Mothers in Law

We drove home in the late afternoon slanting sunshine of that March day, after a long and arduous birth that spanned from the previous afternoon. It was a turning of season in every way as the snowbanks receded on lawns and the breeze carried promises of warmer days. I was now somebody's mother. We arrived to a full house which smelled of homemade lasagna and garlic bread, the language of love. I remember her teary gasp as she laid eyes on her first granddaughter; her son's first-born child, for the first time. I was elated, exhausted and sore. I somehow managed to escape the excitement by sneaking upstairs to sleep off the whirlwind event that had just taken place inside my body. Hours later, the door to the bedroom creaked open and my husband brought in our daughter. Shadows of my world against a hallway of light, such a beautiful moment, and yet my eyes could only focus on that small, pastel, plastic soother that had been introduced to her while I slept. I recalled the midwives talking about nipple confusion, and the importance of getting nursing right. I glared at the soother, angry. I thought up all these wicked scenarios that my baby had been downstairs crying for me, needing me, and that man-made thing had been shoved in her face instead. How silly, now when I recall that memory. She nursed like a champ anyhow, and so the entire issue was moot. In fact, she continued to nurse exclusively for thirteen beautiful months until transitioning to a bottle, and then cup, and now stands nearly as tall as me at thirteen years old. She thrived. She was perfect in every way, and continues to amaze me every day still. But sometimes I recall that moment when I'm in the shower, or walking the dogs, and feel guilt at how I'd reacted, how I internalized such a trivial non-issue as if I'd been wronged, or worse, undermined, in my first hours of motherhood. How easy it was for me to accuse my mother-in-law of this crime. In my head anyway, I can't even recall if I had said any of these things aloud. Not to my mother-in-law, I would never. But I likely didn't even vocalize it to my husband either. And yet the memory burns sometimes. Silly, trivial, and such a waste of my time.

Months later as the season turned once again from hot summer days to cooler nights and crimson leaves, our baby crawled around the living room with ease and determination. She was into everything that September, and I felt I couldn't leave her for one second or she may end up with a plug in her mouth, or a shelf of glass figurines shattered around her roly-poly legs. It was a busy Saturday morning and my mother-in-law was visiting once again. I looked forward to the extra eyes on the baby so that I could sneak away for some personal care, or cleaning, or even a little rest. I had also heard nightmare stories that when everyone assumes that someone else is watching the baby, nobody in fact is. I remember that Saturday morning, that moment, I had asked my mother-in-law if she'd be ok with the baby if I snuck away to do some personal errands. I remember the eyeroll I received, as if I'd insulted her. I think about that moment a lot, and how I wish I could go back and explain that I wasn't insinuating that she weren't capable to look after a baby. Did it come across as pompous? I wish I could recall exactly how I'd said it, but what I knew that I meant was that I didn't want to assume she was watching the baby if she'd had other things she wanted to do. I didn't want her thinking I'd be right back, and then take hours to return to a resentful caregiver. But none of that was said, just internalized as I recalled the eyeroll over and over in my mind. I'd upset her, or worse, undermined her in her motherhood. I wonder if she recalls these moments when she's trying to sleep at night, and what she must think I had insinuated, after so many years.

Three years later, it was Christmas eve, and I had just finished wrapping all the presents and hanging up the stockings. It was nearing midnight and I was heading off to bed. She hadn't arrived yet but my husband was still awake, so he could let her in when and if she did arrive. We could always leave the door unlocked for her, too, I decided. The truth is that I wasn't sure how to behave or what to do, and so it made sense to just go to bed. The spare room had been made up for her. We tried to tread lightly and keep options open. She was welcome to stay, of course, but outside of that gesture I wasn't sure what my role should be in these uncharted waters. As I neared the stairs I saw her walking up the front walk-way to the door. She couldn't see me as I watched her outside the door. For a moment I thought I should just pretend I didn't see her and head straight to bed. I would see her in the morning, things are always better in the clarity of the light. Instead, I stood there watching for what seemed like an eternity as I bore witness to her pain. She hesitated before opening the door, and I surprised her by standing on the other side of it in the darkness of the hallway. We embraced in silence and I felt her shoulders curl in slightly, as if a tiny amount of stress was able to release from her grasp. I whispered "you're always welcome here," and immediately regretted it. Did it sound condescending? What would have sounded more empathetic in that moment? I couldn't think of anything that would have passed the test. To be asked to not spend Christmas eve at her own house, and to know that this would be the beginning of a completely new chapter in her life with a new title; divorcee. Would she want to talk about it? Should we carry on and let her decide to bring it up if she chooses? Does that seem heartless not to say something? I didn't know what to do. I went to bed that night only thinking of how much I felt her pain in that hug, and how much I wished she knew that I wanted to do whatever she wanted me to do. I felt paralyzed in my fear of doing the wrong thing. She missed the opening of presents and stockings on Christmas morning, and midway through the morning my husband asked if she wanted to join us for coffee. Eventually, she did.

The years that followed were a mess . . . of things I said and didn't say, always wondering if we were supportive enough, but not in a pitying way. Those cringeworthy moments pop up in my mind from time to time, and all I can do is hope that she understood my intentions were genuine. That in my own journey through motherhood it was her resilience that I was in awe of, along with her courage and strength in forging a new path with dignity and grace. So why is it that we don't recall those monumental feats and touching moments when our mind wanders? Why do we always go back to those small, shallow non-incidents to pick apart? The entire tapestry of our lives is filled with such profound beauty and talent, and yet we pull at the loose threads to justify the ugliness we feel about our own parts we contributed to the masterpiece. It's such a shame, really.