13

Proceed with Caution and Care

Photo by Waldemar Brandt on Unsplash

Thirteen years ago I labored.

She was late. She spent an extra week on the inside, soaking me in, pushing on my sides with her heel. Her head rested in the most uncomfortable spot, and made me aware that every move I made might result in some sort of expulsion; but she was snug. No matter what I tried, walking, fiery foods, sex, even a glass of wine at the end, she stayed cozy and safe, avoiding February exposure and the elements of New York City for as long as she could. She, being the smart girl that she is, chose to winter inside of me.

It was supposed to be a forced eviction, but true to her form she came on her own terms, in her own time. It was the middle of the night, and I still feel bad for the cab driver who got us to the hospital in time. I think about how he must have been panicked. How he saw that I was on the brink of something tremendous. He said nothing about me being pregnant during the ride, but when he dropped us off, he wished me luck. He knew, but he didn’t want to know, and maybe he had a girl of his own at home so he really knew?

After hours of pushing and cursing and crying, she was laid on my chest, and she looked at me with her brown eyes. I finally understood what it meant to be willing to do crazy things for love. Lay in front of a train. Do harm to a stranger. It all made sense.

Thirteen years ago I held a baby for the first time, and she was mine.

Nothing’s changed.

Everything is different.

If you had told me that it would get harder, I wouldn’t have believed you. There was no evidence that it could.

When I gave birth, my insides were fire. My milk never came in and I was failing as a food source. There was a three inch pad shoved between my legs that collected the gallons of blood oozing out of my body, not to mention the sleeplessness that perpetually groaned in the background of the next three years. Then there were the pre-school years, and the daily mad dash to drop her off and pick her up in time. There were days where she scraped her knees, and threw up in her bed, and acted like a depraved lunatic in public because she was lacking sleep or food or some combination of the two.

That was all hard, but raising a teenager is harder.

Teenagers cut you at the knees.

Those brown eyes, the ones that made me think “I would kill for you”, now roll to the back of her head with ease, and when I say something stupid, which happens all the time, I get a stern, “Kim” and then she looks back at her phone. My name, not “mom”, rolls off of her braces and smacks me in the face with a tinny teenage lisp, and then, she disappears behind the door of her perfectly curated room.

Those brown eyes see everything - each fight Peter and I have, each deep sigh of frustration, each treat I buy her brother and not her, each embarrassing song I scroll to,each day that I work too much, each bright pink sweater I buy for myself at Target that she’s deemed ugly but it makes me feel young, and I like pairing it with black jeans and a name necklace and she tells me, “that’s hideous” and “you’re so basic”. A moment later she realizes she’s gone too far and she apologizes and sticks her nose in my neck and cuddles there for a while. And then she gets silent, and she disappears again. Its schizophrenic, episodic, circular and unending.

Moms to teens are punching bags with boundaries.

They have to punch.

How hard, how often, well, that’s the dance.

I don’t know the answers. Do you?

This year has been hard. Have you heard that we’ve been collectively living through a pandemic? In my home we’re also living through recovery from addiction, co-dependency, ADD, depression, anxiety and surviving puberty. Surviving middle school.

How do I…?

I meditate. That’s how.

I give myself pep talks.

I make art.

I leave.

I have incredible mental health professionals on the case.

I have boundaries that I protect like a motherfucker.

On a good day, I look at her face, and there I am, in my hospital bed. Her bite sized cheek resting on my chest. Her body wrapped and tucked under my arm like a football.

Her brown eyes open; They’ve always been open.

I am where her world begins and ends. I am the one that she watches. I am the person who shapes all of her future decisions. Every mother is. My mother was. Good or bad, whatever the outcome, I am the template. She makes the dress, but I am the place from where she begins.

No pressure.

No, I’m not holding it all together with spit and gum.

Actually, yes I am.

But, I’ve got a plan.

This is it - I show up. I show her my bruises and scrapes. I don’t lie. I tell her I love her even when what I want to say back to her is cruel. I put ice on my tongue so that she doesn’t get my worst instincts and my insecurity and so she doesn’t see that I’m getting it all wrong, and I’m getting it all wrong because there is no way to get it all right.

One day she won’t be 13. One day, she’ll be 18, and we’ll laugh and do imitations of ourselves during this time. I’ll look at her, and roll my eyes and say, “Kim” in my best Alice voice. She’ll remind me about my ugly pink sweater that I’ve inevitably given away by then. I will have forgotten about it by then, but she will never forget it.

She’ll never forget how hot her cheeks got when I wore it around her friends. She’ll never forget how hard she laughed when I wore it out to a business lunch, or how soft it was when I hugged her in it, or how good it smelled when she got so close to me that her cheek was on my neck and her nose in my hair.

I’ve begun to remember my life like little squares in a quilt. My memories are contained, and even though each moment when lived was vast and potentially sweeping, I am now, in my middle age, only left with the greatest hits. Some of those squares are sad songs, others anthems, and then there’s the classics that as much as I try, I simply can’t stop playing over and over again. The squares she filled so far are bright and buttoned and most have ragged edges. The seams on them are pulled and imperfect. They are soft and cozy and well loved. They are the most important ones. There is room for more, and the square for 13, well it’s a big one. We’re filling it in as we go. Right now it’s Taylor Swift’s Foklore, but who knows what will be in three months or three weeks, three days?

Does it get harder? How could it? I’ve said this before. I know, that most certainly, it can. It will. It does.

There is some magic in thirteen. Yes, of course it’s known to be unlucky and in Tarot it’s the card for Death. In numerology it’s the number that indicates that there is a lesson. There is something you have to learn here, and so proceed with care and caution.

Proceed with care and caution.

If there ever was a bumpersticker for teenage parenting, there it is. Thirteen is my test, and it’s been the test of every mother who has bravely walked before me. God bless us all for making it all this way. Be gentle. “Kim”, be gentle.