Friday, February 09, 2007


Whichever side of motherhood you are on, this will ring true for you. I hope for all you moms out there with small kids or teenagers that are having a bad day will be encouraged!

Essay by Anna Quindlen

If not for the photographs, I might have a hard time
believing they ever existed. The pensive infant with
the swipe of dark bangs and the black button eyes of
a Raggedy Andy doll. The placid baby with the yello w
ringlets and the high piping voice. The sturdy toddler
with the lower lip that curled into an apostrophe
above her chin. ALL MY BABIES are gone now.

I say this not in sorrow but in disbelief.
I take great satisfaction in what I have today:
three almost-adults, two taller than I am, one closing in
fast. Three people who read the same books I do and
have learned not to be afraid of disagreeing with me
in their opinion of them, who sometimes tell vulgar
jokes that make me laugh until I choke and cry, who
need razor blades and shower gel and privacy, who
want to keep their doors closed more than I like.

Who, miraculously, go to the bathroom, zip up their
jackets and move food from plate to mouth all by
themselves. Like the trick soap I bought for the
bathroom with a rubber ducky at its center, the baby
is buried deep within each, barely discernible
except through the unreliable haze of the past.

E verything in all the books I once pored over is
finished for me now. Penelope Leach., T. Berry
Brazelton., Dr. Spock. The ones on sibling rivalry
and sleeping through the night and early-childhood
education, all grown obsolete.

Along with Goodnight Moon and Where the Wild Things Are,
they are battered, spotted, well used. But I
suspect that if you flipped the pages dust would
rise like memories.

What those books taught me, finally, and what the
women on the playground taught me, and the
well-meaning relations --what they taught me was
that they couldn't really teach me very much at all.
Raising children is presented at first as a
true-false test, then becomes multiple choice, until
finally, far along, you realize that it is an endless essay.
No one knows anything. One child responds well to
positive reinforcement, another can be managed only with a
stern voice and a timeout. One boy is toilet trained at 3, his brother at 4.

When my first child was born, parents were told to
put baby to bed on his belly so that he would not
choke on his own spit- up. By the time my last arrived,
babies were put down on their backs because of
research on sudden infant death syndrome.
To a new parent this ever-shifting certainty is terrifying, and then

Eventually you must learn to trust yourself.
Eventually the research will follow.

I remember 15 years ago poring over one of Dr.
Brazelton's wonderful books on child development, in
which he describes three different sorts of infants:
average, quiet, and active. I was looking for a
sub-quiet codicil for an 18-month-old who did not
walk. Was there something wrong with his fat little
legs? Was there something wrong with his tiny little
mind? Was he developmentally delayed, physically
challenged? Was I insane?
Last year he went to China .
Next year h e goes to college. He can talk just fine.
He can walk, too.

Every part of raising children is humbling, too.
Believe me, mistakes were made. They have all been
enshrined in the Remember-When-Mom-Did Hall of Fame.
The outbursts, the temper tantrums, the bad
language, mine, not theirs. The times the baby fell
off the bed.

The times I arrived late for preschool pickup. The
nightmare sleepover. The horrible summer camp. The
day when the youngest came barreling out of the
classroom with a 98 on her geography test, and I
responded, What did you get wrong?
(She insisted I include that.)
The time I ordered food at the McDonald's drive-through speaker
and then drove away without picking it up from the window.
(They all insisted I include that.)
I did not allow them to watch the Simpsons for the
first two seasons.

What was I thinking?

But the biggest mistake I made is the one that most
of us m ake while doing this. I did not live in the
moment enough. This is particularly clear now that
the moment is gone, captured only in photographs. There is one
picture of the three of them sitting in the grass on
a quilt in the shadow of the swing set on a summer
day, ages 6, 4 and 1. And I wish I could remember what we ate,
and what we talked about, and how they sounded,
and how they looked when they slept that night. I
wish I had not been in such a hurry to get on to the
next thing: dinner, bath, book, bed.
I wish I had treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a
little less.

Even today I'm not sure what worked and what didn't,
what was me and what was simply life. When they were
very small, I suppose I thought someday they would
become who they were because of what I'd done. Now I
suspect they simply grew into their true selves
because they demanded in a thousand ways that I back
off and le t them be.

The books said to be relaxed and I was often tense,
matter-of-fact and I was sometimes over the top.
And look how it all turned out. I wound up with the
three people I like best in the world, who have done
more than anyone to excavate my essential humanity.
That's what the books never told me. I was bound and
determined to learn from the experts.

It just took me a while to figure out who the
experts were...

1 comment:

Donna Letton said...

I feel like I could have written this! When people say, "what a wonderful job you have done with your kids", I don't know how to respond. For one thing, all the credit goes to God...He is the one who has made all things right; and for another, I think, "what a wonderful job my girls have done with me!" I am such a better person for having had them in my life.
Thanks, Deitra, for sharing this article.