Indeed, the misconception of permanence lies at the heart of much of our suffering when we are new to parenthood. Great relief comes with trusting that what characterizes our daily experience now—whether it is a fatigue so heavy it threatens our sanity, a baby’s cry so unrelenting it physically hurts, or a loss of personal freedom so great we are lucky if we can take a shower on any given day—will inevitably change. A toddler’s refusal to move from beneath our feet as we wash the dishes becomes less an annoyance and more a sweet display of dependency when we realize we will one day be so much less needed. My younger son’s favorite thing to say lately is, “Mommy, I never want to be more than one hundred feet away from you.” Seasoned mother that I now am, I know for sure he will change his mind about that. And so I open my ears just a little more to the sound of tenderness in his words, even if I am trying to say good-bye so he can go to school or I can go to work.
Many of the working mothers* I have encountered, especially those who have just returned to work after having a baby, describe a frustrating inability to devote their full focus to their work. They might feel guilty or sad about being away from their children for so many long hours, anxious about having to rush through their workday to get home for bedtime, or distracted by having to sequester themselves away every few hours to pump breast milk. At the same time, many of the stay-at-home mothers with whom I have worked in my practice describe difficulty focusing on their babies because there is so much to do around the house, or they describe secretly wishing they had a job or hadn’t put their careers on hold because staying home with a toddler isn’t quite as fulfilling as they’d imagined it would be. In both scenarios, there is a pull toward elsewhere. And our happiness suffers as a result.
Luckily, our ability to accept impermanence does seem to improve with time and experience. Audrey, a woman I see in therapy who is followed fairly constantly by a shadow of discontent, struggled mightily after the birth of her first child. In those early weeks, her world was turned so upside down that she began to see me for therapy. She had not expected the demands of caring for her newborn to outweigh the delights, but that is exactly what happened. As much as she loved her baby girl, true joy in caring for her was elusive. She was anxious, distracted, and overwhelmed, and those feelings dwarfed any fleeting moments of contentment from the experience of nurturing her newborn daughter.
And yet she was at her best after the birth of her second baby. Audrey’s love for him was intoxicating; his beauty and vulnerability and sweetness, and his frequent need for her milk, elicited in her a kind of mindful attentiveness, a state of being grounded, that was normally extremely difficult for her to attain. Her internal experience, typically so characterized by dark thoughts, was transformed into one of relative serenity. Caring for this newborn was the closest thing to bliss she had ever experienced. I remember watching her nurse him on the couch in my office. She gestured to him, making a circling motion to outline the invisible bubble in which they were enveloped, and said, “I am loving this.” Audrey’s ability to inhabit the present moment was almost palpable in the room. She glowed with the contentment that, as Gilbert and Killingsworth’s research showed, is born of mindful attention to right now.
I experienced a similar shift in mentality with my second child. During the early weeks and months with Quinn, I was immersed in a state of loving him, coming to know every contour of his body, every nuance of the sounds he made. Many new mothers, and fathers, too, speak to this early falling-in-love period during which they could stare at their newborns indefinitely. But our departures from that mindful state are frequent, and I think much more so when we are reeling from the drastic transformation of our lives that a first baby brings. My experience of Quinn early on was one of profound and consistent delighting in him, with very little intrusion of thoughts like “I need to do this or that” or “Why isn’t he sleeping through the night yet?” It was wonderful, but also bittersweet in that it brought to my attention how much less present I had been with my older son, Noah, when he was an infant. It’s not that Noah needed or deserved more from me than what he got; he was very well cared for, and I soaked up his deliciousness thoroughly and often. But I deserved to focus more mindfully on him than I did. I wish I could go back in time and remove the discombobulation that sometimes dulled my senses or pulled me away from the present moment. Of course, there is simply no way around all the uncertainty that a first baby brings; it cannot be undone or erased, just like everything else that is momentous and unique about a first child. Perhaps the ability to savor more, and worry less, is a gift that can only come with a second (or third, or fourth) child.
