Sweet 'n' Sour

There are four.

But I only tell people about the three they can see.  The fourth came first.  He brought innocence and purity, which he took when he left.  I haven’t told the other three about the first.  Because I don’t know how to explain about really bad things.

When the next one came I stupidly forgot to hide the soft part of me.  I left it exposed, like the new skin underneath a band-aid.   I thought that nothing could hurt me any more.

I was wrong.

He cooed like a wounded owl.   And he didn’t speak.  Didn’t have a voice of his own.  So I gave him mine knowing he might still never know what he meant to me.     

The next one clung to me as if we were suddenly reunited after a long trip apart.  Never leaving my side, resting in the place on my chest that seemed designed for the shape of his head.  Asking me if I loved him over and over again until it became a game that we played.  Silly to everyone else but fiercely serious to him.  Making sure that I understood I could never leave him. 

Then, a surprise.  The last one born on the day the first was supposed to be.  Coming into the world warm and kicking and squirming with life.  Joy and guilt combining in a sweetly painful way like cinnamon gum. And in spite of everything, filling me with irrepressible hope.   

For all four.

Tamar, Boston, MA, stay-at-home mom

Sour

I just can’t get used to the shock of motherhood, the shock of having no sleep, most days no shower, a constant torrent of housework, and the feeling of overly caffeinated exhaustion day in and out. I feel at the end of every day that I’ve run a marathon.

Did our mothers feel this way, too?

I think our generation feels, in a way that our mothers’ did not, that we need to do everything a bit too perfectly so that our children don’t wind up addicted to video games, junk food, Prozac and ADD meds. We read all the books, buy all the latest gear to help bond with our baby, get the toy that will help promote social empathy and gross motor skills, avoid BPA, take DHA, but not the kind that might have mercury in it, and basically do everything within our power to ensure that they don’t grow up like we did: with Tang and fruit-roll-ups in the pantry, parents divorcing loudly in the bedroom at night after we’d gone to bed, and more time with the TV than anyone else.

But really, was it so bad for us? What are we running around like mad for, really? What are we trying to inoculate our children against?

I suppose, if I’m truly honest with myself, it is this – a most frightening prospect: I’m trying to prevent my child from feeling the way about me as I do about my parents.

- Cleo, New York, NY, stay-at-home mom