nocturnal ritual

When I was a young, first-time mother, a well-intentioned friend discovered during the course of our conversation that The Prof and I were allowing our newborn babe to share the bed with us. This friend, fresh from early childhood educational training and feeling rather plump with knowledge, advised me not to make a habit of nursing the baby to sleep or sleeping with the baby and NEVER, she warned, rock and nurse a baby to sleep. The thing to be feared was that the baby would grow into a child who is dependent on the presence of a parent or some other external assistance on the nightly journey to dreamland.

But I had a baby who was already addicted; he wanted his Mama when he was sleepy and it went against all of my instincts to deny him his rather insistent newborn wailing pleas. I chose my instincts over the advice of a dear friend and, in this case, have not regretted it.

And you know that friend was right. The children have evolved through different phases, but each one wants me at their bedside at night in one capacity or another--they count on my being there before they fall to sleep. And I say, rue the night that it isn't so! I love the nightly ritual of visiting each one, counterpane turned back, all snuggled in their beds---some nearly swallowed up by a mini-library and armed with reading lights, another with a doll in flannel pyjamas or some manner of stuffed creature cozied up close and another who resents blankets and prefers darkness to even a nightlight. I love lingering with each child to rub their backs or stroke their head while we whisper in the room dimly lit by the hall light.

This nightly ritual has both the comfort that routine offers and yet a rich spontaneity. Some nights there is little conversation and on other occasions, it can require a concerted effort to bring the chatter between the two of us down from lively to calm. I first get the wee ones to sleep and then slowly move from the most weary to the most alert in a gentle procession. We talk about the day behind us or the one ahead, we talk about current interests, we share an inside joke, or sometimes a child (or I) may have saved an important question or bit of news that required the privacy of a nocturnal exchange. One night the eldest of the girls was sleeping on the floor in a sleeping bag and we stayed up talking for over an hour before I insisted that we must get to bed!

Some nights, I cannot deny, I am exhausted or pre-occupied and the idea occurs to me that I would like to just give a hasty goodnight and move on with my own agenda, but, of course, children are not so willing to let go of a routine--especially one that involves one on one time with a parent. And, I am sure it will come as no surprise, that I always go to bed glad that I did not disappoint.

It will be a sad day, indeed, when I can no longer be that balm that eases my dear children into the night; but it is a ritual I will savor for as many nights as they live in my home.

to little O

Dear Little O,

Last evening I took you outside while Daddy and your siblings were at the library. The day's light was dimming and the oppressive heat was, mercifully, surrendering to the easy summer breeze. It had been a long day for both of us as you suffered discomfort and unrest for innumerable hours. We were both grateful for this peaceful moment.

But it was the lulling sounds of the evening's counterpoint that lifted us, together, out of the cacophony of the day. As we sat on the front porch, me reclining comfortably in a chair and you gazing up at me from my lap, we listened as the birds bid their adieu, we contemplated the undulating waves of cicada wails and we were charmed by the crickets' evening warm-ups and the buzz of the light-bulb-loving beetles whirring around us. And to this age-old music was a modern counterpoint. Reassuring and comforting in its' own way. The hum of neighbors rushing to mow their lawns and blow the grass away before moonlight overtook the sun and the rhythmic beating of drums as the boy down the street practiced his heart out in the open garage.

Throughout this modern nocturnal fughetta, Little O, you lay with relieved silence and heightened interest on my lap. And as I listened and deeply drank in the evening air, I stared at you. I stared in wonder at your beauty. I watched your every move, the smallest twitches and the broad swipes of your little bird like legs and I imagined and remembered, still quite vividly, how so recently you made those same little gestures within my womb. I recalled how we all wondered Who was growing In There, who "It" would be. And then I marvelled at how we still anticipate the unveiling of you. You are a boy, yes. You are Little O, yes. But what will your temperament be? How will you move? What will you say? What sort of harmony will you bring to our family and to the world?

You should know that even though your are the fifth child born into this chaotic little clan, I can still sit and stare at you for hours. I stare and study you as if I have never before seen a newborn babe or a creature as lovely as you. The moment I laid eyes on you, I felt a swelling in my heart, a wash of affection. A hole was filled when you were born and now, already, we would be rather incomplete without you.

