How could I mother?

Child by Slyvia Plath

Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.
I want to fill it with color and ducks,
The zoo of the new
Whose name you meditate--
April snowdrop, Indian pipe,
Little

Stalk without wrinkle,
Pool in which images
Should be grand and classical

Not this troublous
Wringing of hands, this dark
Ceiling without a star.


Here's another poem I have loved over time. Even before my own children, I read and memorized this poem. The explicit clarity of the first line, which in having children, has only grown more true for me. That yes, to look into my child's eye, and truly become absorbed in it, there lies such a consuming beauty. Yet, at times the clarity of my child's eye has been hard to look into. At times, this eye stands a measures of myself. This eye, a mirror, looking back at me, reflecting what I feel I've done right and also, even more glaring-- reflecting what I am not.

In the early days of Tessa's life, her eyes haunted me. Her eyes seemed to bury into me, rubbing raw my deepest fears. Here, in my arms, a body so frail, so easily crushable. A life given to me, to shape, and disfigure. My ridgity would suffocate her, my overbearing emotional life would drown her, my self loathing would become her own.

My failings will break this child.

How could I mother her?

Looking back, the third day of her life marked the beginning of my postpartum depression. I was struggling to nurse her, sitting next to the window, the fall sun lowering, it's slant light signaling the impending winter.

I was afraid. And would after some time, become less afraid. Her eyes would soften or rather my perception of her eyes would shift. Some months later, I would find myself embraced by her blue, white eyes, speckled by gold, softly repeating the lines of Slyvia Plath..."Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing."

Looking back: Tessa at Teagan's age

Teagan is crawling from room to room. She is quite determined until she realizes how far away from me or Tessa or her dad, she's gotten. She may whimper just a bit, beckoning us a little closer so she can go on exploring, feeling more secure to go on blooming in her independence.

She has also discovered the cabinets in the kitchen. Or rather she has discovered their ability to open and even more exciting, their contents. But true to her nature she knows they are there and knows she can open them but doesn't feel the need to visit them constantly. She will and does when she wants to but otherwise can take it or leave it. She'd much rather be giggling at her sister, engaging Tessa in a dialogue.

Here are a few shot of life in the past week.

these days are numbered

Tessa will begin school in the fall. I am preparing for this. The end of something, a time which, at times, I didn't believe would ever end. How desperate I wanted that 6 weeks mark to come, knowing I would be recovered from her birth, and the 3 month mark so nursing would be easier, and once she could hold a toy in her hand or sit up so she'd be less frustrated. Or crawl so I she could go and get that ball for herself. Or walk so I wouldn't have to hold her everywhere we went. Or sleep through the night or not need diapers or feed herself or climb into the swing without me or get herself dressed without me... and those desperate wants of mine--well, they have passed and we move onto the next one. Tessa pushes me through and completes these wants for me.

What was most difficult during these times was that, in their passing, I never knew when they would end. If I could have known that yes, in by age 7 weeks Tessa would nurse comfortably from both breasts or that when I found myself, along with Brian awake for hours and hours each night, that yes, soon, Tessa would sleep for long stretches of time and by that age of 2, I wouldn't have to take her for midnight strolls, in the front pack, throughout the neighborhood, just to get her to sleep. If I could have know the exact time I needed to hold on, 3 more weeks, 6 months, whatever the length of time until things shifted, it would have been so much easier. I can only compare these times to the struggles I have met in running marathons. As long as I know how long I must push, I will push. That is me at my core. I will get through those 20 miles as long as I know there are only 20 more miles to run. But this is also how running differs from mothering. Running is finishable. I know with running, how much longer I must dig deep and push. Mothering has very little beginning or foreseeable ending but there is an ending. This I know from my Tessa. And in having Tessa to mark the endings, I have been gifted my Teagan to mark my beginnings and this time, hold onto what's in my hands, not desperately scanning the road ahead for the next mile marker.

so big