Generational Trauma
My kids will one day treat me like I treat my parents and it hurts my feelings.
It’s almost Easter, and that’s got me thinking about moms. Partly because every morning we mothers rise again, despite the torture we’ve endured the day before. (And we ain’t rising like we’ve had three days rest. MUST BE NICE, JESUS!) Partly because my mother-in-law is leaving after a four day visit this morning, and my actual mother arrived for a four day visit last night. And partly because there’s a picture of me and my kids from two Easters ago where I’m wearing these jeans I love that I used to fit into and it’s exactly how I’d like to look as a mom, assuming that I’m still constrained by the limitations of being myself, rather than say, the Last Unicorn in human form.
My kids are pretty nuts about their grandmas, or rather, their Nana and Grammy, because only fucking losers go by Grandma these days. My mom can somehow coax my four-year-old into playing card games and doing puzzles for hours on end, while I can’t even get him to sit still in front of a television for fifteen minutes. My husband’s mom designs scavenger hunts, prints out Bunko scorecards, makes homemade play-dough with my children. I want my children to treasure the memories of the lengths their Nana went to entertain them when they were small. But first I want them to forget, so they won’t ask me to do any of these things when my mother-in-law is not around. The truly amazing part of watching my kids’ grandmas hang out with them is how much these grown women seem to be enjoying themselves in the company of two weird, wild, whiny children. I mean yes their skin is perfect and their little tiny voices are very cute. But if I weren’t legally responsible for them, I’d probably seek out better company. Maybe I’d find someone who actually answers my questions instead of just yelling “poop in your face!” which has literally NEVER been a viable response to something I’ve asked my children.
But assembling three generations in one place can create a strange kind of Giving Tree vortex. Grandmas want to spend time with their grandchildren, but moms also want to spend time with their kids. (I’m told this desire kicks in somewhere around the time your kids stop wanting to spend time with you, but I’ll believe it when I see it.) Meanwhile, adult children tend to expect the same bottomless generosity their mothers have always shown them, without being able to offer the uncomplicated fandom they did when they were small in return. I am speaking in generalities because their is nothing worse than dealing with a mother who is offended by something you wrote. Then again, generalities can lead a mother-in-law to think you’re talking about her, when you’re actually talking about your own mother. And it seems significantly more dangerous to offend one’s mother-in-law than one’s actual mother, even with the consequences of offending one’s mother being as harrowing as they are. The truth is, you should probably just avoid writing about moms all together, but here I am, 512 words in, and there’s no turning back now. I’ve got an arbitrary deadline I’ve imposed on myself! Anyway, by the end of this, it’s safe to assume that we’re ALL going to have hurt feelings.
Fortunately, all my children’s grandparents are living. Unfortunately, none of them is living next door, in the next town, or even in the same state. Simply put, none is living close enough to raise our children for us. Isn’t this shit supposed to take a village, after all? Still, while the geography is not ideal, every grandparental has gone to great lengths to visit and support us as much as possible, except maybe one. (That’s right, Dad, I’m calling you out! Dog ear that Utne Reader, turn off Ari Melber and start cleaning some baby butts!) When I had my older son, and was thrashing desperately in a deep pool of postpartum hormones, the grandparents visited so often that I don’t think I spent five consecutive days alone with my baby until Covid came along and fucked us all. During those early months, company was exactly what I needed, and I don’t even know how much of their own lives my parents and in-laws had to put aside to give it to me, but I will always be grateful. Even more than just showing up, they made me feel like they wanted to be there, like this baby could be more than a scowling albatross, more than the grim reaper of youth and independence. He could be a source of joy and excitement. He could be all of the above! And he is! They (along with my husband) rescued me, and the only problem with rescuing me, is that I would come to expect said rescuing in perpetuity. And now that my kids are 2 and 4 I’m starting to realize, maybe that’s not how this works?
