Enough Mom in My World

“Why in the name of Heaven did you get pregnant again?”

What to say, what to say? I figured the landfills didn't have quite enough disposable diapers in them? I needed a few more stretch marks to make a perfect map of Florida on my stomach? No, I know!

“As it turns out,” I reply, “there was enough beer in the world, Mom.”  

I couldn't help being snarky. My mother, when I told her that my husband and I were expecting a second child, had freaked out.  

My own mother. 

Before you start thinking of her as Mommy Dearest, though, perhaps I should explain.

This woman saw me though 23 hours of unmedicated back labor, cried with relief when I finally consented to an epidural, and then helped me keep my first son alive for three years, even though it was touch and go at times. No, he wasn't dying or even sick, for that matter. He had colic, the worst colic anyone had ever seen or heard of. We were all concerned I might snap.  

For ten months, he never slept for more than two hours at a time, and screamed for more than twelve hours a day.  We asked our pediatrician what was wrong; she said she couldn't tell without an autopsy. 

I was tempted. 

By then I was having hallucinations from lack of sleep. Mom took us to a Doctor of Oriental Medicine, who smiled and said “Someday he will be President,” and gave me some smelly herbs to take. Nothing for the kid. 

My mother confessed that this was just the curse coming back to me. I had been exactly like this as a baby, and she had wished it on me. You know the Mother's Curse, right? The one you laugh at as a child, but which haunts you should you ever decide to procreate: “I hope you have one just like you.”

I began to see my mother in a new light. If I truly had been this awful, she was divine for not having left me at a local fire station. I couldn't believe I had been so bad as my firstborn. 

“He does twelve poopy diapers a day and they’re all liquid,” I wailed. “It runs down his legs and all over my clothes.”

“Ha!,” she scoffed, with an expression that clearly said bring it on. “I wish you had only done twelve a day. You did 20 some days; it was all strange, inhuman colors. I thought you had a disease. I used to put banana flakes in your bottles to try and stop you up. Nothing worked.”

“He never stops screaming,”  I countered. “I tried to go shopping, and he was so loud I couldn't hear what this lady was saying to me. Finally, I figured it out. She was saying, ‘Sweetheart, your baby is crying,’ like I had done something to start it or could do something to stop it. I just said, ‘Oh! Is that what that sound is?’”

She laughed. “You screamed so much when you were a baby, I was afraid the police would come barging in to see who was being murdered. You cried constantly until the day you started walking, and thank God you walked at ten months. If you had been born before your sister, you would have been an only child!” 

Her stories made my experience seem bearable. The anger and frustration I felt at my screaming son disappeared when I saw that—someday—I would tell my baby war stories with pride. I survived. See?

If I hadn't had my Mom to complain to, I don't know what would have happened. 

Truth be told, if I hadn't had a mother as funny, strong, wise, and —yes— snarky as my Mom, I never would have had the courage to try for a second wailing, pooping baby. 

So, all right, I'll change my answer now. I'll admit, it wasn't that there was enough beer in the world. It was that there was enough Mom in my world to get me through it, one more time. 

Thanks, Mom, and happy Mother's Day.