WTF Fridays: Conditional Love

I have a question for all the mums out there. Dads can answer too, but it's mostly the mums I want to hear from on this.

When did you actually start liking your child?

The reason I ask is because it's only in the last few weeks that I've started to feel a conscious, willing feeling of affinity to Bea. It would alarm me terribly if I hadn't been through it before with Max. I had hoped it would be different this time, but I gave myself room to be the same on this issue. In the undulating seas that comprise the motherhood journey, the hardest lesson is understanding that some things will change irrevecobaly whilst others remain steadfast. And I've long known my goal on this earth was to be able to adapt to my chaotic surroundings yet still maintain my hard-won sense of sense within, where the still waters stay unperturbed.

Max was a hard baby to like. He suffered from colic for a good year, the worst being the first 8 months, and once that went away and his smiles became regular, his hearing problems (and subsequent developmental delays) made him irascible quite often. Looking back, the poor kid couldn't hear very well and was desperate to communicate. I know now how important that was to him, given that he's inherited his mother's flow of words and need to made connexions with everyone he encounters. The upshot is that his screaming fits, once from gas pains and then from frustration, lasted hours and made him very...well, unlikable.

There is no question that I loved him. It wasn't an active love, not one that overwhelmed and lightened my heart. I knew it was there because I kept on taking care of him, and when I wanted to hit him or throw him against a wall, I left the room, hit a bookcase with my fist (a good wooden one will give a satisfying thump and leave your arm with minimal damage), or just scream in the shower with the water running full-blast. Any person who has not reached this point with their child is either a saint or in deep denial and the queen of sublimation. And on that note, it was my dear cousin who recently passed away (God receive her troubled soul) who had been through many of life's wringers who told me, "It's okay to want to throw your screaming baby out the window. Just don't do it".

So for the first 17 or 18 months, I didn't like Max. I resented the chaos he brought in my life. I resented what he did to my figure, how he seemed to invite criticism from all corners, from family members to random folks on the street telling me of my motherly shortcomings or offering advice, and I resented how much work and devotion I was putting into this incredible ball of puking, stinking need. It wasn't until his personality bubbled to the surface in little pops that I got to see what was going on in his head and realised with several late-night shocks and jerkings from sleep that dear holy God, this kid was just like me...born with his skin inside out and unable to stop feeling everything so intensely.

That's when I started liking him. By that point, he'd had surgery on his ears. The tubes inserted in his ear drums opened up the world for him. Within two weeks, he was speaking real words, communicating on our level and not making the underwater noises he had been hearing, and really, truly joining in on what our family had to offer.

But deep down, I felt guilt. I was his mother, a font of unconditional love and amiability, smiling like the beatific Virgin with her cloaks of sky blue, always welcoming and understanding, and always, always liking him, even if no one else did. The fact that I could communicate with him now, play with him and have him play back just made it all the more intense, and all the feelings I longed to have for him came crashing down, like someone opening a trap door to a loft, and finally things felt Right.

Still, the guilt remained. Shouldn't all this have happened ages ago? Why couldn't I be like those other bend-in-the-wind-but-don't-break mothers I saw at his play group who spoke in perfectly modulated tones to their little ones, who knew intuitively when it was time for a snack or a hug or some crafts, whose mothering skills came as easily as the wind blowing? Why was everything so rocky and opaque for me? As over the moon as I was about having Max, particularly when I had so much working against me, I resented how hard it was for me all the damn time. Lessons learned from yesterday never made it to the next day in my sleep-deprived mind. How come one day I could be utterly crazy about him, but after a bad night's sleep I could despise him so greatly and just want to run as far away as I could?

Why the hell was this so hard for me?

It's 8 years later, and I am completely devoted to Max. I've always said that I'm glad he is who he is because I don't think I could've lasted if he'd been any other way. He is painfully empathetic, overly mature, aware of every mood and need, and so affectionate that it slays me. How many 8-year-olds would come off the afternoon school bus, run over to their baby sister, and ask, "Hello mummy! How was your day? How did Bea go? Did she let you nap at all?"

