The Constant

This post first appeared here on 9/30/2012. 

I have tinkered with it. 

I try not to over think parenting.

If I let things start to percolate too much, then I am likely to become frozen in fear. I may not get out of bed that day. And then there would be no one to pour the milk, drive the car, or kiss the boo-boos.

So I try not to think too deeply about the future, hope, danger, disasters, disease, geopolitics, global climate change, and the trying to stay somewhere between helicopter parent and degenerate.

I just try to get through each day.

I make jokes on Facebook and Twitter about walking around all day with poop on my shirt, Legos falling out of my hair in the checkout line, and Naptime Cocktail Hour.

I lightly say, "Eh, I'm just winging this thing! Aren't we all?"

 But sometimes, sometimes the children do and say things that make my heart clutch and make a thousand thoughts rush in that keep my eyes wide open well into the night.

This is about just one such moment.

My sons, ages 5 and 3, are really into pretending. They put together elaborate stories with little figures and vehicles. They want to pretend to be something or someone else. They are firefighters, or police officers, or dinosaurs, or animals. They carry on for a long time.  I love pretending. Of course, I want to play. But here is the thing, my son won't let me.

"Oh," I say, “Can I be a police officer, too?”

"No, Mommy."

"How about a criminal?”

"No, thanks."

"The police dog?”

"No, Mommy, you can't be anything. You be the Mommy. Go sit over there and be Mommy."

After a while of this, I started to get slightly bummed that I couldn't play. And I got even more bummed when my sons started insisting that my husband could participate, but still not me.

"We are pirates. Daddy, you are in your castle, but we are coming."

I ask, "What can I be?"

"Um, you just go over there and be the Mommy."

One day, I finally admitted (yes, begrudgingly) that this was starting to bother me. Why can't I play, too? Why do I only get to be Mommy?

Then finally my husband, in a surprising bout of awareness, said something that made perfect sense.

He said, “Don’t you see? You are their Constant.”

Now, if you got that reference right away, "Congratulations! You’re a nerd!"

But if you were never obsessed with the TV show Lost, or you watched it and then went on with your life…like a normal person should, then here is a quick explanation or refresher.

On the show, there was a character named Desmond.  He was "unstuck in time" and sometimes ended up visiting another time in his life or another dimension (let’s not get into it right now, Losties). The people who had experience with this sort of thing had learned, the hard way, that it could really fry your brain. So they figured out it behooved your mental health to have an object or person that was your touchstone for any of the time periods you may find yourself in. This was your Constant. Wherever and whenever you find yourself, put yourself in the presence of your Constant so your brain doesn't melt. Desmond's Constant was the love of his life, Penny.

That sums up the origin of a Constant. (And one of the best hours of television e-ver.)

My husband made me realize I am the Constant for my sons.

I am the touchstone.

It isn't that they didn’t want me to play. It is that it unhinges their little brains to have me become anything else other than Mommy. It is okay for everyone else, even themselves, to dance the line between imagination and reality, but they can't have Mommy do that. They need Mommy always standing by. Real, present, and right over there.

At first I was flattered and moved by this, but later, as I let it sink in a little too deep, I started to panic.

Because being one's Constant, that is big.

I am an anchor to what is real. I am the one thing they count on to always be there. I am the tangible connection to world, time, and space.

Am I thinking too deep about this? Yes, maybe I am, but maybe I’m not.

I'm not certain, with my own befuddled mind and overall weirdness, I am the best option to hold onto as one's Constant. Am I constant enough?

But then again, I have to realize that I most certainly won't always be the Constant.

Over time this will change, in fact it already is. My oldest son has started school. His world is getting bigger and bigger with each passing day.  I may or may not be his touchstone anymore. In the blink of an eye, he will unhinge himself from me and this place.  He will be unstuck, and my other son will soon follow. They will have places to go.

And that is as it should be.

My job as the Constant is a fleeting moment in space and time.

And maybe soon, when they don’t need me to only be Mommy anymore, they will finally let me be the police dog. 

Set Adrift on Parenting Bliss

Up until recently, I haven’t been writing about parenting even though it is the defining element of my life in these last few years. I didn’t because I think others are doing it with more wisdom and insight than I have. What could I possibly have to write about that would help other parents?

