Joy Comes in the Morning

There is a Bible verse I used to love back in the days when I was an evangelical, and though my ardor for daily Bible reading (i.e. self-flagellation and guilt over my not reading or memorizing enough of the Bible to please The Lord who was carefully watching my every move), I still like this one.  Of course, I can no longer remember exactly how it goes, or where it came from, but anyway it’s something like “There is weeping through the night, but joy comes in the morning.”  – I just googled it, and I got it darn close!  The King James version, which is the only Bible revision I care to read (how proponents of the modern version can sleep at night after butchering its beautiful poetry, I don’t know), says “weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.”  Psalm 30:5 –

Anyhoo, what has this to do with the price of tea in China, sayeth thou oh reader?  And I say, that it’s become kind of my mantra to get through this first month.  I have to be honest, that I’ve been somewhat disappointed in how little joy I’m feeling in being a mother of two.  I absolutely realize why, and it has mostly to do with lack of sleep, being in some or other kind of pain for so many weeks I can’t remember, and being stuck inside with no cable tv, no icemaker, and no chocolate (no icemaker, you ask?  yeah, you try filling and emptying ice cube trays on no sleep with a newborn in your arms and a toddler hanging onto your shirt).  But more than anything, it’s because I’m missing the sweet, loving, dear little two year old who used to live in this house on June 14th.  Sometimes I’ll curl up next to my little Jack in his bed for a few minutes at night, when Liam can spare me, because I miss spending time with my big boy.  During the bulk of his waking hours I just can’t stand the little monster, but I can cuddle up to sleeping Jack just like always.  I know he’ll settle into sharing his parents, and I know Liam will grow and get less needy and more interesting, and it will all happen in a snap.  Meanwhile, I toil with laundry and dishes and feedings and diapers and remembering to love my monstrous little toddler, I trudge through the boring days, I try to decide whether to respond to his latest tantrum with another timeout or with a hug, or with bursting into tears and running to Mexico, which is what I usually want to do.

An interesting phenomenon that both The Professor and I experienced is a sort of pendulum effect with regards to our children.  Before Liam came, all I could think about was Jack, and how this would change his life, and how much a disruption this baby would be.  I was firmly in Jack’s camp.  Then the baby came, and almost immediately I wanted my mother to take Jack away to a hotel for like a month, and leave me alone to mother my new baby.  I felt incapable of mothering both at once.  At alternating moments/hours/days, the pendulum of my loyalty and mother-love would swing back and forth, but I struggled to simultaneously mother them both.  Slowly, slowly my mind let go of the fact that I am the parent of one child.  I am beginning to shed the habits of single child parenting, and learn how to split my mind and body and heart and love in two.

When Jack was born, it was like my brain grew a sort of invisible tentacle that enveloped him always, tethered my consciousness to his being so that he was never never never off my mind completely.  If we were apart, I’d frequently flash quickly on wherever he is, wonder what he’s up to, remind myself that he’s being well taken care of, and then flash back to my here-and-now – kind of like checking the score on a football game.  Whenever we were together, my parental radar would beep beep boop around the room at all times, unconsciously checking his location and the location of potential dangers or pleasures, constantly assessing, synthesizing information, and responding as needed.  I’ve gotten very good at being in my own life while funneling off some of my brainpower to this invisible arm – staying focused, and unfocused, at the same time.  But, see, I only had the one tentacle.  So I guess what I’m saying is, since June 15th I’ve had to grow another tentacle.

Ah, the poetry of a sleep-deprived brain.

We’re all struggling through the adjustment a little.  No big surprise.  We’ll wade through and eventually get to a place where Jack isn’t throwing himself on the floor in a fit every minute or so because <insert ridiculous non-reason for tantrum>, and Liam isn’t constantly eating, and my boobs no longer ache and sting, and my belly flob recedes and my mask of pregnancy fades and I start to look like me again.  It won’t be long now.  It’s ok if I feel the need to do a little weeping, because joy will come with the morning.

Probably right in time for me to go back to school.