It makes me fear about him never finding a place in a world that is so devoid of warmth.

So now that I have Bea, I'm going through it all again, with variations on a theme. The feelings of resentment are more intense, the bursts of rage at being trapped in Mommyland, a place I swore I'd never be, are frightening and explosive...but I'm chalking that up to being 7 years older and living in a very foreign country where the isolation is so extreme that sometimes I don't communicate with anyone but my own family for days, even weeks because I still can't wrap my brain and my tongue around German. The feelings of failure are more acute: when I drop Bea off at the Tagesmutter's each morning for my 6 hours of freedom, every single day a wave of guilt washes over me for trying to push her away from me. Bea is even more of a miracle than Max, and I worked incredibly hard to get her here that I don't understand why I would ever want someone else to take care of her. How could I be such a bad, conditionally-loving mother? What kind of legacy am I leaving?

On our recent trip to the states, we stayed in a hotel in MD for about 5 days, and each night was wretched. Bea was on antibiotic for a chesty cough, we were all severely jet lagged, and no one was feeling or sleeping well. Bea made the night wretched with 2-3 hours of crying, screaming, and kvetching. She wanted to be held all the time. If we put in a video, she wanted someone to watch it with her. She didn't like anything we were trying to feed her. She hated the rolling port-a-crib and kept getting her feet stuck in the bars. She awoke several times a night wanting her bink or a bottle. When she was awake, she whined constantly, pulled at our legs, wanted up, then wanted down, then up again. We spent that week in a haze of exhaustion, driving from one side of the state to the other to visit people and show them our Miracle Child, only to have her be the most unpleasant guest possible. Max got marginalised, for the first time ever expressing resentment at all the attention Bea was soaking up. We did our best to meet the needs of both kids, but it cost us our domestic tranquility and any hope of time spent together alone. And it cost us our sleep, which we desperately needed.

And I cannot even write here the things I was thinking about her as she screamed incessantly, the names I was calling her in my head, the things I wanted to do just to shut. her. up. It's part shame that holds me back, but it's also knowing that the thoughts were temporary, and being deeply grateful that Thoughtcrime remains in the Orwellian universe because if it didn't, I'd be strapped to a bed and on high doses of Thorazine.

You can sit there and say to your screen, "Oh, but Yorkie, every mom has moments like that." And I can say with a large degree of certainy that you might relate on some level, but unless you have an anxiety disorder like I do, you really don't understand how deeply these thoughts run. For the nature (and the main crux) of an anxiety disorder lies on two rocky beds: what MIGHT happen, usually the worst case scenario, and the truly terrifying thought of losing control of oneself. Throw in jet-lag, lack of sleep, and two demanding children, and you might get a whiff of how awful my thoughts were. Oh, and add a dash of family strife, namely two aging parents, one of whom is a mentally ill shut in, who refuse to do anything to help themselves or change their situation and are slowly deteriorating, and maybe you can plunge a bit deeper into my temporary psychosis. Yeah. It really is that bad.

And in all this is the idee fixe that I can only like Bea when she isn't screeching, when she's playing happily with her toys and being generally pleasant. It feels wrong, it feels conditional, and it feels convicting. It's not as though I only like her when she's sitting quietly and doesn't need any interaction from me. Quite the contrary--I love it when she's in the kitchen with me, wandering around, pulling open drawers and shifting contents around. I think it's hilarious to open the vegetable crisper in the fridge and find nestled there, among other things, a squeaky toy or a roll of duct tape. I love it when she comes up and hands me a shoe she's liberated from the front hall, grinning with pride and babbling in her baby language, "Look what I found, Mummy! TREASURE!" Uncurling her fists reveals that she's been carrying around a wrapped granola bar most of the day or a handful of yarn or a drool-soaked sock. I find it endlessly fascinating how she can shake a plastic drinks bottle full of popcorn seeds, dimes, and screws for hours, her eyes glazed over with joy, completely absorbed. I love her randomness, and I love her shining face. It's at those times I feel like I'm doing it Right At Last.

