letting the baby drive
Over the last week or so I've been reading Lu Hanessian's superb book, Let the Baby Drive [sidenote: why do all the books I like all seem to have such naff titles that do them no justice?] which chronicles, in intricate, poignant, detail, the emotional journey of becoming a new mother. The title actually refers to her realisation that there can be no 'theories' or easy solutions for parenting, that the only way (for her at least) was to be guided by her baby's needs as an individual, to let his needs 'drive' their journey together, with her as navigator. The moment I read the first chapter I immediately thought that I would like to own this book [sidenote two: I very rarely buy books, except for ones I have already read and really like, but after my purchase they sit, unopened, on my bookshelf like memorials], simply because Hanessian's thoughts and words felt like they had come straight from the inner corners of my heart.
I often think of the dark days just after The Bun's birth, even though in retrospect, those days weren't all that bad, just extremely hormonal. I kept up a fairly good face most of the time, only to crumble at the most surprising things, like a kindly email from a friend, or the sunlight shining on the pavement outside. And as I was going through those dark weeks, I couldn't quite find the words to express myself or what was happening. It was all tears, and a heaviness in the heart, and a rather melodramatic but very real despair that my life as I knew it was over, and that I had no way to reverse it at all. Maybe if I had this book back then, I might have realised sooner that what I was going through was not so awful and depressing after all.
Hanessian writes:
I suppose people say it's all worth it when you're at your low point because they sense you're feeling that it's not, that you're somehow regretting your decision to have conceived in the first place. But, can't a new mother feel momentarily plagued with despair and feel the inexorable worth of this experience, this child, this life - both at the same time?
And later:
I feel sorry for having such frequent flashbacks of my former life just 1,344 hours after walking through the pearly gates of Motherhood, for taking his tears so darned personally.
I have spent the first few weeks as a new mother trembling at the crossroads of fear and love, expectation and reality, resistance and surrender. My baby urges me to stand in his chaos. In my own. To find order in it. I look in his eyes, and I see my own complexity reflected back at me.
On fatigue:
I'm trying so hard to think small, to stop seeing my baby as the tidal wave that threatens to drown me. But it's so hard to act contrary to our fears. And we are so fearful of losing control of ourselves, our sense of order and balance. As much as I want to see the situation from my baby's vantage point, when I feel compromised, jeopardised, utterly whipped with fatigue, all I hear is the sound of steel doors bolting shut within me. Do you have to need me so much?
On identity:
Mommy is larger than life. Bigger than oatmeal and matching socks. Who am I? I am Mother. Mama. Soothsayer. I am the comfort zone. The safety net. The nurturer. Relief, reassurance, warm arms, a tall drink of water. But where didI go - the I that is within me regardless of circumstance and blood relations?
... I can't believe that we actually have babies and don't have them attached to us as a body part for all of eternity. I feel slightly off-kilter without my baby, as if I have left something hanging in midair. Myself, maybe.
And yet, I feel desperate for a little time alone. It's difficult for me to leave the baby these days because he's teething madly, and he'll cry that relentless cry for Mommy who won't be there. Even though I know that from here on in, our hearts are bound to break again and again. It is so impossible to avoid, and still something about the sheer impracticality of being able to be there whenever he needs me makes me feel terribly sad and displaced at this moment in time.
I often think of the dark days just after The Bun's birth, even though in retrospect, those days weren't all that bad, just extremely hormonal. I kept up a fairly good face most of the time, only to crumble at the most surprising things, like a kindly email from a friend, or the sunlight shining on the pavement outside. And as I was going through those dark weeks, I couldn't quite find the words to express myself or what was happening. It was all tears, and a heaviness in the heart, and a rather melodramatic but very real despair that my life as I knew it was over, and that I had no way to reverse it at all. Maybe if I had this book back then, I might have realised sooner that what I was going through was not so awful and depressing after all.
Hanessian writes:
I suppose people say it's all worth it when you're at your low point because they sense you're feeling that it's not, that you're somehow regretting your decision to have conceived in the first place. But, can't a new mother feel momentarily plagued with despair and feel the inexorable worth of this experience, this child, this life - both at the same time?
And later:
I feel sorry for having such frequent flashbacks of my former life just 1,344 hours after walking through the pearly gates of Motherhood, for taking his tears so darned personally.
I have spent the first few weeks as a new mother trembling at the crossroads of fear and love, expectation and reality, resistance and surrender. My baby urges me to stand in his chaos. In my own. To find order in it. I look in his eyes, and I see my own complexity reflected back at me.
On fatigue:
I'm trying so hard to think small, to stop seeing my baby as the tidal wave that threatens to drown me. But it's so hard to act contrary to our fears. And we are so fearful of losing control of ourselves, our sense of order and balance. As much as I want to see the situation from my baby's vantage point, when I feel compromised, jeopardised, utterly whipped with fatigue, all I hear is the sound of steel doors bolting shut within me. Do you have to need me so much?
On identity:
Mommy is larger than life. Bigger than oatmeal and matching socks. Who am I? I am Mother. Mama. Soothsayer. I am the comfort zone. The safety net. The nurturer. Relief, reassurance, warm arms, a tall drink of water. But where didI go - the I that is within me regardless of circumstance and blood relations?
... I can't believe that we actually have babies and don't have them attached to us as a body part for all of eternity. I feel slightly off-kilter without my baby, as if I have left something hanging in midair. Myself, maybe.
And yet, I feel desperate for a little time alone. It's difficult for me to leave the baby these days because he's teething madly, and he'll cry that relentless cry for Mommy who won't be there. Even though I know that from here on in, our hearts are bound to break again and again. It is so impossible to avoid, and still something about the sheer impracticality of being able to be there whenever he needs me makes me feel terribly sad and displaced at this moment in time.