A few weeks go my little guy split open his chin. Nothing too dramatic, but it required stitches. Or, in our case, glue, which I had no idea was a thing and clearly, I am stuck in the middle ages of pediatric medicine, but I digress.
We went to a walk-in clinic and after an hour or so in the waiting room, we went in to see the nurse, and then the doctor on call. The entire time we were in the waiting room, the Spawn was remarkably easy to deal with. For a three-year-old, sitting still and generally not getting in the way, are herculean feats. He also didn’t go full asshole mode on me. At all. Not even a little (ok, maybe a smidge, but considering the circumstances, he was a fucking Buddhist zen master).
After seeing the nurse we were shown to the examination room. The whole while, the little dude is just sitting on me, relaxed; and, as I was telling him about the McDonald’s feast he was earning because he was being so wonderful, he passed out on me.
He hasn’t done this in a long time, mostly because these days getting him to sleep AT ALL, ANYWHERE makes me seriously consider chloroform (for him) and a lobotomy (for me). But here he was, asleep in my arms. And it was incredibly special. Because in spite of the maelstrom of the day’s events leading up to this moment; in spite of the hole in his chin that was not letting him smile properly. And amid all the chaos of the clinic, skipping lunch and having to sit still through all of it, he felt safe. With me.
I AM his safe space.
I always thought that was a bit of a granola-hippie, new age behavioural cliché. “Let your kids go nuts when you’re around; they only do it with you because you are their safe space“. It sounds like a lame-ass excuse for not disciplining your kid. This whole idea that you are an oasis of peace for your asshole little child when they are hell-bent on driving you mental doesn’t resonate with me and my brand of parenting. I was raised with flying chancletas (slippers; if you’re Hispanic, YOU KNOW) as behavioural aides. You can go nuts, little child, but I sure as fuck am not going to be Gandhi about it. You are asking for some serious time-out.
But at this moment, I understood. Sitting down in this little corner of quiet with my baby boy. I brought him the peace and stability he needed. So much so, that nothing else phased him.
Now, I’ve done some pretty cool shit in my life. None of it compares to the privilege of being my boy’s Mami. The feeling I had in those precious moments where he let everything else go because he knows Mama’s got him. That’s some unexpectedly powerful and addictive shit right there.
I felt the biggest affirmation of my mothering I’ve ever had, in these three short, but all-consuming years I’ve been doing this gig. I was not expecting it, but it enveloped me like a warm hug of validation I never knew I wanted. “You’re doing it right. Look at how he loves you, how he trusts you”.
When the doctor eventually came into the room to treat his wound, and glue it shut, he was easy-going and relaxed. He let her tug and squeeze as much as she needed without flinching. I was getting ready to throat punch the doctor myself because she kept fucking up the amount of glue to apply to the cut; kept blaming it on the applicator. Girl, you better get that shit right in the next 30 seconds or I WILL snatch that stethoscope and whip your ass with it.
Not my son. He just held my hand and kept looking at me, letting the doctor do whatever she had to do.
You bet your ass I got him the biggest chocolate milkshake with his fries and chicken nuggets.
And while I still do not embrace granola-based parenting advice, this one time, just this once, they might have been onto something. It goes to show, we (parents) can all learn something from each other.
We’re all trying to honour this privilege of raising our little crotchgoblins the best we can.