It's when she's kept us up from 12.30 to 2.30 every morning with screeching and general irratibility, hungry but refusing to feed, and making life so miserable that I feel genuine resentment, and my liking of her drops off the page. My love for her is still there, quietly plodding along, but liking her? No way. Get her out of my face. I just want to sit here and read for a while. Or write. Or knit. Or take more than an 8-minute shower before she starts shrieking again, cranking it up like a siren. At those moments, I would happily hand her off to a stranger just to get some sleep.

Have I thought about harming her? Of course. Have I done it? I once gave her diapered butt a very slight swat...it startled her enough to halt her screaming and writhing so I could wipe some smeary crap off her bum before it got all over the walls. The other times I have pounded the wardrobe or repeatedly slammed the bathroom door shut because if I didn't release that pressure on something other than her, I might've done harm to an innocent human. When the chaos roars in my head, I desperately try to remember that she's doing none of this on purpose, that she's purely a reactionary creature, and that she probably does want to please me on some level. It doesn't always work and it never gives a feeling of relief. But it's better than giving into a frightening black rage that occasionally spews forth from some deep seething well, formed long before she was ever a wink in her father's eye.

I have sought therapy on this. I take medication. I talk as much as I can, but my words are limited and sometimes shameful. On the flight over to the US, Bea was severely ill from turbulance and the plane's wing-tipping and circling from a delayed landing, and 90 seconds before we landing she threw up everywhere. It was so copious that it soaked the seat cushion and dribbled down onto the bag of the kid who sat behind her. I felt awful about the bag but not about the seat--no guilt there, actually, because what could they expect with so much upping and downing, that no one would puke? But for the 20 minutes we circled, wobbled, and bounced, Bea screamed incessantly, and I muttered things I won't even repeat here...all I can hope is that God didn't take me seriously.

However, once she puked, my feelings changed immediately. I felt so badly for her. I didn't know she was sick, not that I could've done anything for her. The feeling of Right Before You Puke is much, much worse than actually puking, poor baby, and once she blew chunks, I snapped into action. I wiped her down as much as I could, spoke soothingly to her, wrapped her in her blanket, and kept her as calm as I could. Once we were through customs and immigration and had collected our baggage, I took her into the handicapped bathroom where, with Max's help, I gave her a bird bath in the sink, calmed her down even more, and changed her clothes. After that, things were okay for a while.

So here's my question (and if you've slogged through all that and have any brain cells left, maybe you could answer me): is this conditional love? Am I only caring about her when she's clean, well-behaved, and smiling? Am I sending her (and Max) the message that they're only acceptable when they're doing their best to please me, something they'll think is normal and carry on with their own kids?

I like the notion of unconditional love, but I've never known it to be altogether true. Look at women who continue to love their abusers. It seems more destructive than anything else to love without caveats or even slight restrictions. And I'm desperately afraid I'm doing this with my kids. I don't have any answers right now, so anything you could throw my way would be helpful.

If it helps, I believe in miracles. Last night I couldn't fall asleep from pure nerves. Around 12.30 Bea woke up in need of a bottle, and I thought, Here we go again. I fed her a few ounces, and she fell asleep and--mirabile dictu!--stayed that way until 7 am when she needed re-binking. She fell asleep again until the impossible time of 11.30, whereupon she woke up sunny and happy as a lark. I fed her, played with her, got her dressed, and around 1.30 she went down again for a nap...which is how I was able to put these thoughts down on the screen and unclog my brain a bit. When I went to bed last night, I prayed (it might surprise many to know how much I pray or how strong my belief in God remains) for some relief. And I got a direct answer, more of a feeling, that translated to, "It may not be what you're expecting, but it will be what you need."

And when I awoke at 11.30 and heard Bea making happy sounds in her cot, I thought, I choose to believe this was an act of God. It might be coincidence, but at my age I feel I've a right to choose which I want--science or God or maybe something else.

It's good to feel hope again.