Flashbacks

flash·back (flshbk)

n.

1. a. A literary or cinematic device in which an earlier event is inserted into the normal chronological order of a narrative.

    b. The episode or scene depicted by means of this device.

2. An unexpected recurrence of the effects of a hallucinogenic drug long after its original use.

3. Psychology A recurring, intensely vivid mental image of a past traumatic experience

 

 

Today we'll be discussing definitions 1 & 3 above.

 

 

Last week the kids and I were walking through the neighbourhood, on our way to their summer camp. Leif & Ivy were about a block ahead, he pusher her along on her bike, and Hannah was walking with me, holding my hand. As we approached a house, I could see the following: a young boy, about 5, riding his little bicycle along the sidewalk in front of the house; his younger brother sitting on the sidewalk with his smaller bike tipped over, apparently upset and frustrated with the challenge of learning to ride or getting up a slight slop or something; and their mother trying to lock the front door of the house, empty grocery bags in hand, fussy baby strapped to her chest.

 

 

A literary or cinematic device in which an earlier event is inserted into the normal chronological order of a narrative.

 

 

On reflex, my flat palm flew to my chest and I stumbled a bit in my steps. I had to take a minute to breathe and look at my surroundings to take stock. No, that wasn't me struggling to carry out the most basic of tasks with 3 young kids in tow, desperately hoping for some glimmer of joy in an otherwise tedious every-day-looks-like-the-one-before-this experience of mothering a lot of young children at once. I had paid my dues and done my time. I was now the woman freely walking along, at a regular pace, with her chill, relatively older kids.

 

 

I watched this foursome get their stuff together and begin to set off. My eyes met hers and I said "Don't give up, it will get better, I promise". She grimaced and said "Really? Okay."

 

 

Our culture fears the dark side of motherhood. We dress it up, focusing on the maternity clothes, space-aged strollers, cute nursery decor, mommy blogs, milestones and sense of personal achievement. We don't acknowledge the other part. The things you get along with all that eye candy. The personal struggles and doubt, the blood, sweat and tears, oh the tears. The total sacrifice of self necessary to get you through it at all, and oh by the way you'll be heart-breakingly lonely a good chunk of the time too. I don't know why we do this. Are we afraid people will stop having kids if we tell them it will really, really suck at times? That sometimes, late at night, you'll truly consider getting out of it if only there was a way to give the crying baby back to somewhere, to someone? Are we afraid to admit that this western style of living, where we are all separate and alone, not living with our families or friends literally right-next-door, to help us, to relieve us, to give guidance if we want it or just to push that stroller around the block so we can sleep or weep in private, could be flawed? That maybe, the old way was a better way? Maybe that would lead us to question progress just for progresses sake, and then we're questioning capitalism and the education system and our whole way of life. Better to distract us with sexy maternity clothes and lie about sleep schedules and how becoming a parent completes you as a person or couple.

 

 

A recurring, intensely vivid mental image of a past traumatic experience.

 

 

Now when I pass that house I think of them, the people inside those four walls, the stage of family life that they are in, and my chest tightens, a touch of anxiety I guess. Yes, we have tons of great, hilarious, heart-warming memories of our time as a family with really young kids. With all those babies to snuggle and carry around on your shoulder, all that laughter and the silly phrases and off-key singing. They were fun, they were so cute, and our English language is lacking when it comes to words to describe the awesome feeling of becoming a parent. But I have never tried to hide the flip side of that coin, the other edge of that sharp sword. When you become a parent, and those early years of constant diapers, pee, shit, laundry, vomit, crying, being awake, being awakened, being sad, angry, forgetful, isolated, exhausted, uncertain and sometimes feeling none of it would ever get better. I'm not one to dress things up, to put on a happy face when it means denying your own experience. It is our experiences that shape us, that make up who we are. I cannot imagine my life without my kids, nor my personality without the breadth of my experiences.

 

 

When I look at my kids, I feel amazing, they are amazing, my life is full and rich and good. And when I drive by that house, I say a little blessing, that I made it through that marathon, and that I never, ever have to go back.

 

 

xoxo

C