Night time: The Search for My Mother

Rough Draft

Tonight my daughter fell asleep in my arms in the darkness. She'll be two in a few weeks, and settling her down for sleep is like trying to pin down a wet goldfish. We rocked in our teal green chair that is so soft it swallows you, and somehow we succeeded. After some babbling and giggling and the jabbing of her fingers in my mouth through the darkness, she finally succumbed to the rest she needed after a busy toddler day.

As I sat in the dark, noticing the shapes the moonlight made through the window, I also noticed how amazing this feeling must be. My daughter must feel so secure, so serene, getting to fall asleep almost every night in the safety and comfort of her mother's arms. I thought about how much I wished that I could do the same.

Even in our 30s, as mothers, we still yearn for our mother's arms. Maybe even more so than we did when we were typically supposed to. It is a primal feeling that never goes away. I once read an article that referenced a child who had been burned. The essay described how he cried out for his mother - even knowing that she was the one who had burned him. Even the fire couldn't extinguish the flame of yearning for the child. This struck me as critically profound.

My mother's arms are not available. But it is not by circumstance, but by choice. Only, if you asked her if they reached out for me, she would insist YES - YES, of course they do. Of course she does what she can. Of course she would do more if she lived closer, if she weren't in her 60s and now "less capable";if she weren't trying to function with an "old" car which struggles to keep running; if she only had more "down time"... if....if....if...

My mother told me and my siblings when we were kids that she never wanted to be called anybody's grandmother. She worked hard to look as unlikely as possible to even fit the description of mother. We learned early that her arms were not open, and the shop wouldn't likely "open" at all. Deal with it.

I make a point to hold my daughter and allow her to find sleep in my arms most every night. Although the day time is busy, I reserve the right for her to drift into dreams each night with my smell the last thing she remembers before falling asleep. I do this because I wish it had been done for me, and because if I could make my mother be the mother I want - the mother I need - I would do this in her arms now every so often if I had the chance.

I look down at my daughter in the darkness as we rock, wondering what it must feel like to completely let go, to know that Mommy is here...you can check out now...Mommy is in charge. Of everything.

I lay my daughter in her crib, stomach down, and hear her exhale at the motion. Tonight, like every night, I conclude this time with the resolution that if I can't have this from my mother, I'll make things right in the universe by giving it to my daughter. What else can you do? As Sue Monk Kidd wrote at the end of her novel The Secret Life of Bees, we all have to find the mother inside of us. I'm in the middle of my journey, searching, hoping. Trying on who I am as a mother, seeing what fits and what colors look the best. I pray my arms are always open, no matter what the size or season.