[Ed. Note: the title is a rather silly joke, as salmon are known for their - HAR! - spawning. Titles aren't my forte. The "book" I'm allegedly "working on" (est. publication date: February 2037, est. publisher: um... the fuel-cell printer in my hovercar?) draws its title from a Rage Against the Machine song. Zach de la Rocha = WAY worse than piscene humor.]
His hands are small, sticky and perpetually wriggling free from mine.
His ambitions are bigger than his britches. The latter are a petite 2T, the former a grandiose "dismantle entire Western hemisphere (and possibly insert into mouth)".
He's big enough to scale the obstacles, small enough to require abundant kisses when he falls off. The most constant refrain is also the most futile: "J.Q., stay near mommy."
Literally, figuratively... doesn't work for either one. Time and toddlers are both way more stubborn than me.
Time has seemed especially fleeting as of late. Months pass like bites of cotton candy... bursts of sweetness which dissolve almost instantly. He periodically refuses to sit on my lap, spurning my advances with a devilish grin and a squeaky, "No! Go away, mommy!"
One day, "periodically" will become "frequently". One day, "frequently" will become permanent. He will giggle, slide to the floor and never look back. It will happen before I know it. He's already two ("… an' a half!", as he reminds me).
It's thrilling and heartbreaking.
His hands are small, sticky and perpetually wriggling free from mine.
His ambitions are bigger than his britches. The latter are a petite 2T, the former a grandiose "dismantle entire Western hemisphere (and possibly insert into mouth)".
He's big enough to scale the obstacles, small enough to require abundant kisses when he falls off. The most constant refrain is also the most futile: "J.Q., stay near mommy."
Literally, figuratively... doesn't work for either one. Time and toddlers are both way more stubborn than me.
Time has seemed especially fleeting as of late. Months pass like bites of cotton candy... bursts of sweetness which dissolve almost instantly. He periodically refuses to sit on my lap, spurning my advances with a devilish grin and a squeaky, "No! Go away, mommy!"
One day, "periodically" will become "frequently". One day, "frequently" will become permanent. He will giggle, slide to the floor and never look back. It will happen before I know it. He's already two ("… an' a half!", as he reminds me).
It's thrilling and heartbreaking.
I want to snuggle him to my chest, bury my nose in his hair and never, ever unclench my grip.
I want him to explore the world, the solar system, to discover far-flung galaxies made entirely of molybdenum.
I want a million more Toddler Astronomy Lessons… lying next to a Sagan in dinosaur pajamas, being kicked by tiny warm feet and regaled with tales of how, "It nighttime… the moon comes! When sun comes, it gonna be… daytime! Evybody get up!"
I want his sense of joyous adventure to persist long after he's left the lap.
I want this to happen, even as it's killing me.
What I don't want? Is another baby.
For years – even prior to his birth – I'd envisioned J.Q. having siblings. My sisters and I are extremely close; our bond has been a frequent comfort (and occasional lifesaver). The concept of what I wanted for myself didn't even register on my consciousness. It was an equation even my math-challenged brain could comprehend… siblings were good, I wanted good things for my child, ergo, producing a few more chilluns would be desirable.
Then my marriage collapsed, my life changed and the math got a lot more complicated.
August 1st, 2006. Independence Day. I tossed a few lawn 'n leaf bags full of clothing into my Civic and hit the highway. Not quite "Easy Rider", but still the wildest trip I've ever taken. Literally overnight, I went from doing the majority of the childcare in a dull, far-flung suburb to sharing half-'n-half custody while living in the heart of a major (if slightly urine-dampened) metropolitan area.
I fell in instantaneous love with the city. It was surly, grimy, difficult and entirely mine. I loved my block. I loved my neighborhood. But I especially loved a tiny stretch of I-676, just north of Center City. It's a magical patch of macadam if ever there were one. You're tooling along, surrounded by nothing but asphalt, contemplating ordering a pizza for dinner… then you make a tight left, and you're suddenly ENVELOPED by Philadelphia. It swells around you on all sides, twinkly and bright and enormous. You are hurtling straight towards the center of a place where anything can happen.
Not to kill a perfectly lovely analogy, but my life didn't always feel like that little stretch of highway. Much of the time, it felt like certain areas of West Philly… circuitous, confusing and terrifying.