Love,

Mama

mirror, mirror, on the wall

Or, rather...mirror, mirror on their little faces.

I've been in a "funk" lately. Why aren't my children smiling more? Why are they so often bickering? Why the seemingly constant complaints and lack of gratitude? Why don't they work more earnestly at their tasks? Why are their rooms such messes? Why?!?! I've been doing this long enough to know the answer to these rantings of mine. If Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy. It's an old saying that we've all heard tossed out in jest or seen cross-stitched onto a little pillow at a garage sale. But, oh, the truth behind it.

My dear midwife once told me of attending births in which the mother, having just given birth and upon learning the gender of her newborn babe, expressed severe disappointment. "How could the baby be a boy," she moaned, "when I had so expected, anticipated and longed for a daughter?" Or vice versa. The tragically fascinating result was that the baby, sensing the mother's disappointment would go into medically inexplicable respiratory distress. My midwife sadly explained that she had witnessed this unspeakable "conversation" between Mother and Newborn on several occasions. Even to the extent that when Daddy held the baby, respiration would rebound and when placed again in Mother's arms, the distress immediately returned.

Imagine how these little ones, even from the very beginning, are sensitive to our sighs of frustration, averted eyes, sullen tones of voice and subtle expressions of disappointment. Imagine how they seek, even from the very beginning, our approval and our unqualified love. Fathom for a moment, the immense responsibility we mothers (and fathers) have to be steady and encouraging, even in the face of frustration.

Now for the hard part: The Admission. To use another old saying, the children are doing as I am doing and not as I am saying. What am I doing? Not being very happy. So, back to my initial ranting interrogation: Why aren't my children smiling more? 'Cause I'm not smiling much. Why are they so often bickering? I am not being a constant model of pleasant exchanges. Why the seemingly constant complaints and lack of gratitude? I've been complaining a lot lately and probably not sounding to grateful. Why don't they work more earnestly at their tasks? I flutter about highly distracted, not giving my full presence to my work. Why are their rooms such messes? Umm...my room is the messiest.

It hasn't always been this way. Back when I was fresh at this whole role of Motherhood, I was always very mindful of my moods and actions, knowing how strongly they would impact my children. But somehow as the family grew, the house grew and the possessions grew, my focus has grown a bit fuzzy. I remember an exchange I had years ago with another dad, a father of one delightful daughter. He remarked about how difficult parenthood is and I laughingly replied, "yes, you have to be good all of the time!"

The Professor and I had a similar conversation yesterday. He, patient spouse that he is, has been growing weary of my "funk." I gave him the rant (see above) . We talked, though, about how having five children (because though the fifth isn't yet born, he/she certainly plays into my moods) is just a lot of hard work, all day, every day. And I got to thinking that the hardest part isn't the physical effort at all, but the mental perseverance. Keeping tempers in check, not exxagerating my disappointment or frustration to small glitches in the day, etcetera, etcetera. But, for me, the hardest part is the self-discipline. I want my children to be more self-disciplined than I am. Guess what? That isn't likely. They do as I do. For better or worse, consciously or unconsciously, they strive for the model put before them.

And so it is back to my knees I go. Overcoming my weaknesses is not something I can do alone. Only through prayer and the graces received through the sacraments will my children's faces become a reflection of the peace and joy they witness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Prayer to obtain the Grace to give Good Example

O God, what a pwerful exhortation Thy divine Son addresses to me also when He says, "Let your light shine." It is Thy holy will that I should give to my children in all things the example of a life pleasing to Thee. How else can they become virtuous themselves? I ask, therefore, for thy assistance, through the merits of this Holy Sacrifice, to lead a truly christian life. Enrich me with Thy grace, that I may be able to avoid in all my words, actions, and omissions what is unworthy of the name of Christian. Help me to exercise all the virtues of a Christian life, and to arrive at ever-increasing perfection, so that my life may be an example for my children.

How wonderfully, O Lord, hast Thou worked in Thy saints! Watch over and graciously protect me. I am indeed not worthy of such great graces; but Thou art a merciful God; Thou lovest my children, since they are also Thy children. For their sake and that of Jesus, Thy Son, grant my petitions. Amen.

~from "The Christian Mother: the Education of Her Children and Her Prayers" by Rev. W. Cramer, copyright 1880; republished in 2004 by Holy Cross Pulications.