I had to slow down. I stopped reading books to my children before bed. I burned dinner. I stopped weaning Francis. It was hard for me to change his diaper because I had to cope without carrying a fourteen-kilo two-year-old. We didn’t have preschool classes with Joseph once this week. I let the children paint with paints. They messed up the walls and our sheets. I didn’t have the patience or strength to listen to their stories. I couldn’t silence them.
This week it was even louder than usual. It was dirtier. There were more unfinished tasks. More dry bread instead of healthy food. More: “later” and “not now”. Quite a lot of maternal helplessness.
My husband took the children whenever he was able so I could rest. At first I was very grateful for this peace. For sleep. For the possibility of stillness. I needed to recover. Until in those long moments of breathing I started to miss it. Playing chess together (although you have to keep reminding whose move it is), reading together (although you have to interrupt every other sentence to answer Joseph’s question or tell Francis not to tear up the book), sitting on the floor together and being the way they want you to be.
Time together. The mess at home. Discovering worlds together.
Solving problems.
When you’re a parent, there are a lot of them. Or maybe they’re not problems? Maybe it’s learning how to find your way in the world? Shaping the nervous system. Dealing with emotions that we, as adults, have learned to hide before we manage them (or not). It’s a complicated thing to be born into a world that you learn to behave in for years. And never in ideal conditions. Never with ideal parents. Maybe it’s even better, that’s what someone told me a while ago.
In recent days, I came across a post written by a mother who was climbing some steep stairs in the tower with her son. The boy had a panic attack and stopped halfway up. He was crying, unable to move. She tried everything she had learned over the years. But nothing helped. Instead people who were passing them had a lot to say about what kind of mother she was and what kind of son he was. But they had nothing to do. Until finally, one of the men said that he was a firefighter and helped the boy go down, against the current, saving the situation. And the mother.
Over the years, I have met various children. Some who instead of walking, jumped and ran like a storm through the apartment, knocking down everything they could in their path. Children who ripped out toys. Children who squealed. Children who hugged someone by force and those who sat still for two hours during a meeting for adults. And many, many others.
Unspoken judgments happened to me sometimes, when I didn’t have my own children. But since I became a mother, I wouldn’t dare to enter someone’s life to correct her/his parenting. Realizing how much it costs. Understanding how hard it can be. Because raising a child is a complicated process. After all, there is a child, with his/her temperament and personality, there are parents with their behavioral patterns encoded in childhood, there are current events, time passing quickly and a whole lot of stress. There is also spirituality. And very often helpless mother who has tried everything.
I am grateful for my children. Even though they don’t behave perfectly. Even though I make many mistakes along the way. I am grateful for my life with them. Even though someone from the outside might have a lot to say about them and about us as parents.
I have written so much and I could write even more, but I really would like only one thing:
Do not judge.
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