The Momoir Project

I remember the snow. How it slowly weaved its way down from the night sky and gracefully settled in between the coloured Christmas lights that flanked the balcony across the alley. I stood in a room filled with the warm glow of a small light that cast dream-like shadows onto the walls. In my arms lay my newborn son, softly breathing as we swayed to the gentle rhythm of a lullaby that played in the background. His little body snuggled into me as I softly kissed the top of his downy head and breathed in the splendor of his newborn scent. It was a moment of peace, a moment in life that you hold onto tightly for fear that it will disappear before you can bask fully in its beauty.
But sadly, it was not an accurate representation of what my life with my baby really looked like in those early months. Although I did try desperately to cling to this moment, it slipped from my fingers as quickly as it had appeared and I mourned its loss, my sobs drowning in the cries of my baby.
I did not think that there would be so many tears. I knew that the transition to parenthood would be challenging but I had no idea the extent to which my limits would be tested. I once had a yoga teacher who, prior to a meditation session, had asked us to think of a word that described what we wanted to cultivate in our lives. The word came to me quickly and easily - peace. It was something I had always been searching for. Perhaps it is because I feel I was cheated out of it too early in life. When I first realized I was pregnant, I was bathed in a feeling of calm. I felt like everything in my life was in alignment. I was balanced and all that had come before, both good and bad, had brought me to that moment. This was peace to me. I wanted that feeling to continue beyond my pregnancy and I had thought that through my baby I would finally find the sense of peace I had been searching for. But how do you cultivate peace when you are swimming in a sea of chaos? This was the question that challenged me in those early months as a mother.
In the beginning, we did not feel as though we were faced with anything unusual. As new parents, my husband and I were exhausted, elated, overwhelmed and hopelessly in love with this new little being that had been placed into our lives. But as the days passed, we began to see that things would not unfold according to our expectations. Our son, Jeffrey, was a strong baby, both in physique and temperament. He had a cry that could rock the entire city and had no qualms about using it. He hated his crib and placing him in there was like asking him to sleep on a hot bed of coals. It was a similar story with both the stroller and car seat. More than five minutes in either resulted in a cascade of thundering wails. His cries would vibrate through me like an electric shock as every inch of my body screamed at me to do something, anything to bring him comfort and make him stop. But we were lucky; he was easily consolable. As soon as I scooped him up and nestled him in close, his protesting cries would quickly downgrade into small whimpers that soon faded into soft, small breaths and calm would return to our lives.
He was considered a fussy baby and at times, the ferocity of his cries made me worry. But my arms had the power to calm him and this satisfied me, leaving the worries at bay. Then one night, three weeks after his birth, I was rendered powerless. Jeffrey had always been fussier in the evening so the onset of a potential crying episode was no surprise. But unlike previous times, I could not console him. I began to feel nervous. Was he sick? Was something horribly wrong? I nursed him, changed him, swaddled and rocked him, but to no avail. Nothing worked and his cries only escalated. Soon enough he was crying at a pitch I did not even think was possible. It went on like this for five hours and that night I went to bed shell-shocked with my ears ringing like I had just been to a rock concert.
Colic had set in and every evening for around five hours, Jeffrey would cry so intensely it was like he was being stabbed with a knife. I spent my evenings doing lunges and dancing to “Baby Beluga” in an effort to somehow soothe him. The exertion left me exhausted but the drive to help him and fix whatever was wrong was so strong that as long as my actions yielded even the tiniest of results I would not stop. I tried everything I could think of but I was told there was nothing I could do but to offer him as much comfort as possible and wait it out.
It was clear that I needed help. Despite an intense fear of flying, especially in winter, my mother arrived from her northern home to be by my side. She had given birth to five children and I felt that if anyone could understand what I was going through it would be her. When she walked through the door, an immense feeling of relief washed through me as I tried to hold back tears. Later that evening, when the colicky cries had finally subsided, I collapsed exhausted next to her on the couch. Was it just me or did the lines on her face look a little deeper? Probably a result of the flight I thought.
“So, which one of us cried like that?” I asked, trying to make it sound lighthearted, but seething with seriousness deep down inside. She hesitated.
“Well, I don’t really remember any of you crying like that.” She must have noticed the crestfallen look on my face and in an attempt to make me feel better quickly added, “But really it was so long ago that I probably don’t remember.” It didn’t work. Not remembering this is like not remembering going through labour. Unless you were knocked out there is no way that you could forget. Perhaps the edges might soften a little with time but you would definitely remember.
A few days later, I was standing in a grocery store aisle, cursing myself for not having written a list. Frantically, I tried to recall why I was there, knowing that at any moment Jeffrey would have a complete meltdown. His cries reverberated off the fluorescent lights overhead and filled the entire store. But it was hopeless. My frazzled mind could not focus and I took off in search of my mom.
I found her sitting by the blood pressure machine in the pharmacy. Her arm lay nestled in the machine’s cuff as she studied the small screen in front of her that held her results. My mother loved blood pressure machines. They gave her the freedom to test whenever she wanted without a visit to the doctor and she would pump out results faster than they could replace the tape. She did have a tendency towards high blood pressure, which warranted the testing, but I often wondered if her enthusiasm would be just as high if her blood pressure was normal. I think she just liked to know.
