The long reach of the invisible umbilical cord

Many years ago, when I worked as a newspaper reporter, I interviewed a mother who had lost custody of her young son. She cried as she told me, “You think your dog is your baby until you have a baby. Once you have a baby, your dog is just that—a dog.”

At the time, her words were lost on me and, many years later, when we adopted our Doberman from the pound, I thought she was wrong. This dog was my baby. Once a week I trimmed his nails and bathed him. I brushed his teeth daily. I fed him only the most expensive food. He slept next to me at night. I took him with me nearly everywhere.

One day, in the woods, he ran after a deer. He was gone for about 15 minutes. I cried. I thought, “I’ll never get over this. This will destroy me.” Then I saw him, trotting toward me, tongue hanging out of the left side of his mouth. I hugged him. “Thank God you are still alive,” I thought.

The Dog is Just a Dog

It wasn’t until four years ago, when our daughter was born, that I understood what that mother had been trying to tell me so many years ago. The moment my obstetrician said, “Here’s your daughter,” our dog became a dog.

My husband clipped the umbilical cord that day, but an invisible one remained. I felt tethered to our daughter. I rocked her. I held her. I nursed her. I rarely put her down.

In the middle of the night, I’d wake with a start. Is she okay? Why is she so quiet? I’d tiptoe into her room, stand by the crib, and wait. I’d watch her chest. I’d listen. Is she still breathing? She always was, but I hesitated to leave her alone, in case she stopped breathing the moment I turned my back.

I only nervously let others hold her. I’d watch her in their arms. Is she uncomfortable? Is she scared? Does she miss me? The invisible cord tugged against my womb.

I only begrudgingly gave her more slack. When she was about two months old, my parents watched her so my husband and I could go out to eat. I put my cell phone on the table. “Do you think she’s okay,” I asked my husband about 115 times. “Should I call to make sure she’s okay?”

“She’s fine,” he said. “Take your hand off the phone. Relax.” I couldn’t, and I couldn’t understand how he could.

Meanwhile, I stopped trimming the dog’s nails. I stopped brushing his teeth. I bought heartworm medicine, but rarely remembered to give it to him. If he flapped his ears in the middle of the night, I threatened to kick him off the bed permanently. I periodically let him outside and forgot all about him. I’d open the door hours later. There he would be, waiting patiently, his yellow eyes looking up at me forlornly.

I still loved him, and I felt guilty about my neglect of him, but I was too focused on my baby to keep track of him, too.

The Deepest Love of All

As my infant grew into a toddler and eventually a preschooler, I allowed the cord to stretch. I had to. I forced myself to, yet I felt anxious every single time.

Periodically when she was away from me – with her Daddy, with her grandparents, with a sitter, at preschool—I’d freeze in my tracks, feeling as if I’d forgotten something. Where is she? Did I forget her somewhere?

Even when she was home, playing in another room, I’d feel that anxious start. I’d reel in the cord as I ran to her room, “Kaarina, are you okay?” She’d be sitting on the floor, peacefully looking at one of her books. “What Mommy? What’s wrong?”

“I just wanted to make sure you’re okay,” I’d tell her.

“I’m okay Mommy. I’m fine,” she’d say.

I’d stare at her, feeling blessed to have her in my life.

Sometimes I didn’t give her enough slack. I hugged her a little too long, crawled into her bed in the middle of the night, rushed in to help her when she did not need my help. I’d hold her hand when she didn’t need hand holding. I’d pick her up when she could walk.

Yet, I knew, I had to release the cord. I had to continually let her move farther and farther away from me. One day, I would have to find the courage to unreel enough cord so she could go to kindergarten, high school, and then college. One day, the cord might reach to another state or another country, though I prayed that would not be the case.

I unreeled a little at a time and, by her 4th birthday, I allowed myself to take a vacation with my husband, leaving her many states and a good bit of the Atlantic Ocean behind with her grandparents.

As my husband and I backed out of the driveway on the way to the airport, I felt the cord, yet again, tug on my womb. It ached. It hurt. I almost couldn’t stand it. I closed my eyes. I balled my hands into fists. I willed myself not to jump out of the car and race to her side. No, I have to do this. We need to do this. She needs us to do this, too.

Gradually, during our vacation, I relaxed. I periodically missed her round face, soft hands, and warm embraces, but I knew she was fine. She was really fine. She loved Grandma and Grandpa.

Then, five days into our vacation, a young child not much older than she drowned in the hotel pool. My husband was there when it happened. He told me about it later, his voice shaking.

“He died?” I asked, tears coming to my eyes.

“Yes,” he said.

We hugged, and then we were silent. We were silent for minutes and then hours. We talked only when needed, each lost in a reservoir of sadness. I ached not only for this child, but also for this child’s parents. Most of all, I ached for our daughter. I wanted to fly home that minute. I wanted to hug her. I wanted to make sure she was okay. I wanted to tell her that I loved her more than anything. I wanted to reel in the cord. I wanted her inside my belly, where she would be forever safe.

We ate that night at a beautiful outdoor restaurant. Our table was just feet away from the ocean, but I could not enjoy the beauty of our surroundings.

“I think the love of a child is the deepest love of all. It’s so strong that it hurts,” I said.

“I know,” my husband said. We both had tears in our eyes.

“If anything ever happened to her, it would be the end of me,” I said. “I could lose anything else but, if I lost her, I could not go on.”

“I know,” he said.

About that Dog

A few weeks after our vacation, our daughter became jealous of our dog. She’d force him off my lap, even when she didn’t want to crawl on instead. She’d order him out of her room, closing the door to separate him from us. She’d complain, “Rhodes hit me with his tail!” She’d order me to put him in Time Out.

I tried many times to explain to her that she had no reason to feel jealous.

“You are lucky you don’t have a younger brother or sister,” I told her.

A few months before, she’d asked for a sister. I’d looked at her, disappointed that I could not grant her this wish. Yet, I could no more give her a younger sibling than I could grant her a different wish to turn into a boy on her birthday.

I’d always planned on having two children. It was only after having one that I realized that there wasn’t enough of me for two.

Some women are made for life as full-time mothers. They seem to have an endless reservoir of love, energy, patience and compassion to share with multiple children. I am not one of them. I could not bear double the ache. I could not bear double the worry. I could not bear double the emotional and physical exhaustion.

If I tried to find enough of me to endure double the crying, double the whining, double the long rainy days, double the Alvin and the Chipmunks, double the throw up, double the emergency contact forms, and double the mess, I would evolve into a neglectful, exhausted, unhappy, comatose shell of my former self, a shell who was no good to anyone, including her own children.

After having one child, I also realized that I need a career—an identity—as much as I need air, food, and the occasional good night’s sleep. I might be able to balance my roles as mother, wife, writer, and friend with one child. I could never do it with two.

My husband and I have consciously decided to stop at one. For us, one child is more than enough. In no way will I ever feel more attached to another human being, or love another human being so much.

If only I could find the words that would allow her to understand this. If only she could see that my invisible cord attaches to her, not the dog. He, after all, is just a dog, and a neglected one at that. Yet, no words can help her understand this. No, she will not understand the powerful tug of that cord until she is a grown woman and has a child, a dog, and an invisible umbilical cord of her own.

Oh, Kaarina, one day you will understand. One day you will know the truth. That dog? He’s just a dog. You? You are my everything.

TODAY’S PROJECT POINTERS

• Think about balance in your life. Is there enough of you to go around? If not, how can you create more “me time” in order to find the energy you need to be a stronger mother.

• Think about your invisible umbilical cord. Are you giving your kids enough slack, too much, or just enough?

Tagged as: Marriage Advice, motherhood, parenting