Yesterday, Son crawled into our bed at about 4:20. How do I know what time it was? Well, once he'd been there about 15 minutes, impatiently shifting his weight, he whispered to me, "Mama, can I watch tv?"
"time is it?" I asked, eating the first word of the question in my sleepiness.
"4:34," he replied.
"No," I said, in a much stronger (and, it must be admitted, slightly irritated) voice. "It's still night time. You need to sleep some more."
He sighed, rolled over, and tried to fall asleep. I was just drifting off when Daughter came into the room carrying Puppy. Puppy is a stuffed labrador retriever-ish dog that is approximately two feet long. "I want to sleep in your bed," Daughter said in a sad voice.
I sat up, completely crabby. "There is just not room for everyone in this bed," I snapped. "Come on, I'll go sleep with you in Son's bed." It was 4:55.
"But I want to sleep with you," she started to whine, until she realized I was getting up.
"Shhhhh," I hissed, not very nicely I'm afraid. "Do not wake up your brother. I'm coming with you." We went into Son's room, where there is also a queen-sized bed, and she and I hunkered down under the covers. By this point, I was pretty well awake, and cranky.
Two or three minutes later, Son came wandering in. "I'm sorry, Mama," he said. His sorrow-filled voice made me feel guilty.
"It's okay, sweetie," I said, "but it's just not morning time right now. Go back and sleep with Daddy, and I'll stay here with Sister."
"But I want to sleep with you," he said plaintively.
I scooted over so I could be in the middle. He curled himself up next to me and began patting my back gently. Daughter smiled up into my face and stroked my cheek. My grumpiness dissolved almost instantly, as I realized that there will not be many more years in which my small, sweet children will want to cuddle with me in bed in the bleak hours of pre-dawn.
The two of them nestled around me, snug and warm, and I suddenly wondered: when they grow up, what will they remember the most? The moments of cranky retort, when a sleep-deprived mother could not find her place of patience fast enough? Or the moments of quiet snuggling, when we cocooned together under piles of covers, breathed in each other's scents, and drifted off into sleep wrapped up in the warmth of love?
I hope it is the latter. I hope that in the balance, their childhoods remind them that they are loved.
And yet, I have such terrible moments of impatience, when the two of them have spent nearly all day picking at each other, or when I am trying to talk on the phone and they both absolutely must ask me a question at that very moment, or when no one can remember to use a utensil at dinner, or when their own over-tired selves cannot refrain from whining incessantly for the final hour before bed time. I worry sometimes that I nag too much, that I voice my frustration with their moodiness too often.
I worry that my job description is too much about the correction and punishment and not enough about the loving and cuddling. I know that the teaching and correcting, the insisting on manners and kindness, the lessons about sharing, the consequences for whining are all my job as a parent. But sometimes it feels like I spend the bulk of my day in doing those things. And I wonder, in the balance, whether they will feel like they spent their childhoods hearing me repeat for the thousandth time "Whining doesn't get you anything" or whether their impressions will be formed more by the story times and art projects, family baking and excursions to the pond in the neighborhood.
I know that childhood, especially early childhood, is remembered more in impressions than in actual events. There may be a few particular days that stand out, but in the main, we recall our very earliest years as a series of watercolors, images with a certain color and tone, but no particular form. I want that color to be sunshiny for my children, the tone to be joyful, the impression to be one of security and love rather than nagging annoyance, and I worry sometimes that I am not creating that for them. Or, perhaps more accurately, that the emphasis on correction may outweigh the evidence that I love them no matter what.
And, of course, it is something I can never know for sure until it is far too late to change it.
I suspect all parents have this worry to a greater or lesser degree. And there may be nothing to do about it except remind myself continually to have patience with all of my children's foibles. But it doesn't hurt to have moments like I had yesterday morning, where the very thing that tries my patience the most becomes the catalyst for a moment in which we are all enveloped in love.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Making Memories
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8 comments:
I think that we all, as parents worry about this, but I think that in the end, they WILL remember the love that we give them as long as we give it as often as we can.
Thank you. I cuddled up with a certain little monkey last night and wished I could've stayed all night. I needed to be reminded of how important it is to have those times to help us soften the memory of the screaming in the self-checkout (me and the baby both) I often feel like her needs have become secondary since her brother arrived and I need to balance that with extra love instead of the impatience she is often met with these days.
Absolutely, all parents feel this. (Isn't nice how I can answer so definitively on behalf of all parents everywhere?)
But pre-dawn parenting is intense. It's impossible, I think, to be kind and warm when you are being prodded awake at that ungodly hour.
I think it's ok for kids to know that their parents have limits. That they get impatient and snappy. You know, that they're human. It gives them reference for their own tantrums. I think.
I feel your pain. I snap at my three year old for saying "no" and smacking me when I want her to get to bed but I want her to remember that I immediately get in her bed and cuddle her before sleep. I just keep hoping the one outweighs the other. Don't you love breathing in their smells in bed? And getting free fondling time to feel the curve of their legs and bums? And when they stroke your face? It makes those crawl into your bed moments so lovely, despite the lost sleep.
You've just summed up Motherhood in one single post.
XXOO
It's the latter. In fact, that's what YOU'RE going to remember, too.
And me, too. Once I stop weeping over here.
The memory will come to them when they have children of their own who come into the bedroom a 4 in the morning. And when their kids climb into bed with them they will remember being in bed with you - their children will be allowed in bed with them BECAUSE they remember being in bed with you, and what it was like to be able to snuggle up to Mom - the person in their lives they loved most at the time.
I know I do. I worry. I hope. I try to end every day, no matter how long and filled with impatience, with positive moments. I can't sleep at night sometimes, thinking about whether I focus too much on correcting, vowing to be more playful.
Doesn't some very famous book say that in the end there is love? Or all things end with love? I think they know that.
It's a gorgeous post.
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