I wrote the passage below to my first-born niece, Madeleine, when she was about four months old. I was 21 years old at the time, and was being exposed for the first time, via my sister, her husband, and their perfect little beauty, to the fears, frustrations, and overwhelming love and devotion that go along with being a parent for the first time.
Being a senior in college, with flexibility in my school and work schedule, I was able to help by watching my niece one day a week on Mondays. We used to call them "Mondays with Madeleine."
The ten years that have passed since I wrote this have shown me many other families and situations that are both similar and different to that of my sister's family at the time that Madeleine was born. There is more than just one way to provide for your child, and what is best for one family may not be the best choice for another. The one consistency I have found is that it is never easy.
The First Monday- January 7, 2002
The day before our first Monday was your mom's thirty-second birthday. Your whole family laughed, doted and cooed as you had your first pears, which you appeared to enjoy immensely. None of us could ever tire of watching you as your mom got you to laugh and grin, as only a mom can.
This evening was also our first snowstorm of the winter, and of your life. This meant that after dinner, dessert and birthday presents, your dad had to "go do something he didn't want to do," as he explained to you when he said good-bye. He had a snow-plowing contract at the time, and needed to go out into the awful weather that night. I remember watching him hold you against his chest before he left. I could see that it broke his heart to leave you and your mom; he said over and over how good it felt to hold you, and how he wished he didn't have to go. But in the end, he was leaving to take care of you.
This is one of those things I can only imagine, not yet a parent myself: being torn between the essential tasks which mean providing for your family, and being with them every moment. You want both, for love of your child, but you must do what is best in the end. Watching your dad go into the snow that night I felt closer than before, to seeing what parenting is all about.
I stayed at your house that night, because the snow made driving a bit treacherous. In the morning, I woke up to your mom bringing you to your swing. She was getting your rice cereal and pears ready. It was the first time I'd seen her in professional attire since before you were born, and that was strange. I was afraid she might be in a hurry, and I offered to feed you, but she said she'd do it. I realized that she had her reasons for wanting to do it herself.
The ground was still covered with snow, and I held you as your mom put galoshes on her feet- they didn't exactly compliment her outfit, and she joked about that. The shoes she would wear at work were in a small paper shopping bag. After she tied her snow shoes, I watched her reach for you to say good-bye- about to head to her first day back to work as a mom, and the first day at a new job on top of that. Her face broke into tears as she held you to her.
I watched your mom go to college for the first time when I was eight- she cried just a little as we left her at that first dormitory; I watched her graduate college and graduate law school; I watched her get married, and by this time had watched her entire first pregnancy. All this time as we've been growing into our adult lives, I've teased her, saying she was still a kid, and would never really be a grown-up. I was shocked as it dawned on me that morning, that she was crying a mother's tears.
I've only seen your mom cry a few times. She is a strong woman, and always manages to keep her head clear and be strong for others. On this morning I saw her cry with emotion that I'd never seen on her face before. She hurt to leave you, out of love for you-just like daddy the night before- and at the same time, she had to leave you, so that she could know she was doing everything possible to make you a happy, healthy girl.
As she gave you back to me and was gathering her things to leave, I looked at her briefcase. Since this was a new job, she didn't yet have her own clients or cases yet-- there couldn't be files for her to have taken home-- and I wondered what was in them. I pictured blank legal pads and pens... I thought it might make her laugh, and asked, "Do you have to bring your own legal pads for taking notes, or do they give you those?" I saw a small smile as she told me that the office provided paper. I told her I was glad it was me she was leaving you with, instead of some smelly old lady who she didn't know. I knew though, that despite my attempt at humor, this was one of the hardest things your mom would have to do. And it didn't make it any easier that she had to trudge through six inches of snow to get to her car, either.
But she had a job to do. With a briefcase and her nice shoes in one hand, and a snow brush for cleaning the car in the other, she made her way to the car as you and I watched out the window. It occurred to me again -as it has countless times since you were born- how much both of your parents love you. In the last nine hours, I'd seen both of them go out into the world to make a better one for you, their "little angel pie-face." As I watched my big sister that morning, armed with a briefcase and a snow brush, I had to say to myself, "she just might be a grown-up after all."
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