She stood in her purple tutu looking like a little girl. She toddled around fascinated by the colorful presents stacked in the corner and the strange little folk, just her size, invading her play area. The grown ups fawned over her walking skills and her gestures of affection. A special day just for her; a secret special day for mommy. We all gathered in our home on the day of the 2010 monsoon to celebrate the passing of a year; my little Anastasia turned one. I looked at a picture from moments after her arrival, and realized that time is precious and fleeting, and a year of growing and evolving into this little human passed by while I blinked. My little 6 pound 19 inch crying and sleeping bundle morphed into a 20 pound 29 inch mini-being, with an attitude and personality all her own. No longer my baby, but my little girl.
Everyone said to me that she won't remember her 1st birthday so take care not to go overboard. I listened to a point: balloons and paper plates, snacks and homemade cake, no special games or decor or themes or grande feast. She may not remember, but I will. This 1st birthday was less of a milestone for her than it was for me, the anniversary of becoming a mommy. All I needed was to watch her spend her day exploring and enjoying the adventure.
Reflecting on the past year produces a headache and tumbling stomach. I feel agitated and frustrated and something I can only comprehend as guilt. So much pain, physical and emotional, taint this first year of her life. Part of me hears the cliche that children are resilient, she will remember nothing of her mother's struggles, nor will they affect her evolution. The other part of me screams LIAR. Children are fragile, dependent creatures affected by their environment every moment, every breath: just because they cannot voice their part of the suffering doesn't mean that they are unscathed.
Modern mothers tell themselves what they must to make it through the day. Our lives are different from our parents or grandparents. We don't live with or close to our families and most need dual incomes or more to survive. We don't know our neighbors, and if we do, we may wish we didn't. The village no longer supports the family; we leave ourselves stripped of the community energy. We are the post-women's lib generation with its pros and cons effecting every aspect of our daily lives. We want to work, be independent and strong; we want equal pay and responsiblity, and we want to be a mother and wife and keep house and socialize. Somewhere in there something has to give. How do we justify it? Why do we think we have to be superwomen or super human to have worth and value?
I see woman who fall victim to the Jones' mentality, and treat their children like pawns in the game of who has or hasn't. We voyeuristically accept this as normal through our reality TV extravaganzas. This hurts our children and creates generations of adults who feel entitled and don't understand the word no. When did love turn into money. Money is both a necessity and a luxury, but it is not equal to the emotion that is shared by people that produces sentiments of fondness, appreciation, respect and affection. Love is not something tangible. Love is when my daughter reaches up to caress my cheek or twirl my hair. Love is her giggle and hugs. We've forgotten what is important, perhaps, or maybe we have just chosen to turn our back.
Long ago I lost my faith in popular religion. I spent 8 years in Catholic school and my entire life in the Greek orthodox faith. I watched my father painfully lose his on his death bed, and that crushed me even more. I know I need something to believe in, and science doesn't cut it. Do I believe in God or gods or Powers that Be? Some days. What I respect about religion and its faith is its determination to bring harmony to an otherwise chaotic life (and death). I appreciate the ethics and fair treatment that inevitably leaches through the preachings: not so much the morals, but the values. I stand in conflict wanting my child to learn the community lessons of faith, but me being too lazy and uninterested to wade through the church services. I know I can find support there amoungst the believers, but shame keeps my distance. To teach my child good values and ethics and respect I stand against this wall. Society has turned religion into a war or falicy or cult, but I need to find a way to surmount to instill its side effects into my daughter. I need to figure out how to rasie my child in a world that seems menacing and hateful without boundaries or respect.
Rewinding a year in my mind is sort of like falling down the rabbit hole: moments flashed and thoughts passed, nothing really clear; some things seem larger and others smaller and time doesn't exist or exists too vividly. I know I see my mother as a different being now. I forgive her for things I blamed her for, and respect her for things I didn't understand. And this is only the beginning, I know. I weep for my hurts and her hurts and all the hurts of my ancestral mothers. I have a new hurt for those who will never come to this place of womens hurts. A mother's pain from birth to the ends of time is a blessing. Now I can see my year in review and not resent how I felt or even the fog that blinded my path.
I think about being a teenager and how horrid (and stupid) I behaved. The suffering I caused my parents I can never take back. The nights of fear and tears that they shed for my stupidity tear at my heart. I know now how even minutes after curfew must have ripped my parents to pieces with fear. The need to protect and guide is so powerful, so instinctual, so fierce. My child will hurt and be hurt and I cannot stop it from happening. For all my parents did to help me navigate this life, I still hurt. They made mistakes, but we are human and fallible and don't know the questions to 42. I spent hours, days, weeks, and months crying to be with my daughter every moment of her early breaths. I needed to protect her from the world. I couldn't comprehend how to manage this life and motherhood because there is too much dark in the world. I resented the life I brought her into because it wasn't ideal. I hated the causes of my pain. The love I feel for her cannot be touched, explained or compared. My inability to comprehend this rush of emotion raged within me, and still does, but with filters now.
So far away from my beginning I've wandered. My daughter turned 1 yesterday.
The party brought friends from near and far and family members to share our moments. I felt happiness and contentment for the first time in ages as I flitted about the day less concerned about perfection and more concerned about the miracle of childhood. I watched in amazement as she moved about the house inspecting all her visitors and experimented with new tastes and made friends and the curiosity that passed behind her eyes. The friends that have grown with me helped make the day easy. I love my friends dearly for being a part of my family, and for welcoming Anya into their hearts too. The day was spent early with a happy and tired little lady nestled in my lap sucking her thumb, dreaming of the day's strange adventures and treasures.
At 8:33pm on March 15th I snuggled in bed with House on TV and the lights out and kissed my baby girl a Happy Birthday.
No comments:
Post a Comment