Our ability to savor the present experience when we are new to motherhood is hampered not just by how difficult and disorienting the experience is, but also by cultural mores that devalue the act of nurturing. In their book Everyday Blessings: The Inner Work of Mindful Parenting, Jon Kabat-Zinn writes with his wife, Myla, that we enter into the monumental task of parenting “without preparation or training, with little or no guidance or support, and in a world that values producing far more than nurturing, doing far more than being.” It can be exceedingly difficult to sit and be, whether we are attempting to meditate on a cushion or soothe a crying baby. We feel a pull toward doing something “useful” or having something to show for our day. Though the pull may be stronger for some than for others, the productivity refrain in our culture is heard by all. And it is directly at odds with our happiness. That may seem a bold statement to make; after all, we do find great fulfillment in our accomplishments, and for career-oriented people especially, our productivity at work may be a key source of self-worth. However, given what research has illuminated for us about the connection between mindfulness and happiness,* there is nothing outrageous about the claim that as a culture, we would benefit from being more mindful of the present moment.
Indeed, there is nothing outrageous about the claim that as a culture, we would benefit from valuing the caretaking and nurturing that sustain the human species as much as we value the workplace-work that generates income. And despite how far we have come in viewing the latter as something both women and men can do, the former remains squarely in the category of “women’s work.” As political scientist and public commentator Anne-Marie Slaughter points out in the TED Talk associated with her viral piece in The Atlantic, “Why Women Still Can’t Have It All,” when men choose caretaking as their primary role, they put their manhood on the line. That’s because as a society, we decided a long time ago that work associated with a salary is the most important kind of work. Until we dismantle the notion that nurturing is just the runner-up, rather than the equally necessary and equally valuable other pillar on which societies rest, equal opportunity within each realm will remain elusive. And those of us who engage in the work of nurturing will remain vulnerable to the nagging feeling that we are somehow worth less, that the way we spend our time isn’t good enough.
***
Psychologist and author Daphne de Marneffe writes in her book Maternal Desire that “when the activities of mothering are interpreted as self-limiting, they tend to be treated dismissively.”4 De Marneffe is referring to the broader, collective social judgment in which mothering plays second fiddle to earning an income, but of course, this attitude also trickles down to the level of the individual and impacts us in the trenches. Internally, as we go about our days with small children, we often dismiss the value of our efforts. What does it matter if we change one more diaper, go to one more doctor’s appointment, fix one more lunch? We go through the motions, rarely pausing to reflect on the value and impact of each task or encounter. If we do not attach much meaning to the seemingly mundane, then it is just what it seems: mundane. And when we’re bored or frustrated with what seems like a day of accomplishing nothing, it’s easy to let our minds wander into the future and perhaps even to fantasize about that future being far preferable to the present. But if, on the balance, we are able to shift our perspective and construe the stuf
f of mothering as not mundane at all but instead profound and meaningful work, we might well find more value in the everyday moments. And the more value a moment holds, the greater our capacity to stay present to it.
Of course, none of this is easy. As I write this, the younger of my two children is what most would label a “difficult” toddler. Quinn does not sleep. He does not eat. He does not sit still. He tests limits like it is his job (which, I suppose, it is). His frustration tolerance is astonishingly low. He is loud and volatile and reckless with his body. It is a rare day when he does not have a new injury. I have wondered, lately, what number I would reach if I counted how many times in a day I say the word “no.” Each time I do so, I feel a pang of heartache, a sense of sadness about having this kind of experience over and over and over again. I did not envision myself in such opposition to my child so much of the time, and I am fearful of what stage this sets. I try to choose my “no” moments carefully, reserving them only for the times he is truly in danger. Sometimes I lapse into a kind of mindless autopilot in which I no longer even hear myself saying “no.” Sometimes I harbor resentment toward him for the many ways that he makes my daily life challenging. But sometimes, instead, I try to root myself in the moment and remind myself that this work of motherhood is important, and it is deeply meaningful to both of us.
Stripped of this deeper meaning, these encounters leave me feeling angry, depleted, and at my wit’s end as I mentally search for a “solution” to my son’s limit-testing behavior. But when I cast a net of curiosity and sift through what’s inside, I find tremendous meaning. I consider the possibility that there is no solution at all because there is no problem; there is only my inquisitive, fervent child who is just beginning to understand this world. He bumps up against the edges of it again and again to learn its shape, because what else is there for him to do? And what else is there for me to do but notice it, notice him, and breathe my next breath?
