When the clock strikes midnight and you turn from 34 to 35, you’re long past the years when birthdays inspire any sort of excitement, unless you have specific plans for a family known for pleasant surprises on such occasions. Even then, you realize that your birthdays now signify how fast your body is flailing around the sun faster than the speed of light towards its ultimate destiny. The feeling is both devastating and exhilarating, as every year of life, despite being the same 365 days, seems to hold greater value. There are no more days left staring at a clock, watching the second hand slowly tick by, wishing it would spin faster. No more wishing tomorrow would be here NOW. Now, I ask the minutes to tick by slower, to provide pause. They never do.
This year has been tremendously, beautifully and painfully eventful, in both gaining a son and losing a parent. Losing a parent is a moment which you cannot prepare for, which, if it occurs at 35, may catapult you into adulthood after a prologued adolescence. Having a child is another moment like this, when you realize that you, yes you, have the ability to not only ensure the survival of another human being, but also to take this tiny little crying, wrinkled mass of flesh — mine on August 5, just 6lbs, 14oz — and, with only your body’s own milk, inflate this crying specimen of life into a baby — linguistically challenged, yet filled with awareness, fears, and genuine laughter by just four months of age —and into now a 13lb-something oz PERSON.
I’ve grown tired of living a life which I am at the center of my own universe. In our culture, in most families, to varying extents, this is how children are raised. It is both a blessing and a curse. The feelings of pride and glory are never quite as enthralling as they are in childhood, when you’re told you’re special, and you try to live up to that specialness, in your talents or abilities, working hard for some great achievement which comes and goes, but glows in the moment. Your first words. Your first A+. Your three seconds on stage in the school play with a line that makes everyone laugh. Your college acceptance letters. And then, this feeling begins to fade. Over time, even the greatest accomplishments in life no longer provide this narcissistic sense of pride. You no longer have a small pool of individuals in which to compare your own achievements with, and you realize whatever you’ve done that your parents bragged to their friends about, your doings are, in most cases, no more worthy of said bragging than any other level of success. And, success, in and of itself, is not a synonym for satisfaction.
I know it’s cliche, but I’ve never known happiness until I had my child (and, even though my mental state fought this happiness with all its might thanks to postpartum hormones I am now quite familiar with.) Unfortunately, this happiness and mental instability also came paired with the passing of my father, which brought with it the deepest sorrows to date of my life. It was a whirlwind of adult emotions that, still, four months later, rush through me in unexpected moments, like ice cold, stinging saline pumped through the body in preparation for emergency surgery.
I try to focus on the happy thoughts, and force the negative ones out as fast as possible. If anything can wipe away the spiraling thoughts of imagining what it was like for my father to die alone and the guilt that riddles my veins for not being able to be there with him or do anything more to prolong his life in the many ways which I could have, if anything can sabotage the worst and intense moments of depression, it’s my son’s most innocent and pure smile and laugh, at absolutely nothing, at shadows and light, and his gaze on the world with such wonder, as to him everything is new, and despite startling and screaming in fear of the unknown everything, death is not yet a concept, days are forever long, and caretakers are, in the best of cases, constant, warm, and reassuring, serving your every need.
In the groggy gratitute and greatfulness of motherhood’s exhaustion lies a fear of dormant uncertainty which life itself begets. Knowing the unknown is just a corner away. That in opening your heart to a new love so great, there is the risk of your heart shattering to pieces. You know you cannot keep your child safe from everything, whether that be illness or accidents or mass shootings or political turmoil, yet you try your best knowing your best is a joke in the face of reality’s cruel, random ways it selects its next victim. So you try to find peace in statistics and look to those aging and grey to think survival is quite possible, even with a parent like yourself lacking sleep and, after particularly challenging nights, not sure which side is up or down.
