Fresh Starts

By Norene Kelly

I am making a fresh start. I let my daughter cry today. Twice. And I didn't yell back. I just took it in, and breathed it out, and decided that it was okay.

Claire is almost 18-months-old. I try to respond to all her cries, all her whines, all her wants. I want to give. I don't believe that attention spoils a child. But this protocol is makng me not want to be with her. I want to escape the Claire-prison.

She is in daycare full-time, and my husband John takes her half the time. The rest is up to me, and still it can seem too much.

I made this decision today, because I wanted to make dinner. I was hungry. I wanted to make a meal for myself and my family - something I don't do very often, and miss accomplishing. But I know that she will cry upon my leaving her and Dr. Seuss, so that I can cut, and fry, and microwave. I dread that cry. It is fingernails clawing my eardrums and heart.

So I decided to put Claire in the baby sling and carry her on my hip while I cook (as numerous progressive baby books suggest). These books extol the virtue of staying physically close to your child -- because that engenders emotional closeness. These same books rebuke the parent who ignores a crying child.

I think I am progressive, and do not want to be rebuked. I look all over the house (Claire in arms, of course) for this baby sling that babies are supposed to love, but Claire never did. I find it in the basement.

I put her in the sling, which, of course, she doesn't like. I tell her to shush up because I am doing what is right. How can she complain about that? I get the tater tots in the pan. I put the veggie burgers in the microwave. She grows heavier, and I grow resentful. Claire grabs things, and I tell her to stop it because here I am, doing her this great favor -- keeping her close, and lugging her around (like all those baby books tell me).

But I can't cut the bread with her slung on my hip. So that is the end of that. I put her down and brace myself. Tears pour, noise escalates, snot flows, as she hovers about and under my feet. I maneuver around her and put on NPR, as loud as I need to hear it above the pleas.

I work on dinner. I focus on the radio to suppress my desire to scream SHUT UP! They are talking about toy factories in China. They say that there are more child laborers in the world than there are people in the United States.

My guilt, my anger, are put into perspective -- and ebb. Claire's cries are simply there. Dinner is getting made. By the end of the segment, Claire calms herself, and goes to the cupboard. And I say, happily, to reward her for giving me peace, "Where's Claire? Where's my sweetie?"

A few minutes later, when I give her pieces of veggie burger and tater tot, I think -- So what? Give Claire what you can, and let her cry. Let it be okay, and it will.