His and Her Versions of Time
My client Emily burst into tears on the couch one day when I offered a comment I didn’t realize would resonate so deeply with her. I said something like, “In those rare stretches of alone time once we become mothers, the stakes feel so much higher.” She had been describing a recent afternoon during which she found herself “vegetating” while her husband and their baby boy were gone from the house. Removing her head from her hands and wiping her eyes, she said, “I put so much pressure on myself to use that time ‘wisely.’ And I beat myself up when I didn’t.” Because of how I responded, Emily understood that she was not alone in this experience, and that her “vegetative” state resulted not from some shameful character flaw but more likely from the very human tendency to flounder or freeze when the pressure is too high. As we talked, Emily continued to cry softly, realizing how quick she had been to judge herself harshly, and mourning the loss of the more resolved, inspired approach she once took to her solitude.
My work with Emily has only recently begun, and she hasn’t yet mentioned anything in the way of feelings toward her husband about the way he relates to time. But if they are like so many other heterosexual couples, it’s likely that tension is brewing about this issue. If I had to guess, I’d say I’ll be hearing soon that she feels some blend of dismay and resentment when she weighs her struggles with time against her husband’s. Women’s worlds, internal and external, are changed so drastically by motherhood, right down to the way we relate to time. Men’s worlds, by comparison, are not. It’s not a competition, except that it is. We cannot help but compare and contrast with our partners in procreation, and when the contrasts loom large, how can we not have some feelings about that?
My husband would not say his relationship with time has changed since we had kids. Sure, he is baffled and bothered by its rapid passing, just like every other adult human on the planet, but he has not been engaged in a losing battle to tame the beast of time like I have. When I am in “doing” mode, my head spinning with tasks to complete and my body flitting around the house cleaning up other people’s messes, I often assess what kind of mode he is in. If he is in “being” mode, relaxing with an afternoon pint of stout and playing cards with the kids while the stew he whipped up earlier is simmering on the stove, I feel more than a little resentful. I wonder how this happened, how and why he has such steady access to slowed-down moments like this when my only access to them is near bedtime, when I’ve collapsed in a heap of exhaustion.
A similar resentment simmers in my client Rachael, who bristles in response to her husband Scott’s seemingly supportive question, “What can I do to help?” Why, she wonders, is he not inherently aware like she is of the ten thousand things that need to be done? How is it that he defaults to the couch throughout the evening to relax and play with their daughter—until she gives him a task—when the couch is quite literally the last place she lands at the end of the day when she can do no more? Scott is not a couch potato, and Rachael is not a neurotic martyr. Yet this picture, in which he is relatively at ease and she is overwhelmed, depicts their life since having children. It is a common scenario that we will discuss in more detail in later chapters. My intention here is to emphasize the fundamental difference in how Rachael and Scott relate to time. For Scott, there is more of it. There is time to relax, time to play, time to work, and—if only Rachael were more receptive—time to be intimate with his wife. For Rachael, time has been a scarce commodity since their daughter was born. Though the hours passed slowly in those first weeks and months with the baby, they were hours during which she felt trapped by her baby’s needs, unable to get anything else done. All those daytime hours of watching the clock tick while she nursed were juxtaposed against evening hours with a frenetic pace. Once her husband came home to hold and entertain the baby, that was her chance to do anything else, everything else she had not been able to do all day long. On weekends, she felt pulled in a hundred different directions. She wanted time alone, but she also wanted the sweet family outings she envisioned having when she pictured, during pregnancy, what their lives would look like when they became parents. She wanted to exercise, but she also wanted to catch up on sleep. She wanted to do some cooking since they’d been living on frozen pizza and take-out since the baby was born, but she also wanted to get out of the house and away from anything domestic. She wanted to see her friends, but she felt guilty spending time with them when Scott was hinting at how much he missed her and wanted to connect with her without the baby around.
