I wake the girls for school this morning.
Maj first.
I reach to brush my hand against the softness of her cheek, sweep her hair from her forehead. As she wakes, Maj sweeps her own hand up to force mine away. She is all crabby and spikey, shoving away my embrace with angry stiff arms . . .
“Really, Mother? You know I don’t like to be hugged in the morning. It’s too early for this nonsense. You are too close to me. Too close. Step back, Mother.”
My first daughter. My oldest.
Maj is Maj.
Maj has always been Maj.
I am all tangled up in her.
When Maj was a baby? Maj was difficult. Being her mother was difficult.
Maj was a demanding baby.
If I had to sum up in one word what it seemed like my daughter felt for much of her early life?
Distrust.
Maj seemed to have no faith that any of her needs were going to be met. As a result, I grew less and less confident every day in my ability to meet those needs. My doubts and her mistrust combined and fed off of one another. A vicious cycle.
Just a few weeks after her birth, I got terribly sick. A kidney stone that took more than a month to pass, and which caused me almost constant pain and nausea. I lost an enormous amount of weight, I went days without sleep, and I was scared to death to take the pain medications I had been prescribed for fear my breast-milk would be tainted.
Maj and I were all alone in the world, up all night screaming and anguished and wracked with pain and guilt and sorrow.
I went into survivor mode. My whole being centered around meeting Maj’s needs and not giving in . . . to the pain, to the helplessness, to my deep feelings of inadequacy, to depression.
Very dark days.
Which passed, as dark days do.
Into cloudy ones.
There is not much of that first year of her life that I remember with simple joy.
Maj was a very difficult baby.
And mothering her . . . was difficult.
And as stupid as this sounds, I felt that the difficulties I had with Maj? Rested with me. That I was not a caring enough mother, not a loving enough mother, not a whole enough woman . . . to make this thing right between us.
Mark and I had always planned on having two children. I got pregnant again when Maj was just a little less than a year and a half old. I do not have words to express the terror I felt at the thought of doing Maj’s early babyhood again with a second baby.
That second pregnancy was marked by the deepest period of depression I have ever experienced. I just . . . sank.
So far.
With this sinking came more guilt and more fear and more inadequacy.
And my older daughter stood and stared at me with wide questioning silent eyes.
Sigh.
As my due date approached, I went through the motions of preparing. I cried a lot. Struggled to find the strength to be present in the moment.
I spent those last days before my younger daughter’s birth in an exhausted terror of the nightmare to come. Of the year of hell that was going to be required to make it to the other side and find simple joy. I was not confident in my ability to survive again.
Terror.
I went into the hospital to deliver filled with the certainty that as bad as things were right that moment? They were about to get much much worse.
But here’s what happened instead . . .
Kallan’s birth was simple.
Kallan herself was . . . easy.
I held her in my arms that first day and assumed something was wrong. She did not fuss or scream or angrily writhe about. She just snuggled calmly into my chest.
She nursed . . . simply. More simply than her sister had ever nursed.
She slept . . . simply.
We spent the night in the hospital that first night, and Kallan slept in a small bed next to mine.
The nurses came in the next morning to ask me when Kallan had woken me to nurse her. I was startled to realize that she hadn’t woken me. She had slept through the night that very first night.
I reached to wake her, to change her.
All simple. All quiet.
She nursed again . . . simply.
And as I held this second daughter? I felt what I had never felt with my first child. An ease and a confidence and an assurance.
A feeling so profound it brings tears to my eyes to recall.
I felt her trust me.
And still, all of these years later?
Maj is Maj.
And Kallan is Kallan.
I walk into Kallan’s room. She is sound asleep. I reach to brush my hand against the softness of her cheek, sweep her hair from her forehead.
Kallan does not open her eyes, but she reaches up high with her arms to seek me out.
I lower myself into her sleepy embrace. She holds me tightly.
Eyes still closed.
Such trust, this younger daughter has in me.
I feel her trust me.
And so I trust myself.
Trust.
A gift from my second daughter.
To all of us.
Something more.
If you read the comments that follow this post, you will see that I am having trouble responding.
Sigh.
So I am pasting an answer I have just made to Cristina’s comment, in which she expressed puzzlement about my issues.
Here’s Cristina:
Not sure why you are worried that people might think you love one more than other.
Nothing in your post leads to it, at least I don’t see it.
All children are different, therefore need to be loved differently.
To love them uniquely is to show them you really SEE and KNOW them.
