By Anna Quindlen, Newsweek Columnist and Author
All my babies are gone now. I say this not in sorrow,but in disbelief. I take great satisfaction in what I have today: three almost-adults, two taller than I am, one closing in fast. Three people who read the same books I do and have learned not to be afraid of disagreeing with me in their opinion of them, who sometimes tell vulgar jokes that make me laugh until I choke and cry, who need razor blades and shower gel andprivacy, who want to keep their doors closed more thanI like.
Who, miraculously, go to the bathroom, zip up their jackets and move food from plate to mouth all by themselves. Like the trick soap I bought for the bathroom with arubber ducky at its center, the baby is buried deep within each, barely discernible except through theunreliable haze of the past.
Everything in all the books I once poured over is finished for me now. Penelope Leach, T. BerryBrazelton, Dr. Spock. The ones on sibling rivalry and sleeping through the night and early-childhood education - all grown obsolete. Alongwith Goodnight Moon and Where the Wild ThingsAre, they are battered, spotted, well used. But I suspect that if you flipped the pages dust would rise like memories.
What those books taught me, finally,and what the women on the playground taught me, and the well-meaning relations - what they taught me, was that they couldn't really teach me very much at all.
Raising children is presented at first as a true-false test, then becomes multiple choice, until finally, faralong, you realize that it is an endless essay. No one knows anything. One child responds well topositive reinforcement, another can be managed onlywith a stern voice and a timeout. One child is toilettrained at 3, his sibling at 2.
When my first child was born, parents were told to put baby to bed on his belly so that he would not choke on his own spit-up. By the time mylast arrived, babies were put down on their backs because of research on sudden infant death syndrome.To a new parent, this ever-shiftingcertainty is terrifying, and then soothing. Eventually you must learn to trust yourself.Eventually the research will follow.
I remember 15years ago poring over one of Dr. Brazelton's wonderful books on child development, in which hedescribes three different sorts of infants: average,quiet, and active. I was looking for a sub-quietcodicil for an 18-month old who did not walk. Was there something wrong with his fat little legs? Was there something wrong with his tiny little mind? Was he developmentally delayed, physically challenged? Was I insane? Last year he went to placecountry-region China.Next year he goes to college. He can talk just fine. He can walk, too.
Every part of raising children is humbling. Believe me, mistakes were made. They have all been enshrined in the 'Remember-When- Mom-Did' Hallof Fame. The outbursts, the temper tantrums, the bad language - mine, not theirs. The times the baby fell off the bed. The times I arrived late for preschool pickup. The nightmare sleepover. The horrible summer camp. The day when the youngest came barreling out of the classroom with a 98 on hergeography test, and I responded, 'What did you getwrong?' (She insisted I include that here.) The timeI ordered food at the McDonald's drive-through speakerand then drove away without picking it up from thewindow. (They all insisted I include that.) I did not allow them to watch the Simpsonsfor the first two seasons. What was I thinking?
But the biggest mistake I made is the one that mostof us make while doing this. I did not live in the moment enough. This is particularly clear now that themoment is gone, captured only in photographs. There is one picture of the three of them, sitting in the grass on a quilt in the shadow of the swing set on a summer day, ages 6, 4 and 1. And I wish I could remember what we ate, and what we talked about, and how they sounded, and how they looked when they slept that night. I wish I had not been in such a hurry to get on to the next thing: dinner, bath, book, bed.
I wish I had treasured the doing a little more and the getting it done a little less. Even today I'm not sure what worked and what didn't,what was me and what was simply life. When they were very small, I suppose I thought someday they would become who they were because ofwhat I'd done. Now I suspect they simply grew into their true selvesbecause they demanded in a thousand ways that I back off and let them be. The books said to be relaxed and I was often tense, matter-of-fact and I was sometimes over the top.
And look how it all turned out. I wound up with the three people I like best in the world, who have done more than anyone to excavate my essential humanity. That's what the books never told me.I was bound and determined to learn from the experts. It just took me a while to figure out who the experts were.