance between acknowledging her feelings and not over-dramatizing them. Empathy with a toddler is a razor-thin tight rope to walk, as many of you know.
Most of all I wanted her to know it was OK that she didn’t like the noise and definitely OK to say so, but I also wanted her to realize it wasn’t over and she may have to try to sleep despite all the booms outside. I wanted her to know I’d be there, always; that I’d keep her safe even though I couldn’t stop the noise.
Then, I was horrified at her response.
In tearful defeat my toddler put her stuffed elephant to her ear and turned away from me.
“I’m just going over here. I’ll see you later mommy. Good night.”
I could hear her holding back tears with the last word. I was speechless for a few seconds.
“Well I’ll stay and rock if you want me to.”
“No, Mommy, just go. I’ll see you later. Good night. Just go, Mommy — leave.”
I froze. I whispered I love you before I left the room but she did not respond.
Then I walked down the hall and blubbered to my husband. It would have been different if she’d sounded more at-ease. If the tears had been gone or if she’d let me sit for a while I don’t think it would have hit me like a brick wall. But she didn’t. Her tiny little body heaved a sigh, gave up, and turned away from me, tearfully embittered that there was something Mommy wasn’t strong enough to make all better. My comforting wasn’t even desired. She was gonna tough it out on her own with her stuffed animals in the dark.
All this time I’ve been gearing up to breathe through it when she doesn’t want my help with, like, y’know, boys and stuff. But at 2 years old?! Nuh-uh, no way!
This isn’t how it was supposed to go. She was supposed to have all the time and space she needed to acclimate herself to the harsh realities of the world beyond our loving home and family and to ease into it as she felt prepared.
It wasn’t supposed to force itself on her like this. And she absolutely wasn’t supposed to learn the horrible lesson of sucking it up and muddling through before she gets any adult teeth!
So here I sit, shaking as I type, part of me desperately wanting her to call out again for me to sit in the chair, another part of me ashamed for not being ready to embrace her growth. Most parts of me are just confused.
I knew when I got into this gig that the letting go would be hard. I spent a lot of time thinking about how backward it would feel to have this person who started out totally dependent on me grow each day into somebody totally autonomous and independent. It feels so counterintuitive that it’s my job to give her the tools she will need to progressively sever the ties between us and go her own way, but I figured accepting that ahead of time would make the whole leaving and cleaving thing easier.
I was wrong.
The memory of her bracing herself to face scary things without me feels like fireworks going off inside my head that nobody has the power to stop. It’s the harsh reality of the facts of life forcing itself on me before I am ready, and I don’t even have a stuffed elephant to cuddle with.
All I can think to do is take a page from the book of my daughter’s wisdom and try to sleep, trusting that tomorrow the loudest booms of reality will be “all done” for a while.
I also plan to snuggle her like the dickens when she wakes up — if she’ll let me.