Meredith’s Musings: The Now Now

article by Meredith McKinnie

I taught a Bible school class about ten years ago at my mother’s church. I remember a little boy, named Harry Potter. Of course, that wasn’t his real name, but it is what he wanted to go by, so I let him. I wrote the name in huge letters, first and last, and played along for the benefit of a four-year-old. I count that as my only success that week, indulging in the fantasy with the little fella. Teaching a class of 12 children felt more like corralling a herd of sheep for hours each morning. It exhausted me, and further reminded me that maybe motherhood wasn’t for me. I didn’t have the temperament, let alone the patience. I live in the now, and during that week, all I could see was chaos.

But now, all those qualities I felt “disqualified” me for motherhood, I’m seeing make me another kind of mother. I’m hoping it’s the mother my daughter needs. I am impatient, but I’m surrounded by patient women. My mother-in-law, my two best girlfriends, they make up for what I lack. I’m a mixture of fun and frustrated; it shifts from second to second. I can literally be screaming in the other room and then smiling through tears only moments later. I prefer my daughter see both, not only those considered good qualities. I want her to recognize the differences, see the beauty in various personalities. And I hope she sees the flaws in me. Dealing with my impatience may make her more patient, or so I hope.

I thought I was too old to be a mother. But with age comes wisdom. I’m more appreciative of my circumstance and reflective in the moment. I don’t believe in ten years I’ll suddenly wake up and wish I paid more attention. I live in the moment with her. When she laughs, I hold my eyes open, refusing to end it with a blink. I inhale deeply that baby smell at least twice; once isn’t enough. When she struggles as I attempt to squeeze her short little rolled arms in her sleeves, I let her squirm, simply because it’s the cutest struggle. When she is sitting up and gets frustrated, she will bang her right arm repeatedly against her leg. I laugh and mirror her action; she finds me amusing. She’s teaching me patience, and I’m paying attention. I know myself, weaknesses and all, and I listen more. I consider alternatives and try to give people the benefit of the doubt. Hopefully she’ll mirror my example.

I’m a horrible singer. Husband jokingly says if he ever leaves me, it will be due to my singing. But I love to sing. And she loves my impromptu Broadway shows. Every rehearsal is full force and she chuckles from her changing table as her mother twirls around the room. The songs are random and frequently made up on the spot. I’ve always talked to myself, but now I do so with cadence. It started as a way of distraction, but now I have an audience of one who gives me a standing ovation with her smile. She doesn’t care that I sing well, just that I sing to her.

With my impatience comes a need for things right now. It works well with babies, who can only live in the moment. My temperament makes me jump when she cries, an incessant need to calm her crying, to soothe her sorrow. I would want it done for me. We both live in the now now, and so we understand each other. These qualities I’ve come to appreciate; they make me my own kind of mother, an impatient, Broadway song bolting, have to have it now kind of mother. And perhaps it is exactly the mother she needs.