Teardrops and Butt Shakes
The gradual unpanicking of motherhood
“What do you remember from before you were five?” Dee Ann punctuated the question with a dramatic eye roll.
A seasoned mom, Dee Ann was a fellow humor writer at Hallmark and had zero time for nonsense. She’s maybe the only person I’ve ever known who could show utter disgust for you and still somehow make you feel loved.
I was in the middle of a daycare-related panic, one of many Dee Ann talked me through during those seasick first years I spent overwhelmed by the crashing together of new motherhood and a new career.
My then two-year-old, Ty, had wailed that morning at drop-off. I was beside myself. I just knew that I’d scarred him for life.
But Dee Ann came through, like always. What did I remember from before I was five? Only two things: Walking through a fire, and never ONCE hearing my g.d. name on Romper Room.
In other words: Calm the f down already. He may have cried at drop-off, but long-term? He’ll be fine.
And yet.
There’s a picture of Ty from that time that hangs on my bedroom wall and continues to taunt me, 19 years later.
The cowlick, the button nose, the LinkedIn-ready headshot that says, “Let’s talk financial planning!” It’s adorable.
I hate it.
All I see are two watery eyes and the trail of teardrops down his toddler business shirt. It was taken at daycare, and when I opened up the package, a lightning bolt of pain shot through my heart.
Now sure: if you’ve been around a two-year-old, you know those tears likely came from not wanting to get his hair combed. Or not wanting to smile. Or not being able to convince you that a balanced portfolio will better help prepare you for retirement.
To me, though, the picture was proof that all my deepest fears were true. He hated daycare. He was crushed we hadn’t yet given him a sibling. He knew I’d had a margarita the night before finding out I was pregnant. He knew I’d had a second margarita the night before finding out I was pregnant.
On and on it went, the anxiety wheel in my hamster brain running nonstop. It all seems ridiculous now, but I was a mess back then. Seeing that weepy picture of my beautiful boy makes me ache for a redo. If only I could get that time back. Relax more. Savor it more.
Deep down, I know I did my best. Still, it’s hard to look at teary little Ty and not feel the aftershocks of that lightning bolt.
I feel them every time I hear “Don’t Know Why,” a song that was omnipresent in 2002 when I played it on a loop to calm my newborn. Now, I have to turn it off after the first few notes. I can’t handle the intense longing that floods my system. What I would give to go back and ease the tight grip I had on motherhood.
Now, I do kind of know why I was a mess. (Norah, “I Do Kind of Know Why” would make a great follow-up, if you’re reading this.) So much of it came from the onslaught of questions new moms have to contend with, the ones masquerading as curiosity but feel more like you’re being sized up.
Questions I wasn’t yet strong enough to brush off.
Are you nursing?
Does he sleep through the night yet?
Are you going back to work?
I’ll never forget the family member who, upon hearing I was headed to San Francisco for a business trip, demanded, “Who’s going to watch Ty?” Um. His…father? (Who btw wasn’t around to hear that, or he would’ve happily put them in their place.)
Even after we made it through the baby stage, there were questions.
Will he be doing half-day or full-day kindergarten?
How much are you working?
Is he reading yet?
He got older. The questions aged up, but still didn’t stop.
Is he playing football?
HE’S NOT PLAYING FOOTBALL?
What honors classes is he taking?
Was that a “no,” then, on football?
One of the most memorable from that time? While accompanying my husband to a work event, a former co-worker of his greeted me with, “I bet it’s good to get out of the house, isn’t it?” He was an older exec; he hadn’t yet gotten the telegram that women were allowed to work.
Dumbfounded, I stood frozen in place until Paul squeezed my hand in a way I now know means, “Before you reply, please remember that we need health insurance.”
I kept quiet. What a sad little man.
Horrifying or not, I’ve learned that the questions never let up. The good thing is, they stop cutting as close as they used to. My kid grew, and with time, so did I.
Now, if the questions are stealthy ways to pass judgement, I say great! Have at it.
Where does he go to school?
What’s he studying?
What’ll he do after he graduates?
I must not have heard you right: he DID or DID NOT play football?
We’ve raised each other well, Ty and I. We’re both happy and healthy. But only one of us is close to getting a business degree. Guess who! (HINT: the one who filled out an “About Me” assignment in second grade, scowling, “I’ll tell you what I’m NOT going to be when I grow up. A writer!”)
Now I know: most of the time, people mean well. These days, I can handle just about any question without it gutting me. We’re all running on anxiety. We’re all pretending to be curious when really, we’re just wondering if we’re doing any of this right.
Back then, though? Those questions ate me alive. I didn’t yet have the “thick skin” *cough cough professional help* it takes to shrug them off. Since then, I’ve worked hard on finding more confidence in my parenting, my work, myself.
As for that sad boy? He’s soaring into adulthood and is practically glowing, he’s thriving so mightily. Now, if there are drops on his shirt, it might be tears. It might be beers. He’s 21 now. It’s simply none of my business!
Not long ago, I wanted to test Dee Ann’s theory, so I asked Ty what he remembered from before he was five.
“Hmm.” He thought for a while. “Nothing, really.” I prodded him. There had to be something. Finally, his face lit up.
“Oh! I remember when Ryan (neighbor boy) saw me in our kitchen window from their kitchen window, and he shook his butt to make me laugh.”
Perfect. All that worrying, and for what? A butt shake.
Dee Ann passed away in 2009, far too early. I wish she were here. Professional help is great, but I could always use an eye roll to bring me back to reality. A butt shake works, too.
I have the "Romper Room never called my name" childhood wound, as well.
Nice job (no eye roll)!