And, I know it is unfair to put any pressure on my son to provide this sense of happiness, but he does it anyway. He teaches me that I’m here to provide for him and to pass whatever wisdom I have on to the next generation. My fears of mortality in some ways are dimmed with his every breath. I’ve discovered that immortality is not impossible after all — that despite the million terabyte hard drive of your own memories and awareness cruely designed with planned obsolecense, you live forever in your child and their children and so on. You may not be an immortal jellyfish or a bristlecone pine, but you can live forever. You realize your memories and experiences are important only in that they provide the means to nurture and grow the next generation. You alone are nothing. You are here to provide for your child(ren) and his/her/their future.
Of course, not everyone choses to have children, and not everyone feels this way about passing their DNA or, even in adopted families, the DNA of ones love and thoughts, on to the next generation. For so long I thought I’d never have children of my own — how could I give up the freedom I cherished? How could I go from knowing that worst case scenario, should my mental health diminish, that I could survive on my own for quite some time in tiny apartment in a town with rents that wouldn’t buy you a parking space in San Francisco — to a molten and magnificent obligation and desire to provide stability, security and serenity for my child with no respite from responsibility.
So many parents, women especially, struggle with losing themselves when they have a kid. I’ve experienced some of this. But I’ve never particularly liked myself, so it’s maybe been a more positive transition for me. I’ve grown so tired of trying to find myself, of focusing too much on how every word that comes out of my mouth or fingertips as a method of communicating my thoughts tends to skew the wrong thing to have said. Now, although it has not been tested quite yet, I feel my energy toned down, my reason for everything is to maintain the status quo, after 35 years of fighting it.
Perhaps this is just the nature of aging, with or without a child, but it sure hits suddenly when they let you walk out of the hospital with a tiny little fragile crying squirming creature with a smidgen of hypocritical advice from every nurse you speak with and tell you that you’re on your own and will only need to interact with authority should you be found with a child no longer breathing. With all the medical care ahead of childbirth, it feels bizarrely backwards to, as a new parent, be tossed out in the cold with only a handful of doctor’s appointments to check that this baby of yours is hitting his milestones, and to ensure he gets his vaccines for all the life-threatening illnesses one can vaccinate against in this world. Other than that, you’re on your own.
At 35, I both appreciate and am saddened by how long I waited to have my first child. Although I’m glad to have had so much time to find myself, as noted earlier, I never found much of anything until my son was born. I didn’t feel ready earlier, and I did use that time to take on different professional assignments, challenge myself with roles I felt woefully unprepared for, and travel the world — not as often as I would have liked — but enough to close my eyes and imagine myself on the Charles Bridge in Prague, or, walking through the mystical, unburied city of Tzfat, Israel, or, strolling through the ancient streets of Kyoto at night in the pouring rain, or, feel the softest white sand under my feet on the beaches of Turks and Caicos, or, listening to the silence of nature at the far reaches of earth on an overnight cruise on New Zealand’s Doubtful Sound, or listening to the joy of an Italian celebration and tasting the most delicious pasta and wine in Ostuni, Italy, or, cycling through the ruins of Thailand’s Ayutthaya, or, spending hours lost on the double-decker buses of London never knowing the city well enough, or tasting the freshest shrimp with eyes staring back at me in the Algarve of southern Portugal, not to mention so many cities of North America found in road trips in stops both planned and unexpected detours.
With so many more places I want to see and taste and devour, I’ve found I’ve seen enough that I was ready to lock myself in place. Could I have accomplished that faster? Certainly. I didn’t travel often, and, when I did, it was usually to the same place — to see family in New Jersey, or to my husband’s favorite vacation destination of Yosemite’s white glacier-capped high country. Ironically, I never really enjoy all of traveling to new destinations, with the anxiety each trip brings, but I do love the memories made in hindsight. I still hope to see so much more of the world (Iceland, Sweden, Amsterdam, (more of) Italy, Spain, Copenhagen, Norway, Switzerland, Denmark, Brazil, Peru, Argentina, Poland, Ireland, Slovakia, South Africa, South Korea, Hong Kong, The Philippines, and many other destinations are still on my must-visit list) but there is no pressuring urgency to hop on a plane and find myself frantically lost on any new city streets where I fail to speak enough of the language to find my way gracefully to my next destination, let alone a restroom.