However, the feelings of excitement and potential never fully waned. Sometimes – as I fumbled through challenges and gained a modicum of self-confidence – they were massive. They sprawled across the entire skyline.
I wasn't at all sure of my course. But I could feel myself being gently propelled forward… away from an unexamined life which had never really felt like my own, toward something brand-new, uncertain and scary, but definitely, unequivocally mine. Each aspect was carefully considered, wiggled into place, lab-tested again and again. Certain things immediately "clicked"… running, brutal honesty, walking home from work and letting the baby throw things in each and every fountain we encountered.
Other things took time. Relationships, responsibility, managing to wash the dishes before the apartment turned into Fruit Fly Island.
Some things just never seemed right. When I thought about having more children – immediately, at some nebulous future point, ever – my reaction was always complex. I'd imagine holding a tiny newborn against my bare chest. I'd sigh and smile. I'd imagine the late nights, the tears, the milestones, the sacrifice. I'd tense. I'd imagine embarking upon full-time parenting once again. My personal time, drastically reduced. My ability to pursue my own interests, harshly curtailed. My chances to revel in unabashed selfishness? More or less annihilated.
And I'd go out of my mind with terror and claustrophobia.
I'm a good mom to J.Q. Rather, I try to be... I'm a bit distrustful of anyone who claims to be a "good parent"; like being a good person, it's a continuous process. The effort must be renewed each day. So I try. I let him know how much he's loved. I give him relatively free reign to explore, experiment and play. I celebrate his quirks. I nudge him towards some semblance of morality. I buy him eminently cool shoes.
Do I love the almighty hell out of my kid? Yes.
Do I love parenting him? Yes, I adore it.
Every single minute? No.
Do I love the idea of parenting in general, outside of my own somewhat-unique situation? No. Absolutely not.
At first, I worried that sharing custody would make me a worse mother... that my parenting acumen was directly tied to the number of hours logged with my kid.
If that sentiment were any further from the truth, it'd have to be included in J.Q.'s Enormous Honking Book of Fairy Tales.
I've been a half-time parent for a little over a year. I am much, much better at this than full-time parenting. I'm happier. J.Q. is happier. I can't imagine going back.
When I'm with J.Q., I'm with J.Q. I'm not distracted by housework, hobbies or other errata - I try my damndest to take care of those on non-custodial days. I'm not teetering on the brink of burnout - I'm never more than a few days removed from a break, complete with adult libations, extra sleep, and eerie silence. My interests and J.Q.'s interests don't often conflict... they each have their time to be fulfilled.
Sound like luxuries? They are. They were bought at the expense of time with my child. While I cherish my personal time, I also miss the hell out of my little boy. I wonder about how he's doing, what acts of cute devilry he's plotting. Sometimes, I feel guilty. Sometimes, deeply so.
Nonetheless, our current arrangement feels right. Not right for everyone, of course... but it works for us. Parenting, Version One never felt this comfortable and copacetic. I was permanently exhausted. My stress level rarely dipped below the "OH HOLY SHIT!!!" range. I had a hard time summoning up energy, enthusiasm or much sentiment beyond nose-to-the-grindstone determinism.
Things would be different today, of course. There would be a different spouse... different living situation... different experiences... different me.
It's the last item which makes the real difference, of course.
The spouse, the house, the atlas of scars to guide my path... they're largely irrelevant. I'm different. Siblings might be in J.Q.'s best interests. However, my interests now get a say. They're a frustrating bunch... inconsistent and often unintelligible. However, one sentiment almost always seems to rise above the din. It's one of my son's favorite's, too: "Noooooo!"
Why would I want anything less for myself than I want for my child?
I want to explore, to branch out, to try and do and touch and feel.
I want to retain that little spark. I want to burn down a brushfield with it, race away with a grin on my face and embers in my hair.
I want a gamut of feelings as broad as Lake Baikal and as deep as the Marianas Trench. I want memories of both locales… being a speck of static on a vast field of gray frost, bobbing languidly above something unimaginably deep.
I want these things for J.Q., which is why I want him to grow up. It kills me, it really does... he's three feet tall. He uses an assortment of pronouns. He can solve problems which would stump your average reality-TV participant.
The baby years are over, for both of us. Because I want these things for me... or at least the opportunity to pursue them. Further years of child-rearing would put me further away from my goals and aspirations. Of course I'd love any hypothetical future kids... but that's not even close to sufficient reason to have them. I'd take a bullet for J.Q., but I'm not going to encourage the universe to start taking potshots.
