The other night, a bunch of us were sitting around in vent, chatting after a run, shooting the shit about our lives. One of the younger members of the guild declared ‘I am never having kids’. Realize, most of the older folks in guild are sarcastic, semi-cranky, blunt people. But one of them- a 25+ year veteran of a major metro police force, a gruff and no-shit-from-no-body kind of man- started waxing rhapsodic. They’re a lot of work. But man. There is nothing better than having kids. We might complain sometimes, but oh. Best thing in the world, being a parent.
I bitch and complain a lot. But I try not to do it to Sean’s face. When he was sick, when he was awake it was all about him. Do you need snuggles? Can I get you another blankie? Ready to try some soup? I will hold you for as long as you want, pumpkin. The moment his head hit the pillow I was cracking a bottle of wine, logging on, and letting loose a stream of invective about lovable, money-sucking ambulatory petri dishes. But I’m willing to bet a couple of bucks that no one in my online fam doubts my (or, for that matter, the Lad’s) love for our son. That our bitching is pretty much usually about the crazy crapola- high fevers, incompetent ERs, psycho PTO fundraisers- that accompanies parenthood and not about our child, this little human being with feelings.
I keep telling friends who are pregnant and freaking that children really need basics- love, security, safety, food, warmth, medical attention (Sean would argue vociferously that needs to be expanded to include rhino, books, lego, and Fetch! With Ruff Ruffman!)- and everything else is gravy. Something has happened, in our little sphere, to remind me that not every parent is so good on the love and not-bitching-about-the-kid-themselves thing. We have a ringside seat to what happens when you deprive your kids of security, of that touchstone knowledge that your parents will have your back no matter what- no matter how big or small the need. (If they won’t help out with something small, how can you trust them when shit really hits the fan?) The bitterness and pure callous disregard for feelings is palpable, it’s like a stinging note in the fall breeze. I have yet to hear a good word, a loving one, a supportive one. All I hear is contempt: it is the truest word for it. Pure, vile contempt.
And oh, oh how it hurts. It is not my family, but oh how I want to give hugs and pet hair and bake cookies and talk in a tone and with words I doubt have ever been given sincerely. I don’t know why it rocked me so, but at the first opportunity I pulled Sean into my arms and buried my face in his hair, murmuring, “I have something super important to tell you, and I want you to listen.”
“What?”
“I love you.”
He looked at me as though I were nuts, and said slowly, like one might say to an especially dumb animal, “I love you too, Mom.”
“And it doesn’t matter how big you mess up. You can bomb a test-”
“Bomb?”
Fail. Flunk. the Lad offered helpfully.
“Or get on orange or break something or whatever. No matter what. We will still love you and support you. We love you and we will always try to help you when you need us. You need to always remember that. Sometimes it’s tough to remember your parents might be disappointed, but they’ll still love you and help you.”
Sean blinked at me, shaking the hair out of his eyes, squirming the ridiculous length of his body as he sprawled across my lap. And then he reached up and patted my shoulder.
“I know mom. I know.”