patience

Patience is not something that comes easily to me. Until, oh... about two years ago, I didn't often see the need for it. The suspension of disbelief was similarly useless; I like facts presented in a timely fashion and the decisiveness that set-up allows. As anyone who's had to wait nine months for something can attest, patience quickly becomes a virtue as there is no other option, and while pregnant I'd like to think I grew more patient than I'd ever been (others might argue; you probably shouldn't ask around). This only intensified (out of sheer need, mind you, not some complete change of character on my part) after George was born but I'm still a long way from calling myself a patient person. There is little to no instant gratification in parenthood. In fact, the first few months or so of your child's life are spent giving of yourself -- your free time, your attention, your hygiene, your rest and a thousand other things -- to a blob that has the audacity to take without offering so much as a thanks, then shit and puke all over your clothes. Newborns, of course, are lovable little tyrants but that doesn't always make their care more gratifying. You've spent, and continue to spend, hours researching exactly the right way not to fuck up your offspring, or, at least, I did. But when the sign language you use, the gentle way you parent them to sleep and the completely organic diet to which you adhere don't have immediate, obvious effects, it's easy to feel like your efforts are futile. Especially when that girl you went to high school with feeds her kid Pepsi and brags on Facebook about how beautifully cry-it-out worked for them, while her child sleeps soundly through the night and smiles in all his photos. 

I began to think my newfound patience would never pay off. Still nursing George to sleep for naps and at night, unable to leave his side lest his little heat sensor go off and abruptly end the peace. His verbal skills not exactly where I expected them to be when I was naively imagining my child, despite all the hours spent reading, the careful communication and constant narration of daily tasks. His frustration still apparent at times, no matter how many signs with which we outfit him or freedom we give to express himself. 

But then? It started to come together. Poor George; I am a little slow on the uptake. It's obvious that he is happy. Confident. Communicative. Kind. Secure and appropriately attached to his parents, who he knows are on his side. It's obvious while watching him play with his friends -- visually checking in with me but never clinging, reacting with utter sorrow when he's accidentally hurt someone. When he plays too roughly with the cats and offers up his own "gentle touch" as consolation without being prompted. When he signs that he's sleepy rather than fighting a nap; he knows someone will be there, responding to his needs in waking AND sleep. While watching him navigate our every-Sunday breakfast spot, stopping at tables and waving at waitresses like the mayor of Diamond Jim's, it's clear that he feels good about himself and is open to new things, new people, unafraid to fall on his face on the linoleum (repeatedly) or meet a family of total strangers and quickly, easily win them over. He approaches things with abandon which some might argue is the norm for a baby with few negative experiences from which to draw conclusions. But I've seen enough scared, timid children, unsure of themselves, their surroundings and how they (are allowed to) fit in to know this approach to life, at this stage, is not necessarily a given regardless of circumstance. 

It didn't really occur to me that I had been parenting all this time with my disbelief suspended, operating on faith that my methods would eventually work. They were, for the most part, the ways I instinctively deal with my child, but so many go against the modern ways we're told to raise children that they no longer go without saying. I mentioned to my therapist that I didn't feel ready to have another child until I knew without doubt that I hadn't screwed this one up. She -- a parent of two grown women -- laughed at me, of course, and said that you never get to that point, but an attentive parent can see in her child when she's perhaps gone astray. Maybe not immediately, but soon enough to turn the whole operation back around and find the fork where you went wrong. This is comforting. Also comforting is watching my little guy, my cat-kisser and identifyer-of-vegetables confidently find his place in the world.