She cries out in the night, the long mournful wail of the weary. Her tears stain my pajamas as I comfort her in the rocker with an urgency not usually associated with lounge furniture. My tired eyes prick with non-existent tears, and I can’t remember the last time I’ve had a drink of water. I hold her tighter to my chest willing her body to reveal to me the source of her sorrow.
Is it pain?
Is she over-tired?
Unhappy, lonely, scared, or all at once?
I feel my heart beating violently in my chest, but I can only hear her whimpers. Desperately, my mind reviews the usual suspects for why babies cry out in the middle of the night. I changed her diaper while she bawled. I nursed her through her tears, but her gasping sobs made it impossible for her to latch. I patted her, rocked her, sung to her, and danced with her. My legs ache, begging me to take them to bed, but I can’t leave her. Her face tightens with a fresh wave of agony.
Is it her teeth?
Her tummy?
Does she have diaper rash?
She grips my finger as she cries harder, confused as to why I’m not taking away the pain when I’ve always been able to comfort her before. Feeling completely obsolete, I would give everything I have to absorb her discomfort, draining her of all that is wrong in her world, leaving her pristine, pure and tranquil. Her eyes, wild and unfocused, seek mine in the quiet moments between wails. I grasp deep in my soul for answers to her questions, but find only guilt that I can’t stop her tears.
Finally, my thoughts slow and I am flooded with a sense of calm, resigning myself to her fate. She is crying because right now she needs to cry, and she needs me to hold her and suffer along with her. Every instinct in my body tells me to fix her, but I can’t. So I rock harder and sing longer, letting her know I’m there: that I’ll always be there.
It occurs to me that this is parenting in microcosm.
Her whole life she will face fear, danger, and heartache. She will face them alone, and there will be times when I can merely watch and hold her as she succumbs to those hazards. She will cry, and writhe, and hurt, and flail. I won’t be able to take away her pain then any more than I can now as she lays helpless in my arms. There are some tears that can’t be stifled, only dried, and some pain that must be endured.
My calling as her parent isn’t to rescue her from the agony of life, but rather to experience it along with her. To hold her, and rock her, the way I did during her infancy, until it passes. Because it always passes, like storms battering their way to blue skies.
Slowly and inevitably she relaxes in my arms, her swollen face resting peacefully, her eyelids dancing as she sleeps. Apart from the gentle sobs still shuddering through her body like aftershocks, it’s as if the last hour never happened. My arms are weak from clutching her to me, but I don’t put her to bed. I continue rocking, long after she’s gone still and quiet, because I need the comfort too.
The hardest thing about parenting is accepting that there are nights when you will fail. No matter how valiantly you struggle, some questions have no answers, some problems have no solutions. All you can do is tell them you love them, wrap your arms around them, and cry along with them until it’s over and you can both sleep again.
Hopefully these nights will become fewer and farther between as she grows, both of us deriving strength from each endeavor, but these are the times I feel most like a parent: hopelessly and helplessly giving everything I have to my child, even when I have nothing left to give.
This is parenting.
Truer than true!
I have been there so many times. You’re right, we can’t fix everything but we are always there waiting for the tough moment to pass.
This is beautiful.
Beautiful. This really is parenting.
You summed it up beautifully with this, Mary: “My calling as her parent isn’t to rescue her from the agony of life, but rather to experience it along with her. ” Our instinct is to fix, as a parent. But often, it’s just being there is all we need to do. Steadfastly and with deep love, but just be there.
In the early days with my son, not knowing how to soothe him would break my heart. Now that he’s 9, I still don’t always know. But you’re right. Sometimes, just showing up is enough.
Thank you for this ~ it’s exactly what I needed to read tonight and such a blessing to know we’re not alone <3
Those nights were the most tough. They do get better, fewer and farther between, until suddenly you can’t remember the last time your kid needed you like that in the middle of the night. 🙂
I remember when my daughter was about 12 months old. She woke up in the middle of the night and would not stop crying. I tried giving her a bottle. I tried giving her a soother. I walked with her up and down the halls. I rocked her. I gave her Children’s Tylenol. Maybe she was teething? Maybe she had a sore tummy? I had after all let her eat her first McDonald McNugget at suppertime. She probably had food poisoning I thought. Finally I could take her crying no more. I took her to the ER in the middle of the night. Waited for three hours while she cried in my arms. Once I got her in the examining room, the doctor took off her diaper to press on her lower abdomen to see if she was tender. As he opened the diaper, there was a big fat poop! I had a bad cold and could barely breathe, never mind smell so it never occurred to me she had a dirty diaper. She was my third child. This just gives you an idea of how self sufficient my children have to be when there own mother doesn’t think to change a poopy diaper. Sorry, lengthy comment, but I had to get that off my chest. It’s been bothering me for 15 years lol
Very true. Sometimes just being there is enough.