Does it hurt to be real?

After Bridget's letter yesterday about keeping it real (see post below), I kept hearing a snippet from the Velveteen Rabbit running around my busy brain: Does it hurt to be real? Finally I had to go look it up & I didn't have the line exactly right but I loved the refresher:

The Skin Horse had lived longer in the nursery than any of the others. He was so old and most of the hairs in his tail had been pulled out to string bead necklaces. For nursery magic is very strange and wonderful, and only those playthings that are old and wise and experienced like the Skin Horse understand all about it.

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

"I suppose you are real?" said the Rabbit. And then he wished he had not said it, for he thought the Skin Horse might be sensitive. But the Skin Horse only smiled.

"The Boy's Uncle made me Real," he said. "That was a great many years ago; but once you are Real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always."

The Rabbit sighed. He thought it would be a long time before this magic called Real happened to him. He longed to become Real, to know what it felt like; and yet the idea of growing shabby and losing his eyes and whiskers was rather sad. He wished that he could become it without these uncomfortable things happening to him.

~ Margery Williams

I think when I read it as a wee one, I thought it described friendship. At this point it pretty much sums up my parenting experiences lately: sometimes magical, sometimes shabby (which reminds me of the time when Sam was 4 and he said "Mom! you have two smile lines under your eyes!" Thanks, buddy.) But worth it, definitely worth it. I wouldn't change being Real for anything. But I think I'll take measures so my hair doesn't get rubbed off.

And now, I'm off to the Apple store for a little spa treatment for my poor battered Clementine. A little piece of her edge broke off yesterday & I feel awful about the abuse she has suffered at my hands. Talk about becoming Real!

Baby dreams

For the first time in a long time, I had a baby dream the other night. Weird. I used to have them all the time--especially when I was pregnant {& no, I'm not pregnant}--but it's been years since I dreamed one. Usually they were about my feared inability to care for or even remember the baby.

In one recurring dream, I would suddenly discover that I FORGOT TO FEED THE BABY, EVER, and, apparently, that was a really bad idea. Come to find out, though, babies don't really let you forget to feed them. Whew. (Or as Maddy says, fyoof.)

When I received this week's letter to a parent, I was fascinated to hear that not only was I not alone in the baby dreaming but that dads-to-be also have them. Click on over to read Sugata's wonderful letter about realizing what those fears were all about and how his daughters taught him they were unfounded.
{photo via flickr}

Raise your hand if you think you're a perfect parent...

Anyone? Anyone? No? Me either.

If not, go read Jessica's letter this week at Letters to a Parent, addressed to The Mom Who's Not Perfect. And go easy on yourself, okay?

Thanks, Jessica, for sharing this.

Triptych

Michaelangelo's Pieta

I wake up to a small sound at midnight, my Miss Clavell-like mother sensors detecting something is not right. There it is again--a soft sniffle, a low moan. Is someone crying? I shuffle into the hallway, blurry from the scant hour of sleep and still half in my dream.

Maddy is crying--a soft, forlorn sob that breaks my heart.

I scoot her over a bit to make room for myself under the covers of her twin bed. I fit my legs into the angle of hers {and note fleetingly how her legs have stretched longer in the last few months} and wrap my arms around her. She spills out her worries and disappointments that have been building under her cheerful 12-year-old exterior. Loneliness, jealousy, fear, nostalgia already for her simpler elementary school days, friend troubles, sister troubles, dashed expectations for the glorious experiences she thought would be hers at 12--these are all soured by their proximity to each other and by the late dark lonely hour.

There was a time when my midnight ministrations were easier, when, blurry eyed, I could provide milk and nearness and that was enough to satisfy her nighttime needs. Now my role isn't resolving or satisfying but simply witnessing & waiting while she resolves for herself.

***

Brueghel's Child's Games

Most of my interactions with Sam are still instrumental. Where are my church shoes? What are we having for dinner? Will you help me with this song? Will you play a game with me? Comb my hair? Check my homework? These things I can do, can check off as positive indicators for the parenting balance sheet.

Although yesterday, when he hollered up from the kitchen "Can you cut my bagel for me?" I admit I weighed the probability of a lacerated palm (if I had him try it himself) versus a few more peaceful moments of reading before I replied a delayed "okay." Even the simple things are hard some days, their grinding dailiness overpowering my ability to rise to the occasion.

***

Modigliani portrait

Lauren chose 9:30 p.m. on a Sunday night, the last day of February break, to bring us the sheet of paper.
"I'm supposed to have a conversation with you."
Distracted by Jon Stewart's Oscar banter, I register her request but fail to respond.
"Like, by tomorrow. It's due tomorrow in Health."
"Okay...let me see what it is."

The form lists five questions that students are supposed to discuss with parents about sex and birth control: How should teenagers show affection for each other? Should a couple have sex if they love each other and are going to get married? If a teen is sexually active, what kind of birth control should she use? Etcetera.

This is not the conversation I want to have, on demand, on Oscar night at 9:30. Keep in mind we have had nine unscheduled, unhurried days of vacation before this. I sigh.

"I already know the answers to most of these. We've talked about this before" she says hopefully. "Maybe we don't need to talk about it and you can just sign the sheet."
This is true, although we haven't explicitly discussed birth control. I imagine a pregnant child, blaming her parents' cluelessness: They couldn't be bothered. The Oscars were on.

So we talk, our glances not quite meeting for most of it. One commercial break, Greg screamingly silent on the other sofa.
As she heads for bed, she says "don't worry, I'm not planning on doing anything like this anytime soon."

Silence in the wake of her departure.

Greg asks, "Did she say 'not anytime soon'? Because I was hoping to hear 'not planning on anything like this ever'." I'm just thinking why didn't I turn off the t.v. and spend a little more time? What's so difficult about that?

***

Missive to the past

This week's Letter to a Parent comes from Allysha, of Bells on their Toes. {Allysha was nominated by Design Mom Gabrielle Blair.} Allysha wrote a great letter, addressing it to the version of herself who, six years ago, was just about to launch into parenthood. Her insights really hit home for me. Check it out here.

What would you say to an earlier version of yourself? (Besides "don't get that perm"!)

I'll be back later today...still recuperating from my trip and under-the-weather-ness.