You’re not supposed to decide what your child is going to be when he grows up, and certainly not when he’s only five weeks old. But I’ve decided: my infant son is going to be a foley artist. You know, one of those people who make the sound effects on radio dramas. I realize that, in the 21^st century, this pretty much limits him to the one remaining gig on A Prairie Home Companion, but I think he’s got a pretty good shot. In the middle of the night, he makes the most incredible sound effects. He does a convincing runaway stallion, the creaky basement door from a B horror flick, and - his best one by far - the bad boy peeling out of his girlfriend’s driveway in his red Camaro. It’s as impressive as it sounds. But there’s one problem with his budding talent: I can’t sleep through it. At all. As if the sleep deprivation from being up when he’s awake weren’t bad enough, I’m also up when he’s asleep.

I spent the first few weeks of my son’s nocturnal hours bouncing between “Oh my God, is he suffocating?” and “Good God, how am I ever going to function if I lay here listening to this all night?” But last night at 3 am, I decided to try a mental shift about the whole thing. Here’s what I decided: to let all the noises in the room wash over me exactly as they were. No judgment, no expectations. I listened to the tractor that seemed to be running through his nasal passages. I listened to the rustling of his green blanket as he struggled, Houdini-like, to bust out of the swaddle so adeptly performed by his dad. I listened to the slow, rhythmic breathing of my husband who is apparently a deeper sleeper than I (or perhaps just more deeply sleep deprived). And in that moment, I realized that it all sounded like an impromptu symphony. A big, loud one, playing an abstract composition, a composition that you have to appreciate without understanding because there are no program notes. And I started to feel its rhythm, and to tap it out inside my head.  

Or… not. After about five minutes of this effort, what I actually did was throw back the covers, stalk quietly out of the room, and sleep on the couch for the next hour and a half. Not the most mature moment of my motherhood so far, nor the most enlightened of my human journey. But I thought about that symphony again this morning, as I positioned my little bundle of talent on my breast and surrendered to the fog that is 6 am with a newborn. I mused about what it would be like if I really could let the sounds wash over me without overanalyzing it. I thought about how much I wanted to be able to hear the composition like a true music lover. I daydreamed about what it would be like to be part of it. And I wondered what it would be like to hear a recording of it eighteen years later, after the orchestra had moved on to something more current. I’ll practice my listening skills, I told myself. Practice makes perfect, right?

Change is …good?

After I nursed, I brought my son into the kitchen (his favorite room in the house), foolishly expecting this morning to be like the seven or so that have preceded it. I expected that he would spit up a bit, stare at the ceiling fixture for a few minutes, and then play with me for awhile before getting cranky about the fact that he needs to fall back to sleep but doesn’t know how without assistance from his mother’s bouncing (and suddenly aging) knees. But he didn’t play today. He didn’t even look around very much. I grew a little bit concerned. Then he cried a lot, which he rarely does at that early hour. I grew more than a little concerned. I was standing in the kitchen, debating how to make him stop crying and start smiling, when my friend David called to make plans to visit later in the day. Since he had never met the baby before, I told him “He’s been kind of fussy, so I can’t promise you anything.” I could hear his shrug over the phone. “That’s ok,” he said, "I’ve been a little fussy too."”  

That’s when the symphony started to play again, and when I started to really hear it. I realized: my little guy doesn’t have to act the same every day. He doesn’t have to play all the time, or smile every day to prove he can do it, or make a giant developmental leap every week. Most of the time he just needs to be, whoever and however he is.

And so do I. Both as his mother and as a person.

Winding it up and letting it go

Now, I must explain that this is not my customary approach to life. I’m good at figuring out what I should do, or what I wish I would do - not in the interest of meeting others’ expectations, but in the interest of meeting my own. So this was a significant shift. I thought about it over the course of the day, and I decided that surrendering to that which is may prove to be the most challenging part of parenthood. But something tells me it might also be the most important part, for our whole family. A friend of mine with three teenage daughters once told me that one of the greatest gifts of parenthood is learning that you cannot predict tomorrow from today, and that you certainly can’t control it. Now that I have received this gift from the universe, I often think, “Really? This was my present?” But I’m starting to see the benefits. Like the time last week when I rented out the dance studio for a rehearsal and spent most of it not dancing but feeding my son while having an overdue heart-to-heart with my dance partner and friend. In that moment, I was glad I could let go of my expectations for myself, for my son, and for my friend. I would have missed out on that great conversation. I would have missed out on the peace and the unexpected joys that come from letting things turn out differently than I had planned.

But I realized that I was also glad I had made the plans in the first place. I was glad I reserved the space, and set up a dedicated time to nurture my passion, both for myself and for this tiny person to whom I want to show the importance of passion and dreams and art. I was glad for this in the same way that I was glad I brought him into the kitchen to play this morning, even though he wasn’t in the mood, and the same way that I was glad that I had tried for a normal, quiet night of sleep, even though I knew it was a pipedream. After all, you have to convene the orchestra and give it some sheet music, or at least a theme to improvise before you can let it go and let it take on a life of its own. It’s the balance of structure and freedom that makes the music. It’s the habit of making the attempt and then letting go of the outcome that brings the peace.

I’ll try to remind myself of all of this when I’m lying in bed at 3 am tonight and listening to the squeaky clarinets and out-of-tune violins that have entered my bedroom in the guise of a sleeping baby. I’ll try to really hear each of those sounds and how it contributes to the symphony. And I’ll wonder what tomorrow night’s program is going to sound like.

Or maybe I’ll end up sleeping on the couch again. My son’s developmental path didn’t end after the nine months he spent baking, and neither did mine. They’re both just beginning.  

What expectations have you released? What helped you let go and what happened when you did?

With open ears,

Suzanne