I hope - fervently - that my reluctance to have more children isn't viewed as a reflection of my feelings on J.Q. He's the love of my life. Being his mother has been more profound than the greatest (or the schmaltziest) writer could ever express.
My heart is already tethered to his... wound up tight with Kevlar cord. Is it any wonder that it throbs so furiously when he's scared or upset?
That tie will remain even after his hand slips out of mine. It will still hurt. The ache won't - and couldn't - be soothed by the presence of another, tinier hand.
I want these things for us. Having tasted potential, I'll be better suited to describe it to J.Q. Having been suffused with hope and excitement, I'll be able to give them proper reverence.
I want him to dig his fingers into the damp sand on the beach at Pitcairn Island.
I want him to fall in love.
Hands and hearts.
May ours go wherever they wish.
I want him to explore the world, the solar system, to discover far-flung galaxies made entirely of molybdenum.
I want a million more Toddler Astronomy Lessons… lying next to a Sagan in dinosaur pajamas, being kicked by tiny warm feet and regaled with tales of how, "It nighttime… the moon comes! When sun comes, it gonna be… daytime! Evybody get up!"
I want his sense of joyous adventure to persist long after he's left the lap.
I want this to happen, even as it's killing me.
What I don't want? Is another baby.
For years – even prior to his birth – I'd envisioned J.Q. having siblings. My sisters and I are extremely close; our bond has been a frequent comfort (and occasional lifesaver). The concept of what I wanted for myself didn't even register on my consciousness. It was an equation even my math-challenged brain could comprehend… siblings were good, I wanted good things for my child, ergo, producing a few more chilluns would be desirable.
Then my marriage collapsed, my life changed and the math got a lot more complicated.
August 1st, 2006. Independence Day. I tossed a few lawn 'n leaf bags full of clothing into my Civic and hit the highway. Not quite "Easy Rider", but still the wildest trip I've ever taken. Literally overnight, I went from doing the majority of the childcare in a dull, far-flung suburb to sharing half-'n-half custody while living in the heart of a major (if slightly urine-dampened) metropolitan area.
I fell in instantaneous love with the city. It was surly, grimy, difficult and entirely mine. I loved my block. I loved my neighborhood. But I especially loved a tiny stretch of I-676, just north of Center City. It's a magical patch of macadam if ever there were one. You're tooling along, surrounded by nothing but asphalt, contemplating ordering a pizza for dinner… then you make a tight left, and you're suddenly ENVELOPED by Philadelphia. It swells around you on all sides, twinkly and bright and enormous. You are hurtling straight towards the center of a place where anything can happen.
Not to kill a perfectly lovely analogy, but my life didn't always feel like that little stretch of highway. Much of the time, it felt like certain areas of West Philly… circuitous, confusing and terrifying.
However, the feelings of excitement and potential never fully waned. Sometimes – as I fumbled through challenges and gained a modicum of self-confidence – they were massive. They sprawled across the entire skyline.
I wasn't at all sure of my course. But I could feel myself being gently propelled forward… away from an unexamined life which had never really felt like my own, toward something brand-new, uncertain and scary, but definitely, unequivocally mine. Each aspect was carefully considered, wiggled into place, lab-tested again and again. Certain things immediately "clicked"… running, brutal honesty, walking home from work and letting the baby throw things in each and every fountain we encountered.
Other things took time. Relationships, responsibility, managing to wash the dishes before the apartment turned into Fruit Fly Island.
Some things just never seemed right. When I thought about having more children – immediately, at some nebulous future point, ever – my reaction was always complex. I'd imagine holding a tiny newborn against my bare chest. I'd sigh and smile. I'd imagine the late nights, the tears, the milestones, the sacrifice. I'd tense. I'd imagine embarking upon full-time parenting once again. My personal time, drastically reduced. My ability to pursue my own interests, harshly curtailed. My chances to revel in unabashed selfishness? More or less annihilated.
And I'd go out of my mind with terror and claustrophobia.
I'm a good mom to J.Q. Rather, I try to be... I'm a bit distrustful of anyone who claims to be a "good parent"; like being a good person, it's a continuous process. The effort must be renewed each day. So I try. I let him know how much he's loved. I give him relatively free reign to explore, experiment and play. I celebrate his quirks. I nudge him towards some semblance of morality. I buy him eminently cool shoes.
