Every Parent Needs a Place To Vent

Annie Lamont’s book “Operating Instructions” helped me through the early months of being a single mother. Annie was an older, single mother, too. She got me and I got her. She has the perfect blend of wonder and joy, angst and exhaustion.

I particularly related to her quote, “I watched with horror as he raised his reptilian head again.”

I was breastfeeding my son, and had thought that every time he lifted his head in the bassinet it was time to feed. Years later, after watching other babies sleep, I realized he was simply changing position, and might have gone right back to sleep if I hadn’t picked him up to nurse. Who knew?

In my defense, he did nurse during the day for thirty minutes every two hours. I assumed several nightly feedings were normal. I would put him in bed with me to nurse so we could both go back to sleep. This isn’t the best thing to do, I know, but I was alone and wrung out much of the time. Once, in the middle of the night, after the first feeding, I awoke to find him sucking on my poor, sore nipple again. I sat straight up in bed and yelled, “Fuck!”

My poor baby also had colic. He cried from 5:00 to 10:00 pm most nights, for what seemed like forever, although I’m sure it was only a couple of months. His Dad would call from Santa Fe, where he lived, and I would melt into tears right along with the baby. Plus, I was pissed his Dad wasn’t with us to share in all this “joy.” Rides in the car, putting the baby carrier with the baby inside on top of the dryer and turning it on didn’t work.

Author, colicky baby Blake, and his father, Darren

Fortunately, I had a small village helping. My sister, his godfather, and a couple of friends would come sub in for me when it got to be too much. They may have literally saved my sanity.

I think I was fortunate when he was a Terrible Two. Or maybe I just blocked it out. As he got older, I remember saying that eighteen months to three years was unmitigated hell. And yet, the only time I can actually recall was once when I baked cookies and invited my sister over. Before she arrived, I gave him a cookie, but he wanted the whole plate. He threw such a crying, demanding fit that I had to hide the plate of cookies. Which didn’t work. He had already reached the developmental milestone of Object Permanence. Just because he didn’t see them, didn’t mean they weren’t there.

When my sister knocked on the door, I opened it and said, “Welcome to hell.”

I felt completely discouraged and hopeless. It wasn’t a new feeling, nor was it the last time I felt that way. When he could reason and argue, he argued constantly. He would argue with a rattling fence post! I called my Mom to complain, and she said, “Carol, he’s just like you. You always had to have the last word, even if that word was ‘fine.’ ”

Mom’s retort helped that time. Other times, not so much. She often said, when I would bemoan how hard it all was, “Carol, you wanted that baby,” in a guilt inducing tone. Which of course, was absolutely true. I went through a lot to have him. Leaving behind an entire life, delaying starting my therapy practice, and taking on all the issues that go with single motherhood.

Of course I wanted him.

He is still, at age 26, the light of my life. I don’t know how I went the first forty years of my life without him. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t the absolute hardest thing I have ever done.

Irina Murza on Unsplash

People can’t tell you how difficult parenting is.

Especially, parenting a newborn through three years old. I guess if they did or could, no one would ever have children. Or, as in my case, they just wouldn’t listen. After all, I had degrees that included child development. I knew what I was doing, right? Yeah, right. It only took an actual newborn and then toddler to show me I didn’t know anything.

Where do you go with those hopeless, helpless feelings?

While my mother was a godsend for me and my son, she had no patience with my complaints. I did join a Mom’s Club group that helped. We bartered child care and shared stories and solutions. One of my sisters, who had twins who were ten by then, understood my bouts with crazy. So that helped.

I had done a lot of therapy for myself, but by the time my son came along, my therapist was deceased. Still, I remembered she had said if we had unresolved childhood issues, they would come up when our child reached that age. I know my mother had breast feeding issues that may have impacted me. I know from Mom’s report that I was stubborn and wanted the final word at ages two and three. Sure enough, as he grew and hit milestones, sometimes my empathy showed up as feeling distraught when he went through similar things I had gone through. And then, of course, the fact that he is part Black means that I will never fully know everything he goes through in our culture.

But there is hope.

Join a Mom’s club. Preferably one that takes you through the first three years. If your child has a difference of any kind, find a group that deals with that. Surround yourself with parents of children like yours. Ask all of your village to help. And maybe find a therapist.

I have had, and currently have, clients who have no other place to vent. I’m glad I can offer them a safe place to do that. Sometimes being heard makes all the difference.

If you, too, have recoiled at the raising of your child’s reptilian head, or been tempted to yell “Fuck,” or wouldn’t trade your child for anything, but might trade your soul for a good night’s sleep, find an empathetic therapist. We know that you can love your child and hate how your life has changed. We know that parenting can bring despair and feelings of helplessness and hopelessness as well as joy and wonder. And we know, especially those of us who are parents, that underneath your anger and fear, lies love and connection, once you make room for it. And get a little sleep.

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Previously published on “A Parent Is Born”, a Medium publication.

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