Jes and I were sitting on the couch watching America’s Got Talent (which should be changed to America’s Got Sympathy, cuz, talent or not, if you have a good sob story, are under the age of 10 or are petite and can lift up your 240lb hubby, we’re putting ya through, dammit.) when all of a sudden, she turns to stare at me, eyes wide.
“Next Saturday is July 4th!” she exclaimed, panic playing in her voice.
I had to think a minute. Where the fuck did June go?? But, indeed, next Saturday is July 4th. Her due date.
“You aren’t necessarily going to have her on that day.” I explained for the 15th (or so) time. “You could go a week or two past that. Or, you could have her tomorrow!”
“I know.” she said, looking down. She was quiet a minute and then she spoke softly to her hands. “I’m not ready.”
I bit back such supportive comments as ‘Gee, you should have thought of that about nine months ago!’ and ‘Too bad, chicka!’ I looked at her and realized that in spite of her gruff exterior and the huge chip that seems to be in permanent residence on her shoulder, she is just a terrified child.
So instead of my usual sarcasm, I patted her belly and smiled at her. “I don’t think any first-time mother is ever ready. It’s scary and it’s hard, but you’re not alone.”
She nodded and took a deep breath, blowing it out. “Physically I’m ready.” she laughed. “Kid is squishing my lungs.”
She really is getting quite uncomfortable; back pain, swollen ankles, can’t sleep, peeing every 30 minutes, Braxton-Hicks contraction– the list is endless– and oh-so-familiar to anyone who has ever been pregnant. She’s also very self-conscious about how big she is. For someone who once worked at being skinny and attractive, she feels like a, well, like a land-whale.
Just the other day, she was telling me how different it is when boys look at her now. How, when they can just see her face, they look interested- until the rest of her comes into view, and then they grimace or turn away or elbow their buddy.
That’s hard on a girl’s self-esteem. No amount of reassurance that your figure will come back is believable when you can’t see your toes and you’re seeing stretch marks appear by the day. 17 is an awfully young age to watch your looks change forever.
I told her boys are dumb.
Speaking of dumb boys, over the last couple of months, though she’s remained on friendly terms with the baby-daddy, and is still just as determined to have him be a part of the baby’s life, she’s seen what an absolute useless source of support he’s going to be. Time and distance leads to perspective, and because his other baby was born about 6 months ago and she’s seen how he is as a father (and I use that term loosely), she’s pretty well written him off as being useful. When I ask her what she sees in her future regarding him and a possible relationship, she very matter of factly shakes her head. “No. I don’t even like him anymore. He’s not very nice and he treats his girlfriends like crap. I don’t want that.”
So, yay for progress?
(Though let’s not get too excited about that progress. She’s still sleeping with him when she can. Apparently, he is just THAT good. Oy. Is she my daughter or what??)
Anyway, her nerves are on edge. She’s scared. We’ve gone over and over and over my birthing stories. She hangs on every single detail, she’s watched youtube videos of births, she’s googled, she’s read books- and none of that is going to matter a whit when she starts having contractions.
And she, especially, is so much not into pain. Of any sort. She’s never handled it well and as her mother, like any mother when they see their kid hurting, I just ache for what I know she’s in for. They don’t call it labor for nothing.
“I’ve never even held a newborn before.” she told me that night as we sat on the couch. “I don’t know how to change a diaper, I don’t know how to make a bottle. I don’t know what to do when she cries. I don’t know anything.”
This wasn’t the time to detail for her my own fears. Because as she laid out how much she’s going to be relying on me to show her and teach her, I’m slightly panicked that I won’t remember any of it myself.
But beyond being afraid that I won’t remember the details of baby care, is being afraid to care too much. Of being afraid that the lines are going to blur. I’m going to be too involved. By necessity I’ll be closer in role to Mom than Grandma.
I remember when I first divorced my kids’ father and had to swallow my pride and move back to my parent’s house with my kids.
I remember how my mother was unable to maintain the boundary between grandparent and parent. She, from the second I came in the door, assumed the motherly role. She took over, pushing me off to work, pushing me away.
I remember trying to bring it up. To tell her that she’s overstepping her boundaries, that the kids were mine and not hers, that I was Mom.
And, I remember how incensed that made her. How she’d scream “So! What is it we’re supposed to do here, Tess? Are we just supposed to do all this stuff for you and help you out and NOT have any say in things? Is that what you expect?”
While inside I’d be screaming back, “Yes. Jesus Christ, yes. That is *exactly* what I expect!” She would end her little rant with “Because if that’s what you expect, then you can just move on out. Right now.”
If I had other living options, I wouldn’t have been living *there*. So I said nothing and I watched as my kids became more her’s than mine.
Now, I find myself beginning the same journey my mother had; grandparenting in the parenting role. And I can see, I can understand much better, what she was thinking when she said those words to me. How DO you help without trying to control?
But I also remember how *I* felt, too. Helpless and powerless and frustrated and angry and resentful and and and… all because I needed help.
Needing help is not synonymous with helpless. I needed assistance, I didn’t need someone to take over. Jes will need help, a lot more than even I did back then, but I will not, I cannot, take over.
I’m getting a glimpse of how hard that is going to be. I am so in love with this baby I’ve never seen. I don’t know if I can maintain the distance I’m going to need.
Sometimes I’m envious of those grandparents who are able to experience this the “right” way. Where baby will not be in their house 24 hours a day, they can babysit for a night or a day, visit, and then go home. By sheer physical location, the appropriate boundaries are in place already.
I’m envious of those who can shop for a cute outfit for their new grandbaby without having to think also of the coming costs of formula and diapers. Without having to choose between that completely unnecessary-but-darling pink lace bonnet and the necessary new bottle nipples. I should be buying the cute stuff and Mommy should be buying the necessities.
Instead, I’m thrust into the parenting responsibilites- without the parenting rights.
Boundaries, boundaries, boundaries. They’re already blurring.
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Uncategorized | kaya | 
Friday June 26th, 2009 12:40pm | 
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