Do I love the almighty hell out of my kid? Yes.
Do I love parenting him? Yes, I adore it.
Every single minute? No.
Do I love the idea of parenting in general, outside of my own somewhat-unique situation? No. Absolutely not.
At first, I worried that sharing custody would make me a worse mother... that my parenting acumen was directly tied to the number of hours logged with my kid.
If that sentiment were any further from the truth, it'd have to be included in J.Q.'s Enormous Honking Book of Fairy Tales.
I've been a half-time parent for a little over a year. I am much, much better at this than full-time parenting. I'm happier. J.Q. is happier. I can't imagine going back.
When I'm with J.Q., I'm with J.Q. I'm not distracted by housework, hobbies or other errata - I try my damndest to take care of those on non-custodial days. I'm not teetering on the brink of burnout - I'm never more than a few days removed from a break, complete with adult libations, extra sleep, and eerie silence. My interests and J.Q.'s interests don't often conflict... they each have their time to be fulfilled.
Sound like luxuries? They are. They were bought at the expense of time with my child. While I cherish my personal time, I also miss the hell out of my little boy. I wonder about how he's doing, what acts of cute devilry he's plotting. Sometimes, I feel guilty. Sometimes, deeply so.
Nonetheless, our current arrangement feels right. Not right for everyone, of course... but it works for us. Parenting, Version One never felt this comfortable and copacetic. I was permanently exhausted. My stress level rarely dipped below the "OH HOLY SHIT!!!" range. I had a hard time summoning up energy, enthusiasm or much sentiment beyond nose-to-the-grindstone determinism.
Things would be different today, of course. There would be a different spouse... different living situation... different experiences... different me.
It's the last item which makes the real difference, of course.
The spouse, the house, the atlas of scars to guide my path... they're largely irrelevant. I'm different. Siblings might be in J.Q.'s best interests. However, my interests now get a say. They're a frustrating bunch... inconsistent and often unintelligible. However, one sentiment almost always seems to rise above the din. It's one of my son's favorite's, too: "Noooooo!"
Why would I want anything less for myself than I want for my child?
I want to explore, to branch out, to try and do and touch and feel.
I want to retain that little spark. I want to burn down a brushfield with it, race away with a grin on my face and embers in my hair.
I want a gamut of feelings as broad as Lake Baikal and as deep as the Marianas Trench. I want memories of both locales… being a speck of static on a vast field of gray frost, bobbing languidly above something unimaginably deep.
I want these things for J.Q., which is why I want him to grow up. It kills me, it really does... he's three feet tall. He uses an assortment of pronouns. He can solve problems which would stump your average reality-TV participant.
The baby years are over, for both of us. Because I want these things for me... or at least the opportunity to pursue them. Further years of child-rearing would put me further away from my goals and aspirations. Of course I'd love any hypothetical future kids... but that's not even close to sufficient reason to have them. I'd take a bullet for J.Q., but I'm not going to encourage the universe to start taking potshots.
I hope - fervently - that my reluctance to have more children isn't viewed as a reflection of my feelings on J.Q. He's the love of my life. Being his mother has been more profound than the greatest (or the schmaltziest) writer could ever express.
My heart is already tethered to his... wound up tight with Kevlar cord. Is it any wonder that it throbs so furiously when he's scared or upset?
That tie will remain even after his hand slips out of mine. It will still hurt. The ache won't - and couldn't - be soothed by the presence of another, tinier hand.
I want these things for us. Having tasted potential, I'll be better suited to describe it to J.Q. Having been suffused with hope and excitement, I'll be able to give them proper reverence.
I want him to dig his fingers into the damp sand on the beach at Pitcairn Island.
I want him to fall in love.
Hands and hearts.
May ours go wherever they wish.
Labels: Existential Angst-astic, J.Q. the Sna-que, Long/Multi-Part Pieces, The Compleat Thumbscrew
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AmyinMotown, at 9/07/2007 10:33 AM 
You are, almost completely, a different person than when you had your son. Your life has changed in ways you couldn't imagine then. As a much older observer through your blog, I think you're doing a wonderful job of balancing your love for and responsibility to your son and your need to be Young, to be exploring and dating and growing up (I feel like I didn't really grow up until I was in my 20s). I thnk JQ will be the better for it, and so will you.