I used to have small children. They were often covered in drool and required constant maintenance. There was never a time when I felt relaxed. I spent all their waking hours following the little, wobbly beings, to and fro, hoping they wouldn’t smash their head into the corner of some menacing coffee table or trip over a dog hair (they weren’t very stable).
I remember always being tired, never eating a meal with two hands (which led to the creation of the “meat-pop,” because even one hand can stick a fork in a chicken cutlet) and fantasizing about the day they would use the bathroom on their own. And leave me alone to do the same.
I cleaned up behind exploring terrors as they tore through everywhere, like angry tornadoes of sticky fingers and snotty noses. I tiptoed to bed each night, praying for one solid block of sleep – one beautiful, solid block of sleep – before someone had a nightmare or was hungry or just needed to scream because they knew I was nearly insane and were hoping to push me right over the edge, into our own shared, padded room where I couldn’t escape from their touch and/or cries.
Yet somehow, I was still insanely happy. Because there is no feeling like the one that overcomes you when your baby belly laughs. When your little one reaches out their arms to you for the first time, it’s like, for just that moment, heaven came to earth. And then there is your sleeping baby, a perfect being so amazing that the simple sight of those chubby cheeks make you forget every single spit up-stained shirt, every lost minute of rest, and every car ride that began and ended with crying, with a large dose of crying in-between.
It was all of those moments, and impossible dreams for the future, that kept me going when I was sure I was at the breaking point. I would watch my sisters, whose children are anywhere from four to nine years older than mine, have a rational conversation with a person who could form full sentences and eat with a fork and think, “there’s hope.”
I won’t always think that “at least it’s sort of clean” is a hairstyle. My wardrobe won’t forever be decided by how well the garment hides stains. And one day, one unimaginably glorious day, my husband and I will have our whole bed to ourselves (not counting cats and/or dogs).
So now I have big children. Though they tend not to have too many issues with drool, they still require an inordinate amount of maintenance. Worries over bashed heads on coffee tables have been replaced with fear of school shootings and designer drugs. Can we all agree that turning gummy bears into illegal narcotics is a total violation of every person’s childhood?
The tired that I feel now is not lessened, just different. I think it might be cumulative, like it’s spent the last 15 years settling deep into my bones. I don’t usually get up 18 times a night, but it takes forever to get to bed. I can’t count how many nights I’ve looked up from a sink full of dirty dishes and seen 9 p.m. staring back at me. And before I can carry my own self off to bed, I still have to chase kids to theirs. Instead of worrying that they’ll wake up at 2 a.m., now I hope they get to sleep before 2 a.m.
And why do I even find myself at the sink at such an hour? With little ones, everyone had to be settled in and unwound by 8 p.m. or their heads began to spin and they started spewing at me. Now, there are a couple of nights each week when the activities aren’t even over by that time. Yet, the alarm starts blaring before dawn the next day. No wonder teenagers are such angry and moody little beasts.
But at least they stay in their own beds. I think. I mean, by the time my head hits the pillow, they could probably have a rave outside my door and I would sleep through it. Who am I kidding? I still bolt upright if one of them sneezes.
Mom ears are both a blessing and a curse. After all, they help me listen in on back seat conversations with ease. Because, apparently, when kids are not right next to me, they think that I no longer hear them. Like the chauffer that I’ve become, my silence translates to deafness and I am blessed with all the tween/teen dirt that is swirling around my kids.
That dirt is usually a combination of fantastical nonsense (“Did you hear that some kid kicked out a window in school today and set off all the fire alarms?”), classic adolescent drama (“She told him she just likes him as a friend and now he’s being such a jerk!”) and actual important stuff (“I think that kid got arrested.”) that brings you to attention and makes you wonder why your child knows someone that may be a criminal.
Having big kids allows me to take a long, hot shower, without interruption, provided someone before me didn’t use up all the hot water and/or doesn’t need to know, right at that moment, where I keep the cornstarch (FYI, this is never a good question and should only be answered when you can see his/her hands). I sometimes even have time to wash my hair. Which is important because big kids care if you just shove a pile of hair up on top of your head, particularly if you plan to show up somewhere that they are or where someone they may have known, currently know, or could know in the future, may be.
All of my dreams of freedom and worry-free living were just that, fanciful ideas that never become reality.
A couple of years ago, I asked my aunt how it was to have adult children, with their own kids, that you didn’t have to worry about anymore. She looked at me like I was both insane and maybe a little stupid, “You never stop worrying. It just changes.” Then she ran after a grandchild who was getting a little to close to the edge of the pool.
Yet somehow, I’m still insanely happy. When your kid expresses empathy for a another child who is behaving badly — “I haven’t walked a mile in his shoes” — your heart swells with pride. A perfect test score has you doing a mental happy dance, because you know how hard they studied. And when a big kid reaches out for a hug, the rare and mythical teen-hug, whose numbers cannot be truly verified due to the non-disclosure agreement you must sign beforehand, it can bring on a near fainting spell of blissful delirium. And you forget every slammed door, every wet towel left on the bed and all the money that you gave them for hot lunch that they spent on brownies.
I’ve stopped hoping for things to get better, because I finally realize that they’ve always been pretty great. And really, it only takes about half an hour to color away the gray hairs that started popping up the day I became a mother and increase exponentially with each concussion and every missed call.
I hate putting toxic chemicals in or on my body, but I’m too pale to pull off the gray hair thing. I am a fan of henna and if you get the right kind, it successfully covers gray hair, without the unpronounceable ingredients. Two pieces of advice though:
1. Be prepared for a mess. Henna is kind of like a mud pack for your hair.
2. Do NOT use henna on previously chemical-colored hair. Seriously. Do NOT. Your hair will turn green. It’s a shade of evergreen that is not easily ignored and, interestingly, can’t be stripped out. Trying to color over it produces a stronger and more vibrant green. So you have to wait for it to grow out. If you have long hair, this can take upwards of two years. And even if your teen niece thinks it’s cool, I promise you, it’s not.
Mehandi swears you can use theirs over synthetic dye, but I haven’t verified this, because, quite frankly, I am paralyzed with fear. I can’t go back to the green.
Check out hennaforhair for step-by-step instructions and photos. Even if you don’t intend to use henna, you should really check out the photos. You haven’t really lived until you’ve seen henna in action.
Laurie Nigro, a mother of two, is passionate about her family, her community, and natural living. Laurie resides in downtown Riverhead and is co-founder of the River and Roots Community Garden on West Main Street.
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