Your Five year old: Sunny and Serene

I had to laugh at my inbox today. My library hold is in:" Your Five Year Old: Sunny and Serene." Not exactly the subtitle I'd been imagining when I'd feverishly requested the hold last week (The Nap-size Napoleon? Choosy and Challenging? Definitely Defiant? Something more along those lines...)

I laughed because, well, he's suddenly sunny, and serene. After my meditation marathon the other night, my smile was back in place, I was feeling the love all over again. And, whalah, the child returned, too.

Its funny, the short set, they start out as this cell, its actually a part of you. It replicates and divides, in you, permanently rearranges bits and pieces of you, and is then finally separate from you. But not really. The kid feeds of you (this sounds slightly crass, harking from the '70's Midwest and all, I grew up pretending nursing didn't even exist, and if it did, then one must politely divert one's eyes to keep up the ruse. Well, I think the ruse is officially up - it must be so when even my little brother is sending me links on the importance of breastfeeding. ) Anyhoo, a kid is, quite literally, a part of you.

And the division (if followed naturally, if done as mankind did before cultural bullshit bothered babies) is so slow. During this loitering of one-ness, it was easy to remember how intertwined my moods were with the Little Man's. And (despite some obvious areas of obliviousness (um, personal space?!?!) in the child), the kid is crazy intuitive around me, spookily, eerily in touch. So much so that I actually grew accustomed to even watching my thoughts. Motherhood as zen mind training :)

But he isn't nursing, isn't being carried everywhere, isn't in contact with me constantly (though he still seems compelled to make body contact with anyone he's interacting with - cupping (or grabbing;) chins, sitting in laps, etc) . He just seems So Big. So separate.

So, it follows, wouldn't he have his own, separate, issues now? That stage I've heard about when kids get moody and difficult. I thought we were entering it. I figured it was time, we'd had five good years, it was a nice run...

Ah, um, no. I just suck :) It appears that the child was responding to getting less of me for a month. Less energy when I was sick, less smiling devotion when I was tired, less play when I was feeling frayed. But mostly, it was the more that was the problem. More grumps. The spills that are nothing on a normal day, are overwhelming when walking across the room sounds so sucky. The food requests that are typically time to bond were, well, basically irritating when camped on the couch. The need to play that is generally relished really made my eyes roll rather than BB squeal. And even though I watched my tongue (er, um, usually), the child, he knew.

This is what I've pieced together this week. (I could be wrong. I often am - though, again, I am no longer wrong in the child's eyes :) So, after what I would guess felt like weeks of judgement (the sighs after the spills etc) and withdrawal (I can't play, want a story? No, BB can't play either...), the child became edgy (written with much, much guilt.)

Within a day of my happiness returning, the child returned. The second day? He played quietly while I did the dishes. Then, later, he suddenly stopped talking and ran over to me to squeeze me tight. The word "thank you" has never been more clearly spoken. He repeated this action a few times during the following days, like a salve on a wound. Sometimes, though, I couldn't tell if he was squeezing out gratitude for my return or forgiveness for my absence...

So, they grow in, and then out, of our bodies. Then beside at all times... then further away. But it appears that the slow separation isn't screwing with our connection as much as I'd though during this "sunny and serene" age. Maybe I'll be able to be guilt free for challenging changes in another five years (maybe not). Maybe by then I'll be over the shock of how deeply my dedication to him effects his state of mind. I know, it seems so obvious that a less than serene mother makes for a morose child. Duh. But, honestly, its not like I was raising my voice here. I just have to remember how in tune, how intuitive, he is. After all, this is the child that quietly told me "You're hurting me, Mama." "What? Um, where? I'm not touching you, bud..." "No, Mama, but it still hurts." He was three-ish, and I was sitting quietly with my frustration, waiting for clarity. That's all. Just feeling frustrated.

I know people can feel judgement, that almost imperceptible shift in countenance, even without dramatic sighs of irritation... I know this, so I don't know why its so hard for me to remember that, well, a person's a person, no matter how small. And this small person can feel judgement too. Children can just seem so clueless about so much (he's only been around for a few years, after all) that its confusing that they can also understand so much.

So, with all of these thoughts floating around the last few days, I wasn't too surprised with the child's question today. I fell out of center and felt flustered, so I was just nodding while taking some centering breaths. Silence is a vacuum to the kid, but its my only solace, so there's simply no hiding from him. He fixed me with a sideways glance and said, "Mama, are you feeling frustrated? Hmm?" I narrowed my eyes, testing to see if I still was.... "Mama. Are you feeling frustrated? Why, Mama? What is it? Why are you feeling frustrated?"

Ahhh, the little Buddha. Why indeed. When I heard the honest answer in my head (because you aren't making my life as easy as I want right now) I had to laugh out loud. My laugh released him and his smile was, well, sunny and serene. Now, if only I can follow suit....