My oldest just graduated high school, a moment that was met with an audible sigh of relief and I do believe there is now one less knot in my shoulder. He’s eighteen and well on his way to adulthood. His brother will be sixteen this summer, a sophomore in the fall. Three more years until empty nest. I can see the light. I’m in the home stretch. Diapers, strollers, car seats, sleepless nights are all but a distant memory. So much so that when a desperate friend recently asked me to babysit I actually questioned my qualifications. Would I even know what to do anymore?
Motherhood was way more than I bargained for and I quickly realized my dream of five kids would have been just the opposite, a nightmare, quite possibly culminating with me locked away somewhere. The first thirteen years were akin to a war zone, not that I’ve been in one, but I assure you, our home front was a battlefield. For any of you in the thick of it, let me pass on a bit of advice. When you think you’ve removed everything in the mini-van that could possibly be a projectile, think again. The head rests come off. And those pack a punch when hurled from the back seat.
For years my bedside table was stacked high with parenting books. By the time my first born was three we’d already graduated from Raising Your Spirited Child to The Explosive Child. I’ll never forget the moment in the therapist’s office when, at the end of my frayed rope, I desperately uttered, “I don’t care who you drug, but one of us needs to be medicated.” I look back and realize it truly is a miracle we all survived. My youngest is lucky he came along when he did. Another year or so I would have known what I was in for and shut that factory down.
Parenting was so traumatizing for a while there that I actually cringed when I saw other people’s babies, as if they were contagious and if I so much as brushed up against one I’d instantly get pregnant again. For damn near a decade I would sooner drop kick a baby than hold one. But time passed and I softened up. Occasionally I held a baby, but believe you me, I was more than eager to give it back. Once in a while I caught myself ever-so-slightly nostalgic and even found joy in the caress of squishy baby feet and the sweet softness of their cheeks. Thankfully, without fail, my rational side would kick in, and the thought of eighteen more years of boogers and homework and backtalk always pulled me safely back to reality.
But lately something is happening to me. It’s as if my body has been hijacked. Or possessed. I see babies now and I feel helpless. My uterus actually aches. I cry. I yearn. I see pregnant women and I don’t think about the pain, the stretch marks, the nausea. I feel envy. And I wait for the moment when logic kicks in and reminds me I am 43-flipping years old. Only three short years until my youngest graduates and I am free to travel again. Or move to the beach and live in a van. Or hike a very, very long trail. But logic is cloudy and elusive. I can no longer count on my rational mind. And that scares the bejeezus out of me. So I ask, to those that have gone before me, is this normal?
Is it like the pain of childbirth, where slowly but surely women block out how excruciating it is and are willing to suffer through it again? No. Because you see I remember each blood curdling tantrum, all the heart stopping calls from the school, and every dang virus. Especially chicken pox. Do you know what’s worse than a two month old newborn with chicken pox? Getting it first as an adult and then passing it on to your infant. For a solid week he and I lived in a cloudy bathtub swirling with Aveeno, the poor thing screaming in pain, crashing into an exhausted fitful sleep every few hours, only to awake five minutes later writhing in agony. That, my friends, was true initiation into motherhood. Granted, they are fabulous young men now and I am most certainly reaping the benefits from the insanely hard work early on, in fact I’m pretty much loving the teenage years, but I guarantee I haven’t forgotten how turbulent birth to adolescence was.
Could it be one of those “this too shall pass” moments? Mind you, I can now hear the wisdom in that cliché, but I swear as long as I live I’ll never voice it to another human being. After hearing it expressed to me countless times in the grocery store, the school drop off line, swim lessons, you name it, I know for an absolute fact it is not remotely consoling or encouraging in the midst of a meltdown. In fact, those four innocuous words had the exact opposite effect and many times I found myself just shy of homicidal, head spinning off my shoulders, daggers shooting out of my eyes, ready to throat punch the smug moron, ahem, innocent bystander that had the gaul to try to mollify my misery.
Maybe it’s peri-menopause. My body seems to know there’s not much time left on my biological clock. Last stab at seed before reproductive death. Must. Procreate. I’m fairly sure I released about two dozen eggs last time I ovulated. Normally at that time of the month I have cramps for a day. This past month I cramped for three straight days, and the week leading up to it I was more or less a cat in heat. My hormones were haywire. Luckily things seem to have leveled out for the moment, but if this continues I may need a padded room come full moon.
I suppose it could just be empty nest syndrome settling in. My oldest is flying the coop soon, and my 5’9″ baby mostly lives with his Dad these days, understandably preferring his man cave bedroom complete with enough computer equipment to sustain a small city over the pull-out couch in my awesome but admittedly way-too-tiny-for-a-teenager 5th wheel home. So, I’ve already gotten a healthy dose of what life without kids in the house is like. Could this simply be loneliness, or boredom? Is this why people get puppies? Should I take up crocheting?
Whatever the cause, this shit is real y’all. I cannot look at a fluffy haired baby without getting weepy and wishing for another of my very own. Maybe this is why women begin to look forward to grandchildren, but trust me, as much as I love his girlfriend, I’m in no rush for my college freshman to enter into Parenting 101. So, short of tying up my plumbing or becoming a nun, this phase (for lack of a better term) is gonna require a whole helluva lotta will power (and birth control) if I’m to pass through it gracefully and not wind up perusing the shelves at Half Price Books for the latest edition of What to Expect When You’re Expecting (no doubt I’ve sure as shit forgotten most of that). Because believe you me, the absolute last thing I need is a brand new bouncing bundle of joy. Sweet Jesus, someone lock me up.