Grave Expectations

From the moment my son’s eyes open (usually between 5 and 6 a.m.) until bedtime, it’s all systems go at my place. My son has been called spirited, difficult, challenging, a little monster, terrible, adorable, cheeky, hard work, frustrating, high energy and a terror, amongst other things.  It bears mentioning that he is only 9 months old. I have slung a few of these labels around myself with varying degrees of annoyance, wonder, frustration and/or joy.  My choice of wording, however, and my overall reaction (“Wow, my little guy is so curious. Awesome!” vs. “#@%* Can’t he stay still for one single second?”) seem to be directly related to how much sleep I’ve had and, more importantly, my expectations.

 

Ah…expectations. Dickens wrote about them, Buddha warned us about them and most 12 Step recovery programs coach you in getting rid of yours.  The truth is that I have a love/hate relationship with expectations.  I’ve felt the pressure of other people’s my whole life and the ones I heap upon myself are sometimes near impossible to achieve.  On the other hand, my expectations are closely linked with my hopes, dreams and aspirations. When exactly does planning cross the line into the sometimes dangerous territory of attachment to outcomes far beyond your control?  As a mum committed to ‘baby led parenting,’ meaning I take my cues about structuring my days largely from my son’s energy levels, behaviour and nap times (which change often and seem to be dictated by nothing in particular), I don’t have a “routine.” That’s not to say that things don’t happen more or less at the same time in my house, it’s just that I don’t force Elliot or myself to do things if he/I/ both of us really don’t feel like it. This seems to suit him, and it allows us to explore opportunities we might otherwise miss.  If the weather’s good, we go outside. If it’s cold and wet, we read a lot of books.  Some days we have company, some days we spend blissfully cocooned from the outside world.

 

The only things that get in the way of this are my ‘schedule’ and my expectations.  Elliot is enrolled in a few activities, mainly swimming lessons and playgroup. These activities are fun for him, and social for mummy- a win/win situation.  But sometimes I swear that the mornings