The Baby Bubble, Keeping it Real

Long before I had children, I listened to a radio segment by a westerner visiting rural areas of South Africa. The gist was that in these impoverished, desolate areas, moms generally had lots of kids. The westerner was struck by how the moms were so dedicated to their babies, but then left their older kids to roam – and forage – on their own. When asked why they kept having kids when there was so little food, and so few resources for them, the moms all said the same thing. There’s nothing like the love of a baby. We want that baby love. Something like that.

My twins just turned five. They love fart noises and any words related to poop. They demand comfy pants. They rotate through a small collection of ripped and stained sweatpants, while the drawer full of cute jeans, cargo pants and chinos sits folded, untouched. They have long conversations about things like, “Hey Dinosaur, you’re a baby, and when you are a grownup, the dragon will EAT YOU!!” They race around in their own world, only looking for me when they need something. More and more, my role is pulling them from their play to tell them to do something: get dressed, eat, clean up, don’t smash your silly putty into the carpet, etc. They flipflop between utter independence and infantile neediness. I can totally imagine them being just fine roaming a rural village on their own. They’d be wearing dirty, highwater sweats, chasing each other with Lego monster submarine fliers, and living off mangos and avocados. (And look, there’s a kid blowing a conch shell.) They’d swing by my house for hugs and bandaids.

The other side of this new era is the loss of the baby love. Suddenly, I completely understand what the South African moms were talking about. I’ve long mourned the ongoing loss of the baby bubble. Every time it widens, my heart tears a little bit. The first time I remember that ripping away feeling was when they stopped nursing. Ever since, mamahood feels like this contradictory mix of falling in love and losing that love at the same time. As they age, my kids need serious cuddle time less and less. I cling to the moments when they cling to me because I can see the writing on the wall. I can’t stop this train.

Some nights, our nightly cuddle is me, exhausted, willing them to lay still, and the kids doing everything but. I leave them not just awake, but bouncing off the walls. It must be the moon. No matter what phase it’s in. Some nights, even after a pretty good day, I want to cry, just from the relentlessness of being simultaneously ignored and needed all day long. I know they are exhausted, and they should be asleep. My crankiness is like caffeine for them- I show a bit of frustration, and they amp up. One is too hot. One is too cold. One needs water. The other demands coconut water, then spills it all over his bed. Changing the (just washed) sheets gives the first an excuse to jump on his bed, holler like a banshee and throw a party. And on. I want them to cuddle with me, and go to sleep. This is not what they need. They need to be told, sternly, to BE QUIET. NOW. Wouldn’t it be lovely if they could just go sleep (or not) under the stars, forage for carrots in the garden, and come back after I’ve caught up on my sleep. Go.

This morning, after a long stretch of busy days and late nights, one of my boys woke up and crawled into my lap, tucking his head against my chest. We sat for a long time. This is home. No matter how big they get, I hope we will always find this place. It’s part of my job, my reason to live, to create this space for them. When they don’t fit on my lap anymore, we’ll find it another way. They need to stay in this place less and less as they grow. I wonder what it is, exactly, this sweet, cuddly, no-other-place-i’d-rather-be, bubble o’ love. It is the baby bubble that I can’t bear the thought of losing, and I think if I can capture it in words somehow, if I can define it, I can keep it real.

When the babies were four months old, I wrote in my journal, “…even if I am not all bubbly and goofy, I promise to be real.” Even then I was looking for words to capture the baby bubble. It felt honest. It felt real. This is easy when I’m feeling the love. It’s easy during cuddles, talking about Legos or the strawberries growing outside or what an explosion is, exactly. But when my kid won’t get his pyjamas on, then bounces on his bed laughing through the countdown, I have to take away his bedtime book. He melts into tears, his heart is broken. Then, what is real?? Is this love? It feels like hell. I have to be hard and cold. I feel mean. Of course I understand how important it is to follow through with consequences, bla bla bla. I love my kids, and I have to hold that back for that fucking elusive greater good. It doesn’t feel real. It feels contrived. It sucks. I hate having to force my kid to wear his eye-patch too, when he hisses at me or pinches me, or says, “You aren’t my mama anymore!”

I have to face it. The kids have burst their baby bubble. This train has left the station. I figure I can either turn them out or embrace what’s next. My promise to be real will have to evolve with the times. It’s a blind promise. I have to figure it out as I go. It gets hard as they discover and do things I’m not sure how to handle. Its not fun when they challenge my authority. I hate to admit it, but it’s hard when we go to a store or restaurant, and people look afraid to see us coming. I suppose I was afraid, too, before I got used to being around boys whose noises, actions and clothing all speak to explosives. It’s even hard because they are developing their own understanding of the world, and they just don’t want input from me, as in, “I’m NOT going poopy! NEVER!”

Once I face the loss of my babies, I can look at these boys and wonder who they really are. The wonder of watching them become hasn’t changed. My son asked me the other night why I get to make all the rules. I told him they aren’t my rules, that my job is to enforce the rules that come from his body to keep it healthy. He’s long known the my job is to keep him safe, and being healthy is part of that. I told him about his circadian rhythm, which made no sense at all. I think he understands my job, though. Whenever I threaten to leave without him because he won’t put on his shoes, he reminds me it would be illegal to do so.

I vowed always to look into my kids’ eyes with truth and openness. I swore I would honor this baby love, that I would always come back to it, make sure it was there, and keep it strong. This is what it means to keep the love bucket full. It’s the part of the baby bubble that will carry forward. I’m realizing that complete truth and openness when it comes to young kids is complicated, subjective and unnecessary. So is always showing my true feelings. The truth and openness I can give my kids is being present, listening, being open to whatever and wherever they are. Comfy pants it is. Nobody said being real is organized or dressed appropriately or under control. It’s not even love. It’s a doorway. It’s letting go. Being real with them is letting them be who they are. That’s it. It’s not about my truth, it’s about discovering theirs. I can’t keep the baby bubble, but maybe I can keep it real.