There’s no better gift than that.
Your words to describe your love for them, including your struggles? beautiful.And then here’s me:
You know what it is?
And I guess I am a tiny bit hopeful that not everyone is reading this comment.
Here’s the thing.
There is much much more to this story. I know what I have left out. I know the holes I have left.
I know what is there but not said.
I fear the reaction I would get if I told the whole story.
A story I am not likely to share.
And so some of that fear is being projected here . . . a fear of judgment.
I am unable to read this story without reading what isn’t there.
And so it is hard for me to see that you don’t see it.
And I know that makes no sense.
But there it is.
My first was difficult. She was incredibly demanding and high maintenance. I dreaded every day of my second pregnancy. It could not have come at a worse time in my life. But my second baby? She is delightful. She’s charming and easy going. I cannot imagine my life without her. Sometimes I am in awe of the two completely different people that came out of my body. I love them both equally and fiercely, yet they could not be further from each other. My oldest taught me about strength and endurance and my youngest taught me about sensitivity and nurturing. Both are gifts in their own ways.
I love each of my daughters endlessly.
Endlessly.
They have each brought me many gifts.
Today, I wrote about one gift from one daughter.
But the joy my daughters bring to me?
Endless.
The gifts they have brought me?
Countless.
Such a difference in the two. And personalities set so early.
I am glad that whichever fairy or angel gifts each child chose to gift Kallan with trust. For you.
I am as well.
It has made all the difference in my ability to mother both of my daughters.
All the difference in the world.
Beautifully written. I hope that I can remember this when (if?) my time comes.
To this day I still remind my mom, when she compares my baby brother to my other brother (who is closer to my age) that just because S doesn’t behave like J doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with S, and it doesn’t mean that there’s anything wrong with HER for noticing and fretting. Kids are different and parents see things differently over time – especially when there’s a 14 year difference in ages.
My daughters are different, but each perfect.
They have each given me many gifts.
It is a fact that the person I was when Maj was an infant and the person Maj was when she was an infant . . . we were not an ideal match.
But Maj is perfect.
The fact is that Kallan made me believe in myself as a mother. And I trust now that I am as good as I can be. I trust now that I am up to the task of mothering both of my daughters.
I did not have that belief when Maj was an infant.
That’s not down to Maj.
That’s down to me.
Isn’t it amazing how different children can be? My first one was the easy one, and Annie put us through all kinds of hell–dating men with Harleys, thinking she could save all the ones who were addicted to drugs…and finally marrying one who is a good guy, but who still hasn’t figured out who he is or where he is going. One thing I have learned is that I invested my best into both girls, and now I just have to trust that investment, and each daughter. I find it hard to detach, but that is just what all parents eventually have to do. It isn’t easy. Love to you in the new year! molly
Kallan is not an easy child.
Neither of my daughters are easy.
Snort!
But . . . for that first stretch?
Kallan was easy.
And that easiness allowed me to appreciate that the difficulties I had with Maj?
Were not because of some defect I brought to the table.
The difficulties just were.
And that knowledge?
A huge burden lifted.
Much love to you this New Year, Molly.
Much love.
My two oldest were opposite of yours. If I had started out with my daughter, It would have been a one child family.
My first baby was easier–thank goodness
But now? (and as they grew up) they each carry traits I adore and traits that make me crazy!
Kidzzzzzzz waddugonnado? Just love em
I love who my daughters are.
I love the people they are becoming.
I am so proud of both of them.
And grateful to both of them for all they have taught me about myself.
Grateful to both of them.
Love this Kris.
You are amazing.
Thank you.
I so wanted to get this right.
Thank you.
It’s amazing the difference between the two. How, no matter how you raise them, children are their own people.
Yes . . . you do the best you can by your children.
But they arrive as people.
Parenting shapes, but everything is not left to parenting.
Children arrive as people.
Oh my goodness. That was beautiful.
Sad, too. But beautiful.
Thank you for sharing.
My first son was breezy. The second, less so. But both allowed me to hold them tightly from the very start. I am grateful for that. I like that my arms are a safe place for my babies. I know, eventually, they will not be nearly enough.
My arms were always a safe place for both of my daughters.
But?
My arms were not where Maj wanted to be.
Really.
Hmmm, Maj is her mother’s daughter, no?
As I said?
I am all tangled up in Maj.
Maj is me.
I am Maj.
All tangled.
My son is just 9 1/2 months old and tests me everyday.
The gift he is giving me? Patience.
