My Lilith Moments

I wrote a story from the daughter's point of view and then it was suggested it would be a richer story from the mother's point of view

My Lilith Moments

           

“Look! Mommy! LOOK!”

I sigh as my sweet Lilith jumps, the power in her legs lifting her high into the air, her chewy sausage legs propelling her farther in her mind than in reality. I used to think that wanting to devour my baby was pathological until my friend Samantha confessed she had thoughts about nibbling her daughter’s toes off. I even typed the phrase “eat your babies” on my Internet search. Several mothers admitted to fantasies of gnawing their babies’ hands, feet, arms and legs. Apparently something in a baby’s smell triggers the reward center in the mother’s brain, which is the same reward center that gets an addict to crave crack. It makes perverse sense that I love my child like an addict craves crack.

It is mesmerizing witnessing the first time Lilith learns how to jump; exhausting the two-thousandth time she implores me to watch. Again. And Again. My mind wanders to our syrup-soaked, half-eaten pancakes, which are still sitting on their plates on the kitchen table. During breakfast earlier that morning, Lilith had a meltdown as she realized there were no chocolate chips in the pancake. I figure that it is time to distract her with a walk to the playground. I’m so tired the coffee mug looks like it says “SSttaarrbbuucckkss”, but maybe she’ll get exhausted enough to nap after running around the jungle gym. She’s got Mount St. Helen levels of energy and I’ve got a sad baking soda volcano made of paper mache at a fifth grade science fair.

My princess of chaos lands on the concrete sidewalk in a squat, ready to launch herself again into the sky. Raising a toddler would have been so much easier if I was twenty-four. At least I wish my body was twenty-four again. The smooth plains of my stomach are now rolling hills of stretch marks, muffin-topping it over the waistband of my mom-jeans. I try to remember how amazing my body is to have given birth at age forty-three. Natural birth too, because it’s never too late to talk myself into doing it the hard way. As I walk along the sidewalk with my daughter, I try to forget how my own mother asked me to get plastic surgery last week when she saw my stretch marks in the dressing room at Lohman’s. I really hope Lilith will always feel amazed at how far her body can jump instead of how thin her body isn’t. That’s possible as long as my parents die before she reaches puberty and if we move into a yurt in Vermont with no TV, no magazines and no Internet.

“Mommy, Mommy, WATCH!” There she goes again. Hop. Hop. I keep on reminding myself to cherish this day since it’ll just be ten more years and she won’t give a shit about what I watch.

How many more hours do I have until Mark gets home? Of course he’s going to ask me what I’ve done all day and I’ll somehow keep my right fist from punching him in the face. At least when he gets home, I’ll get to pee with the door closed.

            “Stop! Lilith! No!” My impulsive demon-seed makes a run for the curb and I grab her right hand right before she has the opportunity to get hit by a car. My left shoe slips off my foot and I almost trip over it. She hasn’t started school yet and I can already fill a telephone book with all the near-death accidents she’s had.

            Lilith pouts and walks with heavy steps beside me, dragging my right shoulder down about four inches below my left. Only toddlers and suicidal people possess that strange melancholy when they have skirted death. I think about how much lighter she was when Mark and I had prayed over her three years ago in the NICU nursery at St. John’s. She had gotten a little excited in the womb, swallowed “meconium” and came out a little sicker than your average newborn. We were excited to be parents after trying for two years of painful fertility treatments and three miscarriages, but things don’t always go as planned. Mark and I had worried that our past indiscretions as wild twenty-something’s were coming back to haunt us in the form of having a dying baby.

            Despite that rocky start, my sweet Lilith is a miracle. And now I get to watch as my little miracle runs towards the playground and holds her head high even as she trips into the woodchips and sawdust. My heart sinks as I prepare for the worst. And then- my Lord, she has a set of lungs. The whole playground and the surrounding jurisdiction can hear her now, which is a good sign that she’s not badly hurt. The mothers see me run sheepishly behind her and pick her up, brushing off the chips and sawdust as I dodge her flailing arms and legs. Looks like the swing is the best bet to soothe my sweet savage beast today.

            “Higher, Mommy. High-er! Mommy! HIGHER!” Lilith giggles as I push the swing. The sun is shining, the wind is brisk and now I have a happy toddler. These are the moments I live for. These are also the moments I think about when I’m tempted to trade my toddler in for a cat. I give my daughter some fish crackers to prolong the moment. This is motherhood. This is what the Gerber Baby Commercials promised while I was trying to get pregnant and failing miserably. In a good week, 40% of the time it’s a Gerber Baby commercial. 60% of the time, it’s like the movie “The Exorcist” with a demon possessed toddler that wants to barf up pea soup everywhere.

            “Out! Mommy! Out!” Lilith has lasted for about five minutes on the swing before crying for escape- a new record. Fortunately, I find a spot to sit and watch as my little ball of miracles runs around, plays with the other kids and tires herself out. I am half-listening to the other mothers as I watch Lilith; I don’t really care about who Justin Beiber is dating or who designed George Clooney’s bride’s gown. My daughter’s diaper holds more relevant and interesting information.

            Finally, Lilith comes to me, wanting to eat lunch. Now, Mommy, now!, her body seems to say as she grabs my shirt and swings back and forth. Tuna fish sandwiches sound good right now. Tuna fish and a glass of Riesling.

            We walk the same route, Lilith jumping the same distances, giggling at every block. I see my neighbor Tammy walk towards us. She smells of patchouli, is always sucking on watermelon Jolly Ranchers and wears clothing purchased at a Renaissance Faire.  I like Tammy well enough; I just can’t look at her for more than ten minutes without hearing a Stevie Nicks song in my head. She waves her hands around, the silver rings bouncing rays of light into my retina as she tells me about the latest news about her organic garden.

            “That’s great Tammy,” I fold a hair behind my head and in an instant, feel about thirty pounds lighter. It takes about two seconds to watch as my daughter breaks away from me and sticks her foot into a pile of dog shit about half a block away.

            “No! No!” My hand still feels the shadow of my daughter’s grip as I run over.

I carry my daughter away from the poo, assess the damage and feel my tears flow unconsciously as this is one more thing I really didn’t need this morning. My daughter is standing there bawling, realizing for the first time in her life what dog poop smells like. It’s not even lunchtime. Six hours until Mark gets home.

            Tammy runs over. “Can I help?”

            “Oh it’s fine,” I say, a small tear running down my face. One hand is banging a shit-covered shoe in the grass and the other one is holding a crying toddler. I probably look insane. “I think it’s time for us to go home now.”

            Tammy takes the hint and walks on. I sit there for a while, letting my tear dry on my face, tasting its saltiness, watching my daughter cry while banging her shoe on the grass. Fuck it. They’re trashed. I take the other shoe off and carry my barefoot daughter in my arms. I grab the shoes by the straps and walk over to toss both of them into the garbage bin. There will be other shoes and other piles of dog poop. This is motherhood.

“We’re going home, honey,” I sigh. “Juice and crackers?”