Bringing in the Boat

Last weekend Ryan and I got a little crazy and instead of our usual Saturday of taking M to the pool or the beach, we dropped him off at the babysitter and went kayaking. We decided to try out the double kayak because what’s more romantic than sharing a tiny plastic boat that you have to self-propel down the river? This was our first go at this kind of adventure and it actually went pretty well. It took a few minutes to get into a rhythm and for the strokes of our paddles to sync up, but pretty soon we were happily moving along with the current.

The part of the river we floated along runs through town and is lined by big houses and fancy boats. I bet we could afford that one, I said, pointing to the one house that was smaller than the yacht out front. (Those people probably live in the yacht and use the house for guests.) We kept an eye out for dolphins and manatees but only saw a few turtles poke their little heads up and then swim away into the dark water as we approached. When we came up on two buoys we pretended we were on an Olympic kayak slalom course. Let’s just say we would not have won the gold.

There is a public dock at the point where we had planned on turning around and we needed to stretch our legs (ok, who are we kidding it had been forty-five minutes and I had to pee) so we made our first attempt at docking. Docking in a kayak is harder than it looks. I mean, you watch someone do it in the movies and you think, that’s no big deal. Well, it is a big deal. We went in at the wrong angle, didn’t coordinate our paddling and steering, and instead of smoothing sliding up next to the dock, it was more of a crash and bang kind of deal.

After our brief stop we head back, against the current this time, which took a bit of effort. (If I had it my way we’d just switch the current back the other way and keep on floatin.) When there was an especially strong section we both had to dig in extra deep to get through. A few times one of us had to rest and the other kept paddling to keep us moving. As we approached the dock this time we planned out our attack and successfully pulled in without even tapping the side.

Later we joked that if we had done something like this earlier in our marriage, one of us would have been in tears and one of us would have been swimming back to the dock. (You can guess who’s who.) We laughed, but the more I thought about it the more I realized it’s probably true.

During the first years of our marriage there wasn’t a lot of teamwork. We were still too self-focused and we both wanted to control the boat at the same time. When the current got too strong we got scared and weak. We didn’t want to pick up the other’s slack and we didn’t care to change for each other. We were crash banging our way into the docks of life.

Our kayak was getting worn out and it was either bail or start working together. Over time and many, many attempts our ride is getting smoother. We’ve learned to share control. Sometimes Ryan needs to take over but now and then I have to take the paddle and keep us moving. Stretches of strong currents only make us stronger as we work through them. Now we can adjust and adapt to each other’s changes instead of fighting them and when we’re approaching a dock we plan ahead to successfully bring the boat in.

Of course some of our trips are still bumpy, but at least no one is being thrown overboard. 

This one thing

I never realized what a judgy place it is out there in mommyland until I was pregnant with my son. Scary mommies, sanctimommies, all-up-in-your-business mommies. I dipped my toes in a few forums and Facebook groups but pulled out pretty quickly. I know there are some safe places out there but most of it is crazy town. I’ve never understood judging someone for the personal decisions they make or basing your decisions on what others might think.

For the most part I’ve made my mom and parent decisions without much angst. I drank coffee while pregnant (sometimes even a little wine, shhh don’t tell). I breast and bottle fed, both in public. I co-slept when I needed too and didn’t hide it. I don’t have a problem sharing the way I raise my son because I just don’t care what you think about it.

Except for this one thing.

When my son was about a month old I dropped him down the stairs. Literally dropped him. I had just given him a bath and was taking him downstairs to say goodnight to Ryan. I was walking down to the lowest level of our tri-level house and my foot slipped off the edge of a stair. When I fell he flew out of my hands, rolled down the last few steps and onto the floor. I thought I had killed him.

Ryan calmly picked up M and comforted him while at the same time tried to calm me down. I was almost hyperventilating and hadn’t moved from the spot where I’d landed. I felt paralyzed, and horrified, and Oh My God, what did I do?

I took M from Ryan, and while still crying and shaking, I examined his little body for the damage I was sure I would find.  Although M seemed fine, I was convinced that I had irreparably injured him. We took him the ER to get checked out and to save my mind. Telling the ER doctor why we were there made me want to throw up. What kind of mother drops her teeny-tiny baby?!

Fifty hours later (why does it take sooo long?). M got the all clear and we went home. I was still sure that something was wrong. That his brain was bleeding or there was a broken bone they just didn’t see. I held him, and cried, told him I was sorry, and barely slept that night.

He was fine, of course. Babies are like little rubber balls apparently and much more immune to falls than grown-ups. He didn’t have a mark on him; my bruise stuck around for a good month. My body wasn’t the only thing bruised though, so was my sense of self-worth as a mom. Telling the ER doc that I dropped my child was bad enough, I couldn't imagine telling my friends or even my own mom. Forget about telling internet strangers. I would surely be ripped apart. “Well if you were wearing him that wouldn’t have happened.” “This is exactly why I don’t have stairs in my house.”

It seems silly now, not telling, because I know accidents happen all the time. Moms fall down stairs. Babies roll off changing tables. Kids get away from you at the mall.

I’ve also come to realize that in the aftermath of an accident like this this is when I actually find my mom-worth. The same goes for when M falls and skins his knee and looks to me for comfort. Or when he is sick and finds some peace in my arms only. In these moments I am completely focused on him and all my motherly instincts kick in.

As mothers, our worth is not defined by when we drop our babies down the stairs, let them roll off the table, or lose track of them for a second at the mall. It’s in after, in how we respond to these situations, that our mom-worth is revealed.  

From now on I will share my accident stories proudly. Those fourm moms need some new stories to clutch their pearls over anyway.