Pain in the Neck
DEAR ANDY,
You’re killing me. Ok, that’s a tad over dramatic, but man, everything hurts. My neck, shoulders, and upper back have been in so much pain since you turned the 25 pound corner. And I can’t exactly label why. I’m strong. I lift. I work out. I’m embodied. But man, oh, man. There are certain situations where all my yoga and movement training goes out the window and I just move to survive and pay for it later.
Take this afternoon. You, me, in a parking lot (this is usually where things go awry)- I’m loaded down with my purse, your diaper bag, lunch box, water bottle, and you ask me to carry your toy Woody out of the car. Fine, I say. I tell you you have to walk like a big boy and take your Thomas train. You act like that’s cool. I unbuckle your belt, grab you with both arms, lift and rotate, taking special care not to bump your head on the roof of the car. Phew. We’re out. I put you down while holding your hand so you don’t run away (cause you do that) and close both of our doors. Then I struggle to get the door locked from my keys. Just about then you decide you don’t want to walk. For some reason, you’re shrieking in dissatisfaction and go limp at the end of my arm. But we’re in a busy parking lot so I say, very sternly, “Andy, get up. Does Mommy need to carry you?” I feel my neck start to ache from tension and the literal weight on my shoulders. I get no response, just more shrieking. “ANDY…” I begin, and realize the fight isn’t worth it. I bend down, grab you with my one free arm. I lift you. You’re wrestling with me. It hurts. A giant shriek emerges from your body. We’ve dropped Thomas!! In the middle of this lot, Thomas is down. And Mommy must get him. NOW. So I bend down, 26 pounds of shrieking boy in my left arm, lunch box, Woody, and my water in the other. I pick up Thomas, squat, and rotate. My neck stiffens. It takes everything in me to get through these situations and not reveal to you the pain and frustration I feel along with the anxiety that something could happen to you in this busy and hurried situation. Welcome to Motherhood.
It makes sense, given these circumstances, that my neck and shoulders would be killing me right now. But it won’t always be this way. It hasn’t always been this way. I remember when you were just a curled up person-ball in my belly. You were a pain in my ribs then. You’d kick from the inside and I’d jolt and gasp and feel amazed. After you were born, you were a pain in other places. You were a pain in my breasts, in my C-section scar, in my abdomen when I twisted.
It’s funny the pains you feel at different stages of motherhood. The pain can be consuming if you let it. It’s easy to want these moments to speed by so the pain will end. But then you remember the feeling of a tiny baby or a cuddly, lovable toddler, after the physical scars and knots have healed. And you wonder how you missed such precious moments.
I try to remember this pain won’t last. You needing to be carried won’t last. And that makes me sad. Soon, you’ll be a pain in my stomach when I worry as you go off to school alone, or a pain in my chest when you’re bullied for the first time. You’ll be a pain in my head when I’m trying to help you with your algebra homework, or a pain in my throat when we have our first screaming match over your broken curfew. You’ll be a pain in my hands when I grasp the bottom of the car seat trying to keep my cool while you learn to drive, and you’ll be a pain in my butt when we stay seated for long road trips to visit colleges.
And then one day, there will be no pain. I mean, I’ll be older, so I have to account for that. But the motherhood pains, the physical pains of raising a child will be gone… and healed. And all that will remain is the absence. And that will be the greatest pain of all. The pain of having no pain.
When people without children ask me what it’s like to have kids I try to be honest. I say it’s a pain. It is, Andy. Having children is SUCH a pain. And maybe we’re all masochists. Because the human race keeps perpetuating. We keep making these tiny little pains and we grow to love them more than we ever thought possible. Maybe it’s the pain that allows us to know we’re alive, or strong, or capable of healing. Or maybe it’s the price we pay for love.
Regardless, I want you to know that I wouldn’t trade a minute of this neck ache to be without the feeling of holding you, smelling you, knowing you need me. What a special and important job. What an honor and a privilege to have made you, carried you, fed you, fought for you. I feel myself growing in these pains, and getting better at being human because I have to be. Thank you for the pain you’ve given me. And all the immeasurable joy. I hope you get to experience it one day.
Kids are a pain, Andy. But love is bigger than pain. And being present in suffering is true knowing.
With love and Advil,
Mom
