Chill Mom
By Megan Hogg
@megandhogg
I once babysat two children whose mother left a 3-ring binder for me. In it, I found a detailed schedule, various house rules, and each child’s likes and dislikes. Screen time was a definite no, as was sugar (obviously). Bedtime was 8 p.m. sharp, which made me briefly wonder if the kids would turn into pumpkins at 8:01. Really, all you need to know about this binder is it had laminated pages. And I was terrified to deviate from their glossy, 3-hole-punched schedule. I will never be that uptight, my 16-year-old self vowed. I knew, I just knew, I was going to be a chill mom.
***
The thin white paper on the exam table crinkled beneath me, its coolness a welcome reprieve from the August humidity. My OB/GYN palpated my pregnant belly, skin stretched taut over the latest subject of my vague and bottomless fears. The doctor waved her magic wand (fetal doppler) and from it emanated the most beautiful sound in all the world: the rhythmic swish of my son's heartbeat.
"You read the pregnancy textbook!" She joked, meaning everything was progressing just as it should be in the third trimester. "Any questions?"
This was it. This was my chance. But the words felt like rocks in my mouth, hard and ugly. During the last several months of my pregnancy I had indulged a secret fear that had, as things often do in the dark, morphed into obsession.
"What if ... um. So, what happens if the umbilical cord gets wrapped around his neck?"
A small weight lifted just by speaking the fear aloud; rocks clattering to the linoleum floor.
My doctor, bless her, appeared unfazed by this question. She shrugged slightly, the movement reassuring rather than dismissive.
"If for some reason that does happen, we can quickly remove the umbilical cord from his neck after delivery. He's still getting oxygen from you then, so he would be fine."
Seeing I was unsatisfied with her answer, she added, "It's amazing how well God designed our bodies. Sometimes we just have to trust that."
***
I must have been absent from Mom School the day they taught the lesson on leaving your children in the care of someone else without micromanaging every detail. Despite my 16-year-old self’s vow to be a “chill mom,” I can’t even leave the kids with my husband for an hour-long dentist appointment without sending him 85 million texts to ask how everyone is doing. At this point, I'm probably just a few Law & Order episodes away from making my own 3-ring binder:
For snack, please serve some combination of fat, carb, and protein (see addendum for full list of acceptable snack options). All food must be thinly sliced on the diagonal so as to reduce the risk of choking.
Please refrain from bathing the kids; you might look at your phone during the exact moment their head goes underwater.
After they go down for a nap (refer to Table A on page 5), double triple check that all the doors and windows in the house are locked.
To my credit, I at least try to appear chill. For example, I have a firm rule to only text the babysitter once while I'm out. While there are always several messages I type and delete (do I really care what my kids ate for a snack?), I hold myself to one text and one text alone.
I try, however poorly, to convey the sense that I trust someone other than myself to keep my children safe. But the truth is, I don’t.
***
My parents tell me that, as a child, I cried uncontrollably every time they left me in the car to pay for gas inside. Before you bristle at the phrases “left me in the car” and “pay for gas inside,” remember we’re talking about the Wild West of the early 90's, when purchasing things required face-to-face interaction and leaving your kids in the car to do so was par for the course.
My gas station fears extended into kindergarten, where I habitually cried to my teacher after eating a square slice of cafeteria pizza and a tiny container of PET chocolate ice cream, begging to be sent home because "my stomach hurt." While it's possible this was an early sign of lactose intolerance, I think my desire to be sent home went deeper than that. I realize now it likely stemmed from the very same fears I have to this day: Is everyone I love okay? What if something bad happens to them while we're apart?
***
I sit in the passenger seat of our Toyota Highlander with the A/C blasting and my phone propped up on the dashboard for a virtual counseling appointment. I regale my counselor with all of my motherhood woes—Yes even right this second I am worried about my children at home without me—etcetera etcetera. She graciously listens and then, seemingly unrelated to my inability to leave the house without a cloud of anxiety following me, starts recounting a legend of two wolves.
Basically, an old man is telling his grandson that in each of us there is an ongoing battle between a “good wolf” and a “bad wolf," both hungry for more more more. The good wolf is a metaphor for things like peace and joy and faith, while the bad wolf snaps its sharp teeth in glee over guilt and fear and envy. “Which one will win?” The grandson asks. “The one you feed,” his grandfather sagely replies.
Seriously? I already spend my days feeding two hungry little wolves, now I have two more to contend with? But I know my counselor is right. In between breastfeeding and bottle feeding, introducing solids to babies and serving crockpot dinners to adults, I'm also feeding the wolf of anxiety, fear, and worry. It's just he's always right there, and his mouth is always open, and I always seem to have his favorite snack ready to go.
I may not ever become the chill mom I thought I would be. I may always tend a little more toward the three-ring-binder side of things than I would like. But maybe, if I focus on feeding the good wolf instead of the bad wolf a little more each day, I can become the mother that God created me to be—trusting and calm, with a more deeply rooted sense of inner peace.
It's past dinner time once my counseling appointment ends, but sunshine and blue skies still reign overhead, a North Carolina summer evening flaunting her effortless beauty. Are the kids hungry? Crying? Do they miss me or think I abandoned them? (Mental note: Explore that last one in therapy.)
The bad wolf tells me to race home, because surely my kids are not safe unless I’m the one personally seeing to it. The good wolf reminds me they are perfectly fine with my husband, and encourages me to coast leisurely through the Starbucks drive-thru line, order an overpriced passion fruit iced tea, and sip it slowly while listening to Folklore with the windows down. Today, I feed the good wolf.
Guest essay written by Megan Hogg. Megan lives in North Carolina with her husband and two sons, one of whom came to them through foster care. Her perfect day would begin with coffee on the porch and end with a dance party in the living room. You can find Megan online at her blog, A Continual Feast, or on Instagram.