My child is being raised mostly by his grandmother. She is seventy one years away from him. He is three. She places hordes of limits on him, some reasonable, some not. This is good for him I think. Without her, I would have a hellion on my hands. Without her, he would feel at home climbing on top of glass counter tops, showing me his latest hair swishing moves. I don't find anything wrong with that other than he might fall and lose his balance. But I'd be there, no biggie, right? Grandma screams in dual tones of panic and anger when he opens the cabinets to play Chef Emeril Lagasse (one of his idols, ugh). No wonder that when I come home, he is, quite literally, climbing the walls . He needs an outlet. I have to put him in daycare, if even twice a week--for his sanity and my mom's heart.
I come home after being away from work for almost 10 hours. I am called eccentric for living with my mother while the father of the baby lives four miles down the road in an apartment. On Guam, four miles without a car is a lifetime away. Walking four miles in relentless heat and humidity is akin to taking your life in your hands. Plus he's white. We're all mostly brown down here. So many challenges. I don't even want to write about them anymore.
Haven't posted in awhile. It seems as if momdom is my whole being and existence. I like to think that someday, I'll be able to just run away on vacations by myself because I will have raised a totally self-possessed child through some innate grace, wisdom, and charm, plus a whole lot of love. But I find myself reduced to using scare tactics or manipulative chants when he acts up like "So you don't love me anymore, huh? I'm gonna go back to work now. Bye. See, I'm holding the keys? See? Mama's leaving now...I'm putting on my shoes and going out the door...I'm not coming back..." etc...
Pathetic.
I don't profess to be the best mom or the most knowledgeable, but I do constantly tell him I love him. I love how the youthfulness of his skin makes me want to eat him up when I hold him. I love to ask him questions and listen to his surreal responses. I love being mildly shocked when he kisses my feet and laughs or says that "mommy has a wee wee". I love that he instintively hums and makes up songs while working on a project. I love being dazzled by his memory of things that took place half a life ago for him. I love how he pushes and pushes boundaries, asking me to lift him up onto dangerous edges to perch or to jump fearlessly higher and higher on the bed. I love that he wrote a song at the age of two and sings it as he jumps higher and higher on the bed: "My take a bath go down...my take a bath go down." Wow, what does THAT mean?
I'm tired. I'm physically sick and can't get well. I'm worn down from working hard at work and at home. I'm emotionally taxed to my limit. And sometimes I'm tired of mothering. But then that feeling never lasts long because I really love my baby. And when I am in the midst of experiencing all those things I love about him, the hurt of life disappears long enough for me to remember that my baby is really my life.