I am a hot mess of palm-to-forehead moments.

I am exhausted and confused most of the time.

I make daily inappropriate jokes about selling my children to gypsies.

I yell too much.

I walk a fine parenting line between supermom, adequate, and downright degenerate.

I don't know much about parenting, nothing for certain anyway.

Except one thing.

It really does take a village to raise a child.

I didn't realize how much so until I left my village.

About a year or so after my oldest son was born, we abruptly moved two states away and I found myself adrift, lonely, and lost. I had thought I was strongly independent, a loner even, but I was wrong. I have come to realize parenting requires a network of support for the parents' sanity and the child's well-being. The more caring surrounding parents and children the better. This is something I had taken for granted.

When my first son was born, I lived in a city within an hour of my parents and some other family.  After over a decade of living and working in this city, I had acquired a network of friends that had become family and kind acquaintances. I couldn't go anywhere without seeing someone I knew.

As a first-time parent, along came all of the typical confusion, exhaustion, and fear, but I wasn't alone. Family came for day trips to help. Friends invited me out for walks or came by for coffee and held my son. Other friends had children within months or days of my son's birth. Everywhere we would go, my young son was surrounded by others who loved him almost as much as I did.

If I got into a work crunch or something unplanned came up, there was always someone to step in and help me juggle it all. I had several offers to babysit as needed. I had play dates and family-friendly work. In that environment, despite the confusion, exhaustion, and fear, I dove into early parenthood with abandon. I appeared at special events and parties. I worked part-time. My infant son and I went out and about. We felt loved and safe. I felt I had a handle on things.

Then, my husband got the opportunity to take a new job in a major city two states away. We were excited for the opportunity and big change. We moved in a flurry of weekend commutes, house showings, and packing. Shortly after settling into a temporary walk-up apartment, I found out I was pregnant again.

Now I was a stay-at-home parent of a toddler, pregnant, and unsettled. For a short time, my husband ended up traveling more than he was home. I wandered between playgrounds and parent and child classes. I made some acquaintances, but people seemed to disappear into the city so easily. See them once and never again. People move neighborhoods and it is as though they crossed an ocean. Everyone seemed to be in a temporary place of waiting to buy something bigger, to move to the suburbs, or transfer to another city. I never knew it could be so easy to be lonely and invisible surrounded by people.

I had imagined making eye-contact with someone struggling to get the stroller up the curb would be automatic solidarity. We would give a head nod and have each other's back. However, at least in my neighborhood, parenting turned out to be a competition for preschool spots, early-learning classes, languages spoken, and advanced skills. Sarcastic comments about drinking cocktails at nap time and selling my children to gypsies were met with strange looks and slow shakes of the head. Part of the competition was taking parenting VERY seriously. I didn't quite fit in.

I missed my support system. I missed impromptu Sunday afternoon family gatherings. I missed talks with friends over coffee about how grossly unprepared we were to be responsible for these little people. I missed knowing someone was only a phone call and a few blocks away at all times. I missed group dinners and inside jokes. I missed the safety net.

My second son was born and I was overwhelmed by having an infant and toddler. My kids spent almost all of their time with only me. I didn't think this was the best thing for either of us. In this environment, steeped in confusion, exhaustion, and fear, I withdrew into myself. I was sad without knowing why. I felt anxious all of the time. I didn’t get out much or go very far. I did not have a handle on things.

People need people.

It is simple and true.

And perhaps never more so than when you are parenting young children.

Eventually, we moved again out of the city into a distant suburban/country setting. My husband takes a long train to work. We bought a house. We are settled here.

 I am slowly building a village. I see the same people from place to place. People invite me to do things. My kids are starting to spend time at other people's houses. My oldest son goes to school. I have some friends I could call to watch the kids or help with a flat tire. I know before too long I won't be able to go anywhere without seeing someone I know.

I still miss my first village. My roots there run so deep, but roots can regrow, if they are tenacious enough.

I write this as a thank you to that place.

And also as a reminder to myself to never forget to keep building and cultivating a village around my family.

To remember that I can't do it alone.

That it is okay to say I need help.

Maybe to remind someone else to be grateful for the people that show up in their life every day.

I don't know much about parenting, except I know this one thing.

You need those people more than you think you do.