mom in camo

Becoming a new parent is like getting thrown into the deep end of the pool to test your swimming skills. My initiation took place in the wee hours of morning when my colic son would awake hourly in discomfort to scream out whatever ounce of sanity I had left from the previous night. I always pictured the gurgling, cooing child; half-asleep, wiggling beside me to signal that Junior Pants is ready to eat and go back to sleep. Imagine my expression when I practically somersaulted out of bed at the Level 4 alarm of our son's cry. He would be quiet for five seconds and I would think that maybe he had calmed. But that little pause was only a soundless cry that caused his little lips to turn shades of berry. Then he proceeded to erupt in half-second intervals of screams. My dear God! What is wrong with my child? My husband and I operated on the full amperage of wide-eyed sleeplessness and shock. When I was at the University of Arizona, I took an “Adventure Training” class without knowing it was offered through the ROTC program. Turned out that my instructor wore combat boots and insisted that we respond with a hearty “Sir, yes Sir!” But I stayed in the class because it challenged me. My most memorable moment came not from rappelling off a 100-foot fire tower or getting dropped off in the Tucson desert with only a compass to lead me back to camp. Instead it came one chilly November morning at the Olympic-sized pool. We arrived to find our army fatigues and combat boots lying out on the cold cement, and at first glance, one might think that the previous class had met their doom and now lay dead beside the pool. There was no size selection, so most of us were already swimming in the excess material of our attire before we ever hit the water.
“Okay. The purpose of your mission is to swim to the other side while holding your rifle above your head. You WILL take your twenty-pound rubber rifles in both hands. You WILL ascend the high dive and then proceed to single-file jump into the water below WITHOUT dropping your rifles. If you drop your rifle--” and here a perverse smile smeared over the sergeant's face, “--you WILL swim down and retrieve your weapon!”
“Sir, yes Sir!”
The boots were like lead on my feet, and my poor imagination could only liken the experience to tying cement blocks around my ankles so I would have no chance of surviving the swim. Jumping off the high dive would have been enough of a thrill for me. This was plain suicidal. I could sense in my other classmates the same trepidation that made my heartbeat visible all the way through my camo. Somehow I got jostled to second in line, and I stumbled my way up the steps until I wavered on the plank in the early morning breeze. I could hear the sergeant somewhere beneath me yelling, “On the count of three, jumper...”
I closed my eyes, clutched my rifle and thought of every person I loved. Then I jumped, feeling the weight of my fatigues, rifle and fear pulling me down farther into the icy water. Instinct and adrenalin kicked in, and I wiggled my way to the surface of the water, fighting against the net my clothing created around my body. One gasp of precious air and I was flicking my boots and mermaid swimming with my legs, and one thought occupied my mind. “Only a little farther.”
When I reached the other side and plunked my rifle on the cement in victory, I simply floated for a moment on the feeling of accomplishment. My fatigues ballooned out in the water, creating a kind of body life vest, and I looked up at the pink dawn smiling.
“Swimmer! Exit the water and proceed to the lap pool!”
What? There's more?! Is my son really awake again screaming? I swear I've only been asleep for three and a half minutes! Remember the Three S's: Swaddle, Static, Suck! He's quiet; he's blinking—oh! He's sleeping again! Quick, close your eyes...and...rest...
Parenting is Green Beret training in such virtues as patience, perseverance and unconditional love. It's a moment-to-moment process that starts with the fear of not knowing how we will do what is being asked of us. Then the jump and exhilaration of risk, the burden that seems too great to bear, and the numbing peace of a job well done. This last moment is brief before the cycle begins all over again, but the intensity of that satisfaction is fuel to keep trying.

weening the nums

day two of official weening has gone fairly well considering that my son (C) has a louder cry than a regional emergency alarm, and he's been fine tuning it for 2 1/2 years. he protested, he kicked, but then he submitted to my gentle persuasion that this is still our time together (ie without his little sister--H). He wanted to take a 'little walk', so i rounded the block slowly, admiring the ocean of clouds in the sky and telling him that mama still holds him so close and loves him so much.

i thought C would be one of those kindergartners you see snuggling up to their mother's breast while the teacher reports on his social and learning skills with a look of pukey disgust. i didn't quite know how the process would go or when it would ever come. i know that two days ago a feeling of anger--no, not anger--but resentment surfaced, while he was nursing one of the two times he still got to (nap times). my thought was 'you shouldn't be nursing.'

that night, after walking with a dear friend and venting about charlie's latest tantrum patterns, i told C that tonight he could have the nums but very soon the nums will be all gone for C. he cried because in his purely zen way, that meant that this very moment where he always dwells, there are no more nums. but he latched on contentedly and nursed himself to sleep that night and i lingered longer than usual thinking about the closing of this particular kind of relationship between us, and i felt so confident, so grounded as i stroked and smelled his curly hair.