Change | Bethany Bassett

Tag: Change

How to Be a Parent

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 4 Comments

When I was a teenager, I babysat several times a week. I loved every minute, and if I had written an essay called “How to Be a Parent” at age fifteen, it would have said this:

First, you play princess Barbies with your adorable four-year-old, then put her in her princess jammies to read princess stories before tucking her into her princess blankets for the night. Then you feed the baby his bottle while watching a romantic comedy and eating ~~sugar by the spoonful~~ dinner. Once the baby is asleep, you’re free to spend the next several hours taking sexy bubble baths, or whatever adults do with their copious spare time. The end.

In the 1,141 days that I have actually been a parent, I have taken exactly three bubble baths (none of them particularly sexy) and learned a few things. Like, the moms of the children I babysat were probably cleaning frantically for seven hours before I came over. Also, the parents had probably lost a cumulative year of sleep training that adorable four-year-old to stay in her princess bed all night. And normal adults, those with actual responsibilities during the day, don’t stay up until 2 a.m. drinking wine in their lingerie by candlelight. At least not often.

—

The relative who came to visit us when we brought Natalie home from the hospital was just trying to help, I know. But everything about her help got under my skin, crawled around, and gnawed at me like a swarm of chiggers. I scratched back pretty hard, I’m afraid.

I felt like all those years of babysitting had earned me a PhD in childcare, but I had no idea what to do with my own daughter. My mind boggled at the fact that this tiny person was completely dependent on me. What if I didn’t dress her warmly enough? How could I know if she was eating well? What was making her so miserable that she had to cry? I felt like I should be confident and relaxed, but I doubted myself at every turn, and my relative’s comments further prevented me from finding my own way of mothering. They made me feel 200% a failure.

—

The “I would nevers” started innocently enough: I would never leave my baby strapped into a swing all day. I would never use the television as a babysitter. I would never ignore my children. I wasn’t trying to be supercilious at all. I just knew I loved my little girl and wanted to learn from all the parenting mistakes I’d seen.

But then, the third trimester of my pregnancy with Sophie lumbered down and squished out my energy overnight. My energetic two-year-old was suddenly a pig-tailed tornado, and I kept falling asleep three words into story time. “Sesame Street” and “The Backyardigans” became very, very important to our survival. I started falling asleep at night under a palpable cloud of mother-guilt.

—

Natalie and I went out on a mommy-daughter date this week. We walked through a park, Natalie chatting incessantly about everything she saw (“Look, there’s a flower! And a bird! And another flower! Ooo, look, there’s grass! Did you see the grass, Mommy? The grass, over there? Did you see it?”), and then shared a cup of ice cream. It was perfect. I hadn’t paid attention lately to what an amazing little girl she is, bubbling over with sweetness and enthusiasm, and I was blown away.

I wish so much that I could do more for her. Maybe if Sophie cleaned the house for me, I could give Natalie the one-on-one time she deserves, but you know babies–too busy lying around, being cute. But despite my imperfections as a mother, my daughter has a vast, beautiful heart. She is happy and creative, and she knows I love her with everything I have. She knows, and that is enough for now.

—

We’re on the journey back into the sunlight, but this time, I’m not looking at other families for validation (At least our daughter eats her vegetables, yada yada yada). Instead, I’m deeply humbled by the other moms and dads who are struggling to be the right parents for their children. I’m encouraged to see other families who, through their aching, ache for one other. I’m so grateful to know I’m not alone in this shaky business of being human.

Things change. Children learn their way in life as parents temporarily lose theirs. “I would never” becomes “I’ll do my best,” and we fumble our way through apologies. We learn honesty and grace. Our rose-tinted glasses crack; we see our children for who they are. And through each struggle, each fight for the relationships most precious to us, we dive deeper into the mystery of unconditional love.

28Mar

Scrap Paper Possibility

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 6 Comments

I scribbled the following on a scrap of notebook paper during my senior year of college. It was a stage of life when everything was simultaneously new and old: A brand new marriage with eternity in its sights; A looming graduation date with old friends fluttering away like leaves; A pulsating awareness of my own possibility shrouded in self-doubt, busyness, writer’s block. I wrote down my confusion, impulsively, and it instantly became a friend as paragraphs sometimes do. We sit down to tea together some days, this paragraph and I, and it says, “Honey. Your life is far from over. See?”

~*~*~*~

12/1/03
There’s a baby chicken inside my head, chipping at my skull. Or an orc, yawning in rage at the membrane that just… won’t… break. One day, my little galaxy will fling a meteor explosion until shards of ideas pierce my sight and the world is a masterpiece waiting to be savored. But not yet. Maybe my head will explode anyway, due to the war inside… but then it will be clumsy and black, dripping a mess of my brilliant possibility on my blank, blank paper. And for now, I’m dull and conflicted, misunderstood by my best intentions, focused on things bland and sawdusty to glean inspiration–a legend, I am convinced. I have never noticed my muse until the work was done.

16Jan

The Grandmotherland

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized Comments Off on The Grandmotherland

Italy is a lot like the ideal grandmother. It possesses an old, wrinkly kind of beauty that perfectly complements antique jewelry. It is lively and friendly and bursting with conversation topics. The stories it tells inspire generations. And oh, it can cook. Not only can it boast the best food this side of Jupiter, it knows a thing or two about making people feel good about eating. Case in point: Calories are labeled as “energy.” And sugar packets are “important in the daily nourishment to maintain and restore the energy of the mind and of the body.” (Why, I’m a firm believer in energy maintenance and eating sugar by the spoonful! What are the odds?)

Unfortunately, Italy has a creepy side as well, an innocent-looking grandmother who reads her grandchildren’s diaries on the sly. Example? I’ve ordered deli meat exactly twice at our neighborhood grocery store. Thus, I was slightly surprised to hear that the deli worker asked one of our friends from church if my husband’s boss would take a look at her knee. How did she know who our friend was? And how did she know who my husband was? And how did she know who Dan worked for? And how did she get a hold of my diary? Dan tells me that when he was growing up here, neighbors would frequently comment on things his family did or talked about inside their own house. The only intelligent response I have to that is ACK! ACK! Also, oh my ACK!

So the lack of privacy takes some getting used to (my chestal region has already figured that out), but there are many other reasons to love Italy. For example, bonsai trees are readily available at local supermarkets. Conservative old ladies wear bikinis and brew limoncello in their living rooms. People can get downtown via underground escalators through a 500-year-old castle. Public preschool starts at age three, with half-day and full-day options for the same price of nothing. And speaking of nothing, that’s what it costs to visit the doctor, stay in the hospital, and get prescription medicine. Italians know that regular vacations are as necessary as life, breath, and daily naptime. Speed limits are refreshingly high. And possibly the best thing, Italian roosters say “Chicchirichì!” (Pronounced like “KEE-kee-ree-KEE.” Try it! Your head might just explode from the extreme fun of crowing in Italian!)

I can’t believe we’ve already lived here for half a year. This adopted country of ours feels simultaneously new and old, invigorating and relaxing, different and familiar. Any other dichotomous comparisons? Oh yes, friendly spaghetti-cooking grandmother and creepy diary-stalking grandmother. But I’m coming to terms with the new and the invigorating and the different and the creepy, and you can probably tell by now that if given the choice to relive this adventure, I would say “Hell, yeah!” (Also, “ACK!”)

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