Not
surprisingly, he has begun to look at his own (one day) 5th birthday with
idealized regard and now reconciles everything that he covets but that is out
of reach- special events, activities, freedoms, repeat opportunities to go on
excursions via plane- by saying, albeit unconvincingly, “maybe when I’m five”.
Despite the
tentative tone, it works and he has somehow been able to manage his lofty
expectations with this simple reminder, however inaccurate. Unfortunately (for
me) his regular wantedness, his daily basis neediness, continues to know no
bounds and he starts many common sentences with a demanding: “I want”.
I was
washing dishes this morning, early, already feeling desperate after a week of
him sick and our life therefore tabled, multiple days restricted to the four
walls of our home, when he started in at me: all the things he wanted, how he
wanted them done. His father is away, mourning the life of a relative, and, therefore,
it doesn’t matter that it’s Saturday. It’s just me here. Here with them; their
requests.
I didn’t
reply, which had no impact on his behaviour but assisted me to feel somewhat
grounded, empowered even- such a subtle act of resistance.
Not one to
back down, he persisted. Baby, teething, made his gentle way in to the kitchen from
where he played near by. ”Mum mum mum” he muttered, approaching where I stood,
signaling he too had a desire for me to provide any number of things: milk,
attention, comfort, entertainment, reprieve.
I found
myself looking up at the ceiling and was confronted by it’s unglamourous, entry
level appearance- not helpful- and thought briefly of shaking the clawing paws
off my ankles, brushing past the talking machine, and making my exit: down the
stairs and out the front door, away from all that is expected of me, complete
with my yet untouched morning coffee.
Instead, I
found myself doing what I recall having witnessed my mother do, and with closed
eyes, pursed lips, and taught breath, I hush-growled to the white roof: ”Lord,
give me strength”- more of a threat then a prayer.
When I
opened my eyes, I hadn’t yet found the courage to turn to my eldest but I bent
to retrieve baby, moaning now, and was impressed with just how quickly he
settled once stationed on my left hip. So simple, so primary, so generous in
his acceptance of what is.
I heard
myself think, and then say ”We can’t have everything that we want”, mostly in
effort to remind myself of the same, it would seem.
“But, look
at me momma! I want you to look at me! Qatch me momma! Do you see me?”.
It seemed as
though my statement was mistaken for participation and he was encouraged…
“Do you see
me?”, I replied in all seriousness, turning to him, finally. He looked
confused. “Do you?” I implored.
The question
was lost on him.
He can’t see
my Master’s degree, begging for completion. He doesn’t see my muscles,
screaming for a run. He doesn’t see my brain, dehydrated, thirsty for adult
company, conversation, camaraderie. He doesn’t see my skin, itchy for lack of
sleep. He doesn’t know the sacrifices that I make and what goes undone on my
own list of wants so that he and his brother, both beyond deserving, can have a
life complete. He sees his mother, and she’s pretty great, but he just doesn’t
see me.
Maybe when
he’s five?
Heather is a married
mother of two and an allied health professional living in the Greater Vancouver
area. She is the author of www.motheryourbusiness.com, which was recently
chosen as one of Vancouver’s top 30 momma blogs by www.vancouvermom.ca. 
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