I was on the boat coming home after work last night. It was late and as usual, everyone, including me, looked exhausted and ready to crawl right into bed. Providing aural accompaniment for the ride home was a screaming child - and I mean the ENTIRE ride home. He was screaming bloody murder. It was so bad that it forced us all into a camaraderie of shared sympathy for not only the unhappy child but for the poor mother who had to deal firsthand with the noisy distress. I racked my brain for ways in which I could help the mother, but nothing seemed practical or particularly helpful coming from a complete stranger. As the boat was docking, I walked by the crying child's stroller to see how the mother was coping. Another woman had the same idea, I guess, and stopped in front of the stroller and began singing. I was afraid that her singing was going to send the child spiraling even further; Julie Andrews she was not. I continued on to the front of the boat and, after a few minutes of waiting, glanced back at the mother. She seemed exhausted but in a calm zone. She was simply sitting there, bundled up in her weather gear, her child sitting on her lap, his scarf covering his face. And she just let him scream. She didn't seem particularly unnerved by the screaming or concerned with what the rest of the boat may have thought or felt about her or her child. There was a dignified resignation about her demeanor that didn't signify defeat, as I often feel in the midst of LPP's screaming episodes, but rather acceptance of the situation, that allowed her to stay in control. I was truly impressed. And inspired, really. I overheard her tell the singing woman (who finally stopped singing and sat down near the mother) that her son was getting a molar and that this was the first time he'd done this sort of thing.
Finally, the boat docked and I forged ahead into the dispersing crowd of commuters eager to get home. Every few steps, I felt compelled to look back and check in with the mother. I had to somehow let her know that I was rooting for her, that I was part of the team and she scored a big one for us mothers/caretakers. When the crowd thinned out and I could safely step out of the way of pedestrian traffic, I waited until the mother and her child, no longer screaming, were near enough that I could reach out to her. Up close, I could see more of a toughness to her that didn't register when I viewed her from afar serenely holding her son. I tapped her on the shoulder and, surprised, she took me in without stopping her stride. Walking alongside her, I told her that I just wanted to let her know that I thought she handled her screaming child on the crowded, public, late boat ride so well. I told her I have a son and she told me she has FIVE children and that this was the first time her son ever acted that way. I told her that when my son acts up in public, I often don't know what to do, it is so hard, and that, again, I thought she did really well. She smiled and thanked me. And with that, we went our separate ways.
I felt it was important to let another mother know that she is doing well, particularly in a tense and anxiety-inducing situation. Because, frankly, there are a lot of times when you just don't know how you are doing. I feel that every day brings a new challenge and that my motherhood is constantly being tested. And most days, particularly lately, I feel that I don't really pass the test. There are the days when I wish I hadn't raised my voice as much, or at all, or I wish I could have reworded a reprimand, or I wish I could have kept my humor, or I wish I could have practiced more patience. There are the days when I finally get to bed and I have to reassure myself with a little mental pep-talk, "Well, tomorrow's another day and another chance to do better." There have been days when I've had absolute meltdowns and, I'm ashamed to admit, one or two of them in front of LPP. Nothing has made me feel as foolish as hearing my son's little voice tell me, "It's okay, Mommy. Don't cry. I love you." Foolish but also heartened, and glad to know that my comforting him has taught him how to effectively do the same. But still, who's the parent here? The responsibility that comes along with knowing that you are in charge of shaping this small being, that you are holding the pitcher and pouring knowledge and nourishment into the small vessel that is your child, can be so overwhelming. As is the fear that something you may say or do with only a second's thought may affect him for a lifetime. And walking in the haze of unending fatigue that seems to come along with being a sleep-deprived mother of a toddler, sometimes it is difficult to see the forest for the trees, let alone the trees. So, I hope that by reaching out to this mother, who I can only imagine was inwardly feeling any range of emotions from anger and resentment to embarrassment and helplessness to heartache and worry for her child, that I can somehow reap the same karmic support as I stumble through this maze of parenting. Because, it really does take a village.
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