I DO hope to one day have the time to travel again, but that time isn’t necessary now. And, even without it, I’m quite satisfied with my travels to date, and feel I can safely imagine walking through the rest of the world through documentary observation and prose.
But what I cannot do, and what I’ll never be able to do, is get back the lost time that is the years on the other end of childbirth — for all the years I’ve had to wander unsatisfied and bewildered in my prologued adolescence, I’ve sacrificed the unknown number of years which my husband and I have left to see our child grow up and be around for his children, should he chose to have them, and other future generations. In my “advanced maternal age” (well, close to it at 34), and in my father’s passing at his 67, the math suddenly is not ever in our favor.
Although some men and women do live well past 67, it is also irrational to, even with the best diet and exercise routine, assume one’s own health will last far beyond the age one is allowed to begin Social Security withdrawals. And, in acknowledging 35×2 = 70, turning 35 is potentially time for a mid-life crisis, although you’ll never be able to determine when you hit mid life until it’s far too late to have said crisis. But even, in the best case, 100 and a few bonus years seems so soon. It always has, in a way, but with a child, and with five years till 40 and 15 to 50 and so on, the dust of mortality is floating faster through the air to my tongue. I try to not allow it to frighten me, for I’ve already accepted the unimportance of my own being, but that fear is still there, at the back of my mind, and in the sadness of knowing one day I will no longer be here with my son as he continues his own life journey, and that is the absolute best case scenerio.
Yet with all the cruelty even the best and most secure life entails, there is so much to be thankful for, so much joy to find in everything, if you’re willing to open your eyes to it. So, the rush of novelty may be far behind you, but you can still see the world anew in your child’s eyes. You can still have Christmas Morning. Or the wonder of each of Hanukkah’s eight nights. You can have the world to discover yet again in your child’s innocent eyes. For the magical splendor you need to travel across the ocean to discover, you can experience this a short walk away, or in your own backyard. You can return to a simpler time, for a few seconds in between parenting, and laugh with your child as a child yourself.
Each morning of my son’s 111 days on earth thus far, I allow him and myself his nap lying on me, in the position he gracefully places his head and arms after his 5am feeding, and I love these moments of warmth and softness that I know are far from forever. I study how fast he’s grown — uncertain of exactly what has changed overnight, but certain so much has. He is now undoubtedly a little boy, one with the heart of an angel and face of a cherub, one which dreams of devouring milk with the swallowing motions of his lips followed by quick smiles in the crease of his mouth’s corners. His tiny hands, which grow larger by the day, placed close to my face — I watch your breath, make sure you are inhaling safely in and exhaling out. I think of all the things I want to give you, and above all else I think how I can give you the courage to fail and the bravery to take calculated risks, and to have reasonable fear without a heightened sense of anxiety limiting your life. To have confidence without arrogance. To follow your dreams but also in time learn to take care of yourself. To find joy in helping others more than helping yourself.
At 35, I’m as ready here to be a mom as I’ll ever be. I’m afraid I haven’t suddenly lost my awkward charm, but I’m no longer invested in playing the role of manic pixie dream girl, if that ever was my shtick. I’m “mom” now, and I actually think I’m doing a unexpectedly good job at this new role of mine, fending off critiques from all angles, bonding with my son, feeding him and thus far keeping him safe, warm, and appropriately dressed. Ahead of us lies many challenges of motherhood, the potential for growing our family (or not), and a million unknowns. At 35, I’ve learned that one can travel far without leaving home, and life itself is a trip through time, and each instant, even in the very same spot you’ve stood in a thousand times over, is an entirely new destination to discover.
life with interest 