But today, she had a different look on her face. Her brow was furrowed as she reviewed her numbers and her expression exposed a touch of worry. “Is everything alright?” I asked, raising my voice so it could be heard above Jeffrey’s screams which had now elevated to their highest decibel. “Oh, fine, fine,” she replied, “It’s just a little high, probably still from the flight.” I looked over her shoulder at the small screen, 180/110. I closed my eyes. It was extremely high and I feared that I knew the reason why.
If I had any resilience within me it came from my mother. She was a woman who had escaped Communism with two suitcases, two children and a husband who yelled too much. She had gone from living in one of the most beautiful cities in Europe to rural northwestern British Columbia where the equivalent of an opera ticket is a bingo chip. But apparently, her strength, which had weathered her through many storms, was no match for the cries of my son. I looked into her eyes, blue like forget-me-nots. “I’m sorry,” the words came out in nearly a whisper. She looked at me and smiled. Her rough hands, etched with years of work, patted my arm. “Don’t worry,” she said and she bent down to kiss the top of her grandson’s head.
What had I done wrong? I had planned for everything to be so beautiful. I had anticipated some hardships but felt that the joy and splendor of my infant son would melt them away. Where was the peace that my baby was supposed to bring? Was God testing my strength and resilience through all this chaos or had he just forgotten about me? The thought made me feel guilty. I loved my son with such depth that it almost broke me. When he looked up into my eyes, I saw that I was his world. All he wanted was to be a part of me and was not yet ready to be physically separated. But I was exhausted. The wrap that I had bought to carry him became my uniform. It went on in the morning and came off late at night. He was 10 pounds at birth, a heavy baby. And so, the fifty pounds I had gained during my pregnancy all but melted off. I was a woman in perpetual motion and like the movement you continue to feel when you step off a boat, I didn’t think I would ever be able to stop. Peace felt like a long way off.
Shortly after my mom left, I was video conferencing with my father. He had entered a point in his life where he no longer wished to travel further than a 200 km radius from his home. As I was unwilling to travel by plane with Jeffrey - and a 17- hour winter drive in what would largely be isolated wilderness was out of the question - this had become a great way to stay in touch with his grandson.
“I hear he cries a lot,” my father bellowed with his thick Czech accent and a voice that was unable to sound like it was not yelling at you. I smiled wearily at him, “You could say that.” I paused, as the smile faded, “Dad, I just don’t know what to do.”
My father studied my face for a moment and shifted in his seat. “Well,” he said contemplatively, “what can you do? He wants to cry, so let him cry. And if all he wants is to be with you then let him be with you.” I laughed, my father had a way of simplifying what seemed like the most perplexing of dilemmas. “Thanks Dad.”
Before I signed off my father left me with one last message. “Don’t leave him to cry alone, he needs to be close to his mother and that’s as it should be.” I was not prepared to receive such tender advice from my father. He was often awkward with words of sentiment and not at all comfortable with affection. I did not know much about his life but I knew he had faced many challenges and the years of working at an aluminum smelter and living in a company town had not been kind. Although I adored him, I had always found it difficult to get close to him. Perhaps this is why his heartfelt words resonated within me. Just let him be, this was my father’s message.
Later that day, while my son nursed, I glanced over at a pile of books lying next to me on the couch. I reached over and grabbed one that caught my eye. 1001 Baby Names: Their Meanings and Origins, a book I had acquired during pregnancy. I had wanted to find a boys name with a strong meaning but was never satisfied with the ones I came across. We ended up naming Jeffrey after his great-grandfather, a man I never had the privilege to meet but for whom my husband had a deep love and respect. I loved hearing stories about him and often I felt like I could see parts of his spirit shining in the eyes of my husband. Although we did not officially name Jeffrey until several days after his birth, it was clear to us that he had always been Jeffrey. But I had never bothered to look up the meaning of his name. I flipped through to “J” my fingers skimming over the rows of names: Jeevan, Jefferson, Jeffrey. Origin: “English.” Meaning: “God’s Peace.” I stared dumbfounded at the words. “God’s Peace.” I looked down at my son, intoxicated with milk, a thin stream of the white liquid, dripping from the side of his mouth. I thought about the long evenings of crying and how lost and helpless it made me feel, how powerless I was because I could do nothing to make it stop. Then I thought about the way he clung to me during a fit of colic and how, during moments of calm, he would look at me with unconditional love. It dawned on me that the “peace” I had thought I lost and mourned for was actually lying in my arms. The wave of calm I had felt when I knew I was pregnant was the knowledge of him growing inside me. He was my peace, a gift from God. I had been just too preoccupied with fixing something that was never broken to notice.
That night as I held Jeffrey close, his small body convulsing with cries, I remembered the words of my father and just let him be.
The colic did eventually stop. One night, it just never came and as quickly as it had arrived, it left us for good. Winter soon gave way to spring and Jeffrey slowly became more comfortable with the world around him. I would take him to the park and underneath trees of brilliant greens, he would wiggle his legs in excitement, feeling the blades of grass tickle his chubby, round feet. There were still days filled with tears, but it was different now. I knew that with patience the challenges I faced would come to pass and life would move onwards. The resistance to accept things as they were had left me unbalanced. Only by letting go was I able to navigate through the sea of chaos and find the one thing I had been searching for: God’s peace.