These competing desires sometimes left Rachael paralyzed, unable to follow through with anything because she couldn’t decide what she needed most. Just like Emily, she was at a loss when she finally got the time to herself she so regularly yearned for. Both women emerge from their rare alone time feeling unfulfilled, kicking themselves for not using the time well enough.
I wish we could construe this situation as a temporary loss of equilibrium, but I’m just not so sure. On one hand, some quantity of personal freedom is restored as our children grow older. There is no doubt that the baby and toddler years are the worst in terms of the sheer number of minutes and hours swallowed up by our children’s needs for attention and supervision. As they become more independent, we recover some of our ability to choose how we spend our time. I remember well when my husband and I were able to resume our Saturday morning tradition of drinking coffee and reading magazines in bed, and how amazing it felt the first time I could say the words, “Go outside and play!” to my children. On the other hand, I think as mothers we are forever changed by the experience of being tethered to a small human who absorbs massive amounts of our time and energy. We may never relate to time in the same way again, and we certainly never return to our previous priorities around who, and what, gets our attention. Those priorities shift differently for women and men. Time is a scarcer commodity for mothers than for fathers early on, but even when or if this discrepancy becomes less pronounced later, it leaves a mark.
A couple I currently see in therapy, whose children are now
teenagers, describe their central problem as difficulty connecting. He says it feels like they are just roommates; she doesn’t seem to want to spend time with him without the kids around, and she’s not interested in sex. She says he doesn’t understand her emotional world. While she appreciates how much more involved he is now on the domestic front compared to when the kids were little, what she wants more than anything is to feel seen and emotionally nurtured by him. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to nurture her—besides putting dinner on the table—when she sends out signals to him that seem to say, “Stay away from me.” She doesn’t know how she can be more receptive to him when she’s so wounded by all the years of feeling alone and unsupported.
Their story is sad, and sadly common. It’s not surprising at all that when I asked them to trace these dynamics back to their roots, we arrived at the birth of their older child sixteen years ago. He says, “When he was a baby, she never wanted to get a babysitter. I wanted us to spend time without him, and she didn’t want to leave him.” She says, “I was always so exhausted after we had the baby. I just wanted to catch up on sleep, and I wanted somebody to take care of me. I didn’t want to get dressed up and go out and pretend to have a good time when I was running on empty.” Sixteen years later, very little has changed. Their kids require far less of their direct time and attention, but the divergent paths of need they began to follow when their first son was born are now well worn. This couple reminds us why we cannot make the claim—much as it would be reassuring—that children temporarily disrupt lives and marriages.
A while back, some acquaintances of ours were approaching their son’s third birthday, and at a party I overheard the mother telling our mutual friend that their son sleeps on top of her every night. Not just with her in the family bed, but on top of her. My friend asked a reasonable question about this woman’s physical comfort: “Can you even breathe with him on top of you?!” In my mind, I was asking a very different kind of question: How long are you willing to be immobilized by your child’s needs?* Earlier in the evening, my friend and I had been laughing at ourselves about all the crazy things we’ve done in the name of keeping a sleeping baby asleep: “I’ve been known to slither out of the room like a snake. I’m not talking about crawling on all fours, but a full-on slither as low to the floor as possible.” Some of us who shall go unnamed have wound up in the crib, for God’s sake, perhaps to offer our breast or provide just the right gentle strokes on our baby’s forehead, and have then performed amazing acts of silent acrobatics to climb out unnoticed. These are crazy moments, for sure. But at least the ultimate goal was to get the hell out of there, to leave our sleeping baby behind so we could do something, anything, for ourselves. Eat our dinner that’s been sitting on the table, cold and untouched, since the baby’s witching-hour meltdown began. Take a bath. Watch a movie. Have sex. So from my point of view, the crazy behavior is understandable and justifiable, and laughing about it after the fact makes sense and feels good. But I wasn’t laughing about this woman spending every night for the past three years with the weight of her child literally upon her. She was now so accustomed to sacrificing her basic needs that she could not even see the outrageousness of the situation. When she went to get a massage, which was a way for her to care for herself and get some long-overdue alone time, her son was so unhappy being away from her that she ended up FaceTiming with him through the little round cutout in the headrest of the massage table.
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