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SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 9, 2020
3
Parenting
Motherhood
can be isolating.
My anxiety
made it worse
I told myself this constant worrying
was normal. Every mother fretted over
her children. Every mother was sleep-
deprived and so in love it drove them
mad. Right? But I knew it wasn't normal.
Lauren Tanabe
THE WASHINGTON POST - “Why is
she always half naked?” my mother
asked, as I wrappedmy infant daugh-
ter in her muslin giraffe blanket.
“Mom, it's the summer. Be-
sides, she's always spitting up or
pooping. It's just easier this way,” I
shot back.
That was part of it; the real
reason was that I thought I might
crack one of her doll-like arms as
I awkwardly tried to snake them
through the clingy, unyielding
sleeves. The irst grandchild for my
parents, the irst niece for my sister;
she had clothes in every colour,
fabric and sheen.
She had decadent dresses
constructed from reams of tulle
and taffeta, a packed wardrobe
that would take her fashionably
(depending on your taste) through
every season. But, while others
would giddily play dress-up with
her, I rarely got her dressed beyond
a tee. When I did, it was only with
the stretchiest, most elastic onesie
I could ind, which I would gingerly
pull over her head and arms in
a protracted ritual so as to not
dislocate her shoulder.
She wasn't particularly fragile.
Nearly eight pounds at birth, she
plumped up faster than I could've
imagined, until she resembled a
squat roly-poly bug. And yet her
arms and shoulders snapped,
twisted and became disjointed a
thousand times in my mind.
As autumn crept into our days,
news reports of RSV, a mysteri-
ous polio-like virus and inluenza
lipped the switch from concerned
to frenzied. I turned down every
social interaction I could. At un-
avoidable ones, I noted who looked
sickly, which children wiped their
noses with their palms. While peo-
ple socialised, ate and gushed over
my baby, slathering us with com-
pliments and questions, I kept my
daughter pressed against my body,
trying to prevent their breath from
falling on her. I used nursing as an
excuse to ind quieter, less germy
corners. When nobody was look-
ing I swiped Clorox wipes across
phones and tables.
My husband gawked when two
bright yellow plushy signs arrived
in the mail. In all black caps “STOP!
WASH YOUR HANDS!” was embla-
soned on the front, and they con-
veniently attached to her car seat. I
found these gems online after one
too many enthusiastic ladies with
hands of dubious sanitary status
reached for my daughter. Stiff-
ened Kleenexes in hand, their long
painted nails reminding me of the
lengthy shadows cast across omi-
nous scenes in pictures or movies
foreshadowing something ghastly;
they'd come for her searching for a
juicy thigh or a tiny ist.
“What?” I asked, “It's kind of
subtle. It's better than having to ask
repeatedly.”
“You realise there are germs
everywhere,” he said.
You have no idea, I thought.
I'd shush the voice inside, chas-
tising me for the anxiety that lared
in response to a room full of grand-
mas. Grandmas carry disease, too,
the anxiety screamed back. Grand-
mas can drop the baby, too. Grand-
mas aren't safe. Not anymore.
Neither was day care; Mommy
& Me groups? No, thank you, keep
your snotty-nosed children to your-
selves. A trip to a dreaded “hands-
on” museum? “Are you trying to kill
me?” I'd ask my husband, reeling
at the thought of the billions of mi-
crobes clinging to every surface.
I was a scientist and academic
at the time. I was adept at crafting
arguments, poking holes in other
people's claims. I wasn't being “neu-
rotic” or “unreasonable.” I was being
cautious. I knew of all the dangers
lurking inside of other people, espe-
cially during the winter months. I'd
read those news stories on pediatric
deaths from myriad common virus-
es. My sturdy biology background
produced endless fodder for repeti-
tive, devastating thoughts.
And then there were concerns
that were harder to explain. How
well did I really know Uncle So-and-
So? I'd watched enough Criminal
Minds to know that the most incon-
spicuous and seemingly kind peo-
ple could be the most dangerous.
Who around me was constructing
nefarious plots involving my baby?
The worst ruminations involved
freak accidents: babies accidentally
smothered by an exhausted sleep-
ing parent in an armchair, a toddler
who roamed off and drowned.
Each day my own baby fell down
the stairs, died in her sleep, choked
on a grape, was mauled by a stray
dog. I watched her die on loop. And
it was agony.
I stopped reading the news.
Was the world going to burn up?
Were terrorists plotting an attack
in my city? When we went to a mall
I searched for a man with a crazed
look and a gun.
There were too many monsters
in theworld, invisible andotherwise,
too many potential paths that led
us toward oblivion.
There was no refuge from these
thoughts, either. Every creaking
loorboard, every appliance motor
sounded like my daughter's cries.
I'd hear phantom screams in the
shower and inmy fractured dreams.
Still, I told myself this was normal.
Every mother fretted over her
children. Every mother was sleep-
deprived and so in love it drove
them mad. Right?
I didn't really believe it was
normal. If I had, I probably would've
leaked some of these thoughts to
friends, instead of summoning up
excuses for our absences.
I didn't know that as many as 15
per cent of new mothers develop
anxiety disorders, or that it might
even be more common than
postpartum depression. I'd always
excelled as an academic, but I
was lailing as a mother. I ended
up leaving my career, unable to
straddle part-time postdoc and
part-time mother any longer. I
boxed up my other selves, hoping
I'd meet them again someday.
The writer Rachel Cusk pos-
its that mothers lose autonomy
of the mind. In
A Life's Work
, she
explained how when a woman
gives birth, she loses the ability to
achieve true aloneness, another
person now living inside the “ju-
risdiction of her consciousness.
When she is with them she is not
herself; when she is without them
she is not herself.
This was my predicament.
Whether with her or without her,
I orbited around my child. When
we were apart, my thoughts
still gravitated toward her, my
entirety consumed with keeping
her protected. And yet I craved
aloneness. I longed for my former
lives, for a time before I heard her
cries echo inside my head. I sewed
myself into immobile, impossible
situations because I couldn't trust
anyone else. How do you raise a
village for your child when you
doubt everyone?
My daughter is four years old
and fearless. She leaps from the
couch to the coffee table, despite
my warnings. She eats bugs
when offered at the local science
museum. She rides her bike down
steep ramps as my heart pounds.
But midway through the school
year, a more cautious version
emerges. She ixates on certain
things like natural disasters.
“Mama, I don't want there to be
a tornado,” she says as she folds her
body into mine at school pickup.
There had been a drill that day.
She brings up tornadoes on
the way home, at dinner that night
and then before bed. The following
morning, we are still talking about
them. She wants to know why they
form and what will happen if one
does come.
I tell her it's okay to worry but
that some things don't deserve
so much attention, like tornadoes
when we are living in the middle
of Detroit.
“Tornadoes happen, but they
are very rare here. Tornadoes don't
like cities.” We have a long talk
about what rare means.
It pops up time and time again
over the next several months when
she frets about ires in school and
at home.
She has my pale skin, my
reddish hair and, it would seem,
some of my worry. I want to
stamp out the parts of my anxious
genome that slithered into hers,
that invites potential tragedy to trail
us wherever we go.
We lie in bed together staring up
at the smoke alarm. It takes some
time to help her understand that
the alarm doesn't cause ires, but
alerts us to them. Nevertheless, its
presence is unsettling. A reminder
of the “just in case”. “Rare” she
repeats, a new mantra. “Rare,” I
say, staring into her eyes, trying
to convince myself of the words
coming out of my mouth.