Scorn - Tomas Rowlandson - 1800
It is so, so hot. I look around my small and sweltering basement apartment. I scan the packed room. A playpen (where the baby slept), kitchen table, book shelf, rocking chair, computer desk and a tiny TV/VCR on a table Sam brought home from the pawn shop where he used to work. All these things are flanking the walls while filling the room. It is July, and there is no air conditioning. We (Sam and I) had been using a spray bottle at night, dampening our sheets with cold water in an attempt to cool down. Unable to sleep, Sam would check the thermostat; "Eighty-six degrees in the middle of the night?"
But now it is midday. I need to get out of this sweatbox and I have the car. Looking at my sweet, dewy baby, I get him ready for an outing. I change his diaper, and that is all, because that is all he was wearing. (Baby is hot, too.) Strapping my beautiful, smiley, little boy into his car seat, we set out.
I would often take drives to look at possible places to live, and dream of the kind of house I might have some day. Maybe. Sam and I had been searching for condos, tired of paying rent. Maybe we could build some equity? Maybe we could find a place that is a little roomier? Invariably, I end up in old, treelined neighborhoods with beautiful brick houses that we certainly couldn't afford now, and might not ever be able to manage. I would drive slowly and dream. I like that walkway... I would plant flowers just like that... Those windows must bring in lots of light, etc. My baby was always up for a drive while I dreamed. He was an easy and cute companion.
My car was also without air conditioning, and on this summer day, the rolled down windows are providing little relief. I pass a grocery store. Drawn to the probable air conditioning inside, I am already feeling relief as I pull into the parking lot.
Unlock Baby from the car seat.
Wrap my hands around his bare chest.
Scoop him up.
A fleeting thought comes over my conscience as I do this: perhaps I should have at least put a onesie on him?
I cradle my little boy's back as he sits on my hip, and we walk into the cooled building.
I had just strapped him in the grocery cart, feeling thankful for the cooler air, when an older woman approaches me, talking. I think she may be Russian. Her words sound Slavic, anyway. Her body language is eager and her eyes are angry. It takes just a moment for me to realize she is chastising me. Speaking (quickly), pointing to the "baby", touching his bare skin, then hugging her body, pretend-shivering. Next, she is pulling at my short sleeved shirt with utter disgust. What I heard from her scalding, broken English; "Where are his clothes?" "Why don't you dress your child? You dressed yourself and don't bother dressing your child? It's cold in here for a little body. You buy food, but you don't buy clothes for your child? What's the matter with you?"
I can't remember if she actually said, "You are a bad mother." Maybe it was, "What kind of a mother are you?"
She walks away with hand motions and harrumph.
The shame. It washes over me like a bucket of boiling water being poured over my head, soaking through to my gut. As I stand there, looking helplessly at my poor child, all the typical responses of that emotion come flooding to the surface.
I want to fight.
I want to give that lady a piece of my mind, and all my excuses (so as to change hers).
I love my child more than anything.
I take care of him, clothe him (usually).
I should have put clothes on him. What was I thinking?
I don't know what I'm doing.
I am all alone. Every day. Winging it. I have no idea.
This poor boy.
I don't know what I'm doing.
I want to hide.
What kind of a mother am I?
I answer myself:
A lousy one.
Suddenly, my happy baby looks so deprived. So...naked. I realize he is being raised by an imbecile; a young, dumb-headed girl. Oh, I love my baby fiercely. But when it comes to caring for him? Poor boy. My poor, poor boy at the mercy of my incompetence. And that mean, old lady just called me out in front of God and all the patrons at the Albertson's grocery store.
****
I woke this morning with a desire to write. As I searched in my mind for ideas; (anti-racism, teaching, book reviews, star trek...) this memory surfaced out of nowhere. Of all the blasted things -
Upon reflection, I realize that the confrontation at the store brought more than feelings of incompetency to the surface. I felt profoundly lonely and lost. I have always had wonderful support, but this motherhood responsibility was mine, alone, to navigate. I truly had no idea what I was doing. I managed to keep my baby alive and happy, but most of the time I was in a panicked, puzzled state, wondering what to do about...anything. As a new mom, I felt pathologically insane and it just hadn't been diagnosed yet. Now I know more about postpartum depression, but then I just scoured my one parenting book, and worried. He was so colicky at first (panic). I could not satisfactorily swaddle or get him to use a pacifier (failure). I couldn't figure out how to nurse him (neglect). I was always fumbling (proof of inadequacy). And then, there I was, fumbling in front of the whole wide world, looking at my baby and trying to see if he was shivering. If he was cold and unhappy and I didn't even notice. How can I not know to dress my baby?
My only peer, the only young mother I knew at the time, was my sister in law. She took to motherhood naturally. Being the oldest girl of a large family, she was used to caring for babies. She had cute clothes and bows and a nursery. She seemed to have enough energy for photo shoots and sewing. Motherhood isn't easy for anyone, but it didn't seem to be a mystery to her. I realize now what a blessing it was to have her example. Seeing her not panic when her baby cried taught me that it didn't mean I was automatically ruining my child when mine did. Babies cry. She would talk about the stages (teething, for example) as if it would pass, and that I wouldn't be sleepless forever. She also relished the fun, fleeting parts while she could. (I may have missed it, not knowing how quickly each stage passes.) I got to see her move forward confidently with her life, developing skills and hobbies, nurturing her role as a mother. She took charge with that swaddling blanket and with all of motherhood. In so many ways, she shined a sane, faith-filled light on motherhood. But on days like that hot day, I shrunk back into a dark place, pushed in by that self-condemnation that comes with comparison. The shame of all my lacking. And now I had a real life accuser to snuff out any doubt about it. Oh, how she crept back into my mind over the years. And still.
I seem to remember walking defiantly in the store for a minute, but then decided I couldn't bear the shame anymore, and left. Sometime later, I went to my mother in law's house. (Perhaps I was teaching piano lessons to her younger children?) I do remember being self-conscious there about my almost naked child. I think she looked at his bare body and said something about it being a hot day. I remember telling her about what happened at the store. I'm sure I was defensive. I remember her listening. I don't remember feeling judged by her, even though I know my mother in law would never, ever have taken a baby to the store in just a diaper.
It's not the most neglectful thing a mother can do, I know. However, it is very embarrassing to think that I sometimes don't have common sense about things. (It's hard to even type it out. Pride is another failing.) But, I didn't. I was kind of a mess.
What would I say to that mom in the store now? If I saw her standing there, dumbfounded, looking at her cute naked baby as he looked back at her. Knowing how scrambled her mind was, I would put my arm around her and say, "Look at that darling baby and smile at him. Look. He is o.k. and you are o.k. He is a cute, healthy baby boy. If he looks cold, you'll go home and take care of it. Just like you tried to take care of it when he was hot."
It is possible that my mother law said as much to me.
I was 22 years old then. That baby is 22 years old now. He's just fine. In fact, he turned out to be this wonderful, beloved human being despite, and maybe because of, my shortcomings.
There. I wrote something today.