I love that our kids give us gifts that we never even thought we needed.
Yes.
Maj has taught me patience.
Yes.
“And as stupid as this sounds, I felt that the difficulties I had with Maj? Rested with me. That I was not a caring enough mother, not a loving enough mother, not a whole enough woman . . . to make this thing right between us.”
Tears on my cheeks as I read this. Tears for my son Jack – whom I love more than all the words, but who challenges me every day for that love. To be sure I really mean it? To be sure I deserve his love in return?
He has looked at me and said, “You love Karly more.”
It isn’t true that I love my daughter more. I love her differently. Karly wraps herself around me and asks for nothing.
The hardest part: I give her less, I fear, sometimes. Because she doesn’t ask. And he demands. And I’m so terrified he will think I love her more.
So I cried for Jack. And I cried for me. And I cried for you because I think I kind of sort of a little bit understand.
Still. The way you ended this. You got it right. Each child is a gift. In different ways. Thank you for reminding me.
I hurried in the comments to reassure everyone that both of my daughters have given me gifts. That each of my daughters is perfect. That I love them both beyond measure.
I shouldn’t have to make those assurances, but I could not bear to have anyone read this post and come away with the notion that I love one daughter more.
I love Maj and Kallan with every breath I will ever get to inhale and then release.
Fiercely.
This post is about a single gift . . . a moment when I held my second infant daughter and was healed.
This post is about a gift that has stood me in good stead over the years, and which has benefited our whole family.
A single gift.
But not the only gift.
Words on this page cannot capture all I feel for these daughters of mine.
I love them differently.
But I love them forever and endlessly.
As for your tears?
Yes . . . I get those tears.
A few tears here as I thought people were reading me wrong, favoring one daughter over the other.
Sigh.
Sorry to bug you. Again. But this post has gotten under my skin. Not in a bad way. It’s more like I’m letting go of breath I’ve been holding off and on for 13 years.
I’ve wanted so desperately to be a great mom. Not a perfect mom – I know that wouldn’t be possible or interesting – but surely a better mom than I am.
I’ve often felt like a failure. And then something happens – like Kallan’s gift – and I know I can breathe again.
In. And out. And in again.
Thanks for the gift of this post.
Thank you for the gift of this comment.
Seriously.
It is hard to let go of the moments in which we fail as mothers.
I have had moments of failure as a mother.
And those short moments haunt me.
How I live for the other moments that allow me to breath again.
Like this comment of yours.
Thank you.
Challenging. Challenging. My 12 month old son is challenging… this is the word I insist on using. I love him to pieces but I do believe that I “deserve” an easy baby next time. Right?
Hee hee!
Challenging is a good word.
It does not quite capture my experiences with Maj.
But it’s a good word.
I learned a lot from Maj.
But easier?
It’s so much easier.
Snort!
All of my babies were in between…neither too easy nor too difficult. Just babies. But I’m not a baby person and honestly, I just wanted them to get bigger and have some personality. Now sometimes, I wish they were little again. No one can make me feel more inadequate than my girls…even now, with a single word, they can wound me.
As per usual, these types of posts are my favorite…when you let dark Kris out of the shadow.
Dark Kris?
Snort!
I am not a baby person. And even with my own babies, I was impatient for them to move past the baby stage. With both girls, I was impatient.
And just so you know?
Dark Kris is always here.
Always.
Snort!
I never had any doubt about your love for both of your children! It is so lovely expressed in your writing. Each of our children are different in their needs and attention. (I have four!!) We love them endlessly forever. Always a mom!
Thank you, lovely you.
My daughters are different, and their needs are different.
But my love for each of them is infinite.
Or as much of infinity as I am granted here with them.
Thank you.
I understand this so well. Only in reverse. My daughter was easy. But she didn’t care much for cuddling. She’s a hugger, but not a cuddler, if that makes sense. My son, on the other hand, while he was an easy baby, and is still a cuddler at almost 18, he tried me in almost every way. I’m so glad I had my daughter first!
But I totally get that you love both girls completely. I love both of my children with all my heart and soul, though I do love them differently. They are different people (night and day), so it would be unfair to love them the same.
Little Maj sounds like she was born with an old soul.
Happy sighs that you see what I was trying to share.
Thank you.
And yes . . . Maj was born with an old soul.
Definitely.
Wow. How moving. Both of my girls are very different as well. And the difference in them started before the younger one was even born. Thank you for sharing that story.
Thank you for coming to read and connect.
Thank you.