I sat in the clinic’s waiting room clutching my belly. The pleasures of pregnancy were lost on my timid 17 year old mind and I hadn’t yet gripped the harsh reality of birthing a child. I was sweating. “You haven’t done this before, have you?” a homely looking woman had said, her hair a peppered grey and her maneurisms a stark testament to her lifestyle as a mom. She motioned to my belly, under the horizontally striped shirt that could very well have doubled as a tent to my former self. The lady smelled an odd mixture of coffee and granola, not uncommon for this part of colorado, and her front tooth was clearly set with a gold lining. Her fingers glittered with rings from her mothers jewelry box. She smiled kindly in my direction. “Don’t worry” she said in the way you tell someone with no power to ignore the people that determine their fate. “You will get it.” She says, hesitating for a moment as the nurse calls out yet another name, a chair was vacated and the waiting room quieted still. I explained to her that No, I hadn’t done “this” before and I was terrified. She grabbed my pale hand in hers and brought it to her face. She had something important to tell me and she began a dialogue that I have remembered for the last 8 years of parenting and one that I will retell in short here. “Parenting is the worst job you can have.” She stated, stroking the hair of a toddler that bore her likeness just within arms reach. She seemed genuine and I listened closely. “You will never find yourself more miserable then the next few years of your life” I sighed, the hand on my belly dropped to my side. I didn’t need to hear this, with a baby I hadn’t expected and hadn’t prepared for growing like a weed inside of my belly, I needed to think positively. The lady, whose email address I still clutch in those times when I need a clear head and a smart answer, told me one thing that I had never imagined. She shattered my dreams of birthing a child and while its yet covered in slimey goo, I would fall in love and devote my life to the beautiful angel. “I used to picture throwing my son against the wall.” She stated matter of fact. I cringe in terror. I had read the horror stories and listened to many talks from young struggling mothers, but I had never heard someone say that they actually wanted to hurt their baby. My stomach jumped, the boy inside of me protesting to the news.  She went on to tell me the dangers of postpardum depression and how to accurately gauge my emotions in order to prevent something terrible from happening. She hugged me when the nurse finally called her name, I smelled the scent of cheap shampoo in her hair, but as I reached down to shake the hand of her daughter in tow, I noticed her clean clothes, her broad, toothy grin and the way her hair was perfectly pulled into two tiny braids. Her mother loved her, it was evident. And it was clear that this little girl hadn’t once been thrown up against any wall. Years later, with a divorce and a tumultuous relationship under my belt and an unrealistic view of parenting my second son went into a short bout of colic. He screamed for days which quickly turned to weeks. I hit my breaking point one evening. With a toddler and an infant, completely alone in a trailer on the edge of town I found myself breaking into pieces. I looked back to that one day, where a stranger told me that this would come. I gripped the edge of sanity and I held tight. My son continued his wail. I picked him up from his crib, singing softly into his ear and feeling for a fever. I cradled him in my arms the way I had imagined I would do so when I was a child playing house. This time I was left with no daddy to help. It was me. Just me. This is the crossroads where the other mother had stood, the place she warned me about in her own interesting way. Clutching an infant I was sure hated me, standing with shaking knees and a sick stomach, I remembered the lady, smiling through the tears of motherhood. I remembered the story about how she was able to strike that delicate balance between nurture and emotion. I looked down to the angry little screamer in my arms for once feeling the weight of my powerlessness lift aside. I never went to the point where I thought I would hurt anyone, but I felt my aggravation raise and I did the only thing I knew to do. I picked the basinet out of the closet and put it into my master bedroom bathroom. It was small enough that it didn’t even fill the entire tub and I remember how it looked silly sitting in the middle like an island. I placed my screaming infant gently into the cradle. He didn’t stop. I backed out, watching him closely. I back through the door and shut it quietly, leaning against it to breath. His cries permeated the cheap trailer wood and I back further away. Within a minute my pulse steadied, though my head was buried firmly in my hands and I had been bawling too. The baby, who kept his scream up for hours had quieted too. I could hear him softly cooing in the bathtub. I pulled myself together, splashed cold water on my face and after fifteen minutes of deep breathing and stretching, I picked my son up out of the basinet, I elicited a grin from his chubby cheeks as I promised him that everything was going to be okay. I imagine that some mothers never go through a moment like this. That when their slippery little fetus arrives in their arms from shooting out of them like a bowling ball,  they simply fall in love. In reality Ive found the case to be much different. You struggle, you cry, you beg and plead. You worry, incessantly, and then you cry some more. Maybe not all mothers go through the same things that I have, but I do know that I am not alone. When the pressure cooker of parenting becomes unbearable, you have to find the release valve. Often times that will be a joke or sarcasm. Some times it will mean locking your baby in the bathroom and spending five minutes getting your head on straight. Devoting your life to a screaming and crapping entity with no gauge for pleasantries can have dire consequences if you dont prepare yourself. Setting the standard too high and refusing to release that valve and I bet you find yourself picturing some pretty horrible things. You aren’t a bad mother, so long as you can walk away. Whatever it means, I honestly believe that you can’t be a success without dealing with a little failure, first.

© 2009, AntiSoccermom. All rights reserved to the original author unless stated otherwise.

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