Hold your child, rock them to sleep, feel their body slacken, feel the weight of them in your arms, assess the tension in their body, sense their muscles relax, their minds drift away and feel them melt into your body. At that moment there is peace, warmth and silent comfort for both mother and child. All parents know to wait a beat after their child has fallen asleep in their arms (purposely or not). Feel that moment of love, of connection. Also, wait for that kid to really be asleep before moving or fear waking the kid and having to start all over again!Last night as I held Talia after a particularly challenging day (week). She hadn't slept most of the day, disturbed by something I couldn't figure out. I sat and rocked her in the chair in her room. As we rocked I held her body curled against my right arm, made sure her weight was stable against my chest so the rocking wouldn't disturb her equilibrium. We moved back and forth together, and I tried to assess the slight movement or a sense of her deepend relaxation. I felt unified with this beautiful being I had created but also mystified by forces I cannot control. I felt her body melt further, I saw the stillness in her body. She must be asleep now I thought, using all my years of mothering experience to know what the weight of a sleeing child feels like. I gently tip her back into my other arm and gaze at her face-completely awake and staring out. At me? At the dark world? I can never know. I feel sorrow. I had allowed myself in that moment to pretend that she was a typical child. That the lack of tension in her muscles meant something more than being trapped inside a body whose brain won't, can't cooperate. I felt a surge of anger colored by sadness. I lift her towards her crib and she giggled. Looked up, at me-sure I'll give her the benefit of the doubt, it was at me, and laughed once again. I blew a puff of air in her face and she laughed once more. I lay her in bed and left the room before the sorrow overwhelmed me. I question everything I know. I don't question the nice moment we just shared, but question her life. I grieve for her life. Her still, silent life. I want to reach her. I know I do reach her in small ways, but I want to be inside her mind. Understand her, communicate with her. I want not to break. I will not break. I want to not be told how strong I am how amazing it is to heave this strength. I want to not have a reason to be strong. Yet I do understand it takes strength. Strength not to be consumed, strength to stay sane, strength to live my surreal life. I want to remember. I want to write so I can't forget these small, confusing moments of Talia's short life. It's the least I can do for her. And I thank you readers (although I pretend you don't exist) for reading what I write and being a part of the circle of love that Talia and I exist inside of. It takes a certain amount of strength to read these posts, I'm sure, and I feel stronger because of you all.
Strength and Sadness