July 17, 2007
My Mother’s Footsteps
It was a hot summer day, most likely in July. The year was 1989 and I had lived a full decade on this planet Earth.
My mother, a former school teacher, instructed me to go outside and play because I was driving her crazy. She asked me to take my younger brother, Nathan, and younger sister, Rachel, outside with me. She didn’t want to hear another one of her children say, “I’m bored” and when she gave us her stern face we knew she meant business.
Nathan wanted to play baseball. At six years old, he was a wild and rambunctious boy. Sports, karate and tackling his sisters were his favorite things to do. Rachel was four years old and desperately wanted to play Barbies on the front lawn. I was too cool to play with dolls. My idea of playing with Barbies was to chop off all their hair and twist their heads around like Linda Blair in The Exorcist.
We came to an agreement to play an inning of baseball. Naturally, I would bat first because I was the oldest. Nathan would pitch to me and Rachel would be the catcher.
What a stupid, stupid idea. Stick the four-year-old behind the batter. It was inevitable that she’d get smacked with the bat. And she did. Rachel was struck in the side of the head and the bump that resulted was as big as the damn baseball. Goose-egg my arse!
I felt terrible. It was an accident. I didn’t realize she was standing up to catch the ball.
The screaming was unbearable. I just knew I was in trouble. I could feel the thunderous footsteps of my mother running down the stairs and through the front screendoor.
“Who did whatever it was that made Rachel cry?” she demanded.
I was crying and scared and could barely speak through the sobs.
“I….it was…accident…didn’t….mean…to…!” I shrieked.
Nathan was running in circles with his arms extended at his sides like an airplane. He was probably trying to fly away from this situation because he knew he’d get in trouble, too.
“You were supposed to play outside! Not kill eachother!” my mother yelled.
I’m pretty sure the entire block heard her lecturing about safety and following the rules and watching younger siblings so that they don’t get hurt. I think she mentioned something about brain damage and what she will tell the doctor if Rachel dies in her sleep. That’s my mother’s signature trait. Scaring us into behaving better.
“I’m sorry,” I cried.
I know my mother knew I didn’t mean to whack my sister. I know she really didn’t believe my sister was going to die. It was her own guilt seeping through her tough mom exterior. She entrusted me, a ten-year-old, with watching my brother and sister and didn’t realize I wasn’t quite mature enough to do a good job the way an adult would.
It’s not that I was a stupid kid. I think I was very responsible. As the oldest of four children, I was forced to grow up quickly. Especially when both my parents held jobs to make ends meet. I had to pull my own weight, and the weight of my siblings. That’s just the way it was.
I started to remember the day I played baseball with my sister’s head after an incident at home.
I wanted to take a shower after a long day at work. Dawson said he wanted to shower, too. I allow this because we don’t have a bathtub and it’s so much easier than dragging out the kid tub that he’s absolutely too big for.
I imagine many people will think this is strange, a child showering with his parent, but Dawson is nearly three years old and I think that’s a bit too young to let him shower by himself. Besides, he can’t reach the shampoo just yet.
After we were done, I wrapped him in a towel while I dried myself off and wiped the water off the floor. Dawson always refuses to stand on the bath mat because he says it’s scratchy on his toes.
As we were heading upstairs, Dawson tripped on his towel and bumped his upper lip on the bottom step. Of course he started to cry and scream and I tried to calm him down as I carried him upstairs.
“Shhh. Dawson it’s okay. You’re alright,” I said.
Then I saw the blood. All over his mouth. I thought for sure his tooth had been knocked loose. I tried to get him to rinse his mouth out, but how do you tell a toddler to gargle?
I got some ice, a washcloth and glass of water to try to investigate the source of the bleeding. The mommy guilt was in full force. I started to cry. I started to panic.
Oh my God. What did I do? I should have carried him up the stairs. I should’ve known the towel would cause him to trip. What was I thinking? I’m a terrible mother. What will I tell the doctor or dentist when his tooth falls out?
And then a baseball bat hit me in the head: I am turning into my mother. I’m following in her thunderous footsteps.