When my kids were younger, a visit from a grandparent meant another pair of hands to hot potato a baby into so my husband or I could take a shower, run to the gym, or even hobble together to the bar around the corner for a much needed beer. Were those outings fun? Not exactly. But I appreciated the brief chance to stare catatonically at a wall that was not my own. Grandparents were eager to give us the chance to fill our cups (both literally and metaphorically) because they saw how exhausted and overwhelmed we were. In this sense, I wonder if parenting new parents feels kind of like parenting new babies, in that just being there is most of the work. I’ve never felt more helpless in my adult life than right after I had my first baby, and I wonder if there’s something about seeing your adult child so vulnerable that reminds you of their infanthood. Of course, the feelings at the dawn of a new generation (because really that’s what the arrival of a firstborn is, right?) can be hard to parse. When an adult child realizes, wait a second, long ago my parents did all THIS for ME? And how did I show my gratitude? By ignoring the phone three out of every four times they call me? By stealing the bottle of Glogg my brother brought back from his Swedish year abroad? By ditching class on 4/20 my sophomore year to hotbox Belle Duggan’s van? I’d like to think of becoming a new parent as some kind of clean slate. But suddenly reckoning with how you’ve treated your own parents is like shining a black light on that clean slate and discovering a Jackson Pollock of other people’s DNA. As my dear friend who recently had her first child put it, “It’s truly batshit that every single person was born and has parents.”
But I do actually have a point I’m trying to get to. My point is that at the beginning, everyone’s feelings get shaken up like a snow globe. Then suddenly, you have a two-year-old and a four-year-old, and when your parents come to visit, it feels weird handing off your children first thing in the morning so you can crawl back into bed. Because it’s not like you were nursing your four-year-old all night. (If you were, god help you, does this newsletter really appeal to you?) And it feels a little less acceptable that your house looks like shit, because look at all the other grown ups whose houses don’t look like shit? For example, your PARENTS’ houses. In fact, while we’re on the subject, remember that new mother who left the hospital with her baby the same day you did? Remember how she was wearing a full face, how she had a BLOW OUT? (The adult hair kind not the baby diaper kind.) And remember how you couldn’t even bear to wear a shirt while you nursed your wailing little piglet, because it felt like too much work to lift it up so your parasite could assume his latch? Suddenly your parents aren’t a reminder that you too are someone’s child who deserves to be cared for. They’re fellow adults, who are probably judging the fact that your four-year-old doesn’t listen no matter how many times you tell him to stop pulling out his penis in front of company. They’re probably sizing up what a bad job you’re doing, just like you assume all other adults are. Suddenly they’re not there to rescue you. They’re there to discuss the news at the dinner table, which I guess people should be able to do without having the conversation hijacked by a two-year-old who’s anointing his face with guacamole like geisha preparing for a show.
It’s hard to give a full picture of anything, because a full picture is chaotic. It’s too bulky to fit into a tight little narrative. It’s like me, trying to squeeze into those Easter jeans I wore two years ago when I felt crazy but looked super hot. As I write this, two grandmas are playing Magnatiles with a four-year-old in my living room. Last night one grandma cooked us dinner, this morning, the other brought us donuts. I often have a good laugh about how much better my children treat me than they treat my husband, how they scream in the morning if it’s his face they see first, “I want mom!” My two-year-old will even throw himself face first in his crib, sobbing into his mattress like a young bride who’s just gotten news her husband was killed in battle. I know my children won’t always feel so effortlessly devoted to me. Their feelings will get more complicated, and it will hurt me because I’ll wonder, what am I doing that’s different? I’m still loving you exactly the same. But I can’t imagine ever not showing up when they need me, as thankless as it may feel. I can’t imagine not telling my son to put his penis back in his pants, even when he’s 45. Especially when he’s 45. I guess what I’m saying is, I’m glad for moms who get grandchildren. I think grandchildren give them back a little of the unconditional affection their children used to offer, then at some point took away.
So funny and charming. Any mom who reads this will chuckle a few times.