When did this happen? When did I start to act like her, think like her, speak like her? How do I make it stop? Do I even have control over this? Is it genetic?
Did my mother think the same way on that summer day in 1989? I should have been outside with the kids. The dishes and cleaning could wait. What was I thinking? I shouldn’t have trusted a child to watch her brother and sister. I’m a terrible mother. What will the doctor say if I have to take her in?
My mother was not a bad parent. She did the best she could to raise four children. I should be grateful to have learned so much about good parenting. But can I not learn from her mistakes as well?
Isn’t it wise to think back on my own mother and decide what parenting skills I want to emulate and which ones I want to nix? Just because I want to parent differently doesn’t mean I’m saying my mother was wrong or a bad parent. Right? Is it really so bad that I want to parent differently but yet the same? Does that even make sense?
Maybe the guilt never goes away. No matter how hard you try to control it and not worry about it, the guilt is still there, waiting backstage until it’s next appearance.
I believe it’s just part of being a mother. This is part of the job. I just wish I’d read the job description a little more carefully so that I was prepared.
But then I realized, there is no preparation for motherhood. You just do it, live it, breathe it, sleep it. I’ll forever be a mother. The job never ends. I don’t think I want it to end, either.
It turns out that Rachel didn’t suffer any brain damage as a result of her injury (unless bad taste in men counts?) and Dawson didn’t lose a tooth, he just bruised his gums.
As for me, I’ve learned it’s okay to be like my mother, just as it’s okay to not be like her.
Afterall, I am my own person, but I’m also my mother’s daughter.
Posted by Dana @ 10:36 AM • The Mommy Files
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July 17th, 2007 at 11:26 AM, Cheryl Says:
I try to ignore the mommy guilt when I take my son out to run errands and I know how horrible his black eye looks… the eye that was also adorned with a huge bite mark now from a very sweet little girl at daycare.
My husband pinched Ben’s finger in the carseat belt this morning, and when he heard how mad and upset Ben was, he almost cried as well.
July 17th, 2007 at 12:13 PM, yoshi Says:
I like to think that parenthood is about thousands of years of genetics. I mean, there are things that you are just born to be able to do.
But it is kinda funny that you would do things that your parents do. Crazy eh?
July 17th, 2007 at 12:37 PM, Dana Says:
Cheryl, I hear ya! It’s so awful to see your child in pain because of something you did or didn’t do!
Yoshi, I seriously think it’s payback. We turn into our parents because we swore we never would!
July 17th, 2007 at 10:58 PM, Leslie Says:
Mommy guilt is inevitable. No matter what you do, it’s there.
You had said, “I’ll forever be a mother. The job never ends.”
I totally agree. You know, I actually heard a woman once say, “Well, he’s 18 now. I’m done being his mother.”
You are always a mother – and what a precious gift.
July 19th, 2007 at 12:43 PM, Violet the Verbose Says:
Once a child is born to you or adopted by you, YOU are responsible for their safety, learning, etc. I think most of us feel that very deeply and that is why we worry that we’ve caused whatever bad things happen to them. It’s hard to step back and say “these things happen” when it’s your own child bleeding.
July 19th, 2007 at 12:49 PM, Dana Says:
So very true, Caroline!
July 25th, 2007 at 8:15 AM, Julie Says:
I used to shower with my mom when I was a little kid. In fact, we did it long enough that I have actual memories of it, and I made it to adulthood A-OK. : )
July 25th, 2007 at 8:30 AM, dana Says:
I’m glad to know that other moms do this. I was worried people would think I’m crazy!
July 26th, 2007 at 4:54 PM, Jen Says:
I tore my son’s….I don’t even know what it’s called, truthfully enough….the line that connects his top lip to his gums…..it got torn when I was trying to take off his t-shirt one day. THE BLOOD…….THE GUILT……it was an accident, it healed, I’ve forgiven my carelessness……..mommy guilt is ever present, but in a way I think it keeps us on our toes…….if we didn’t have the guilt, we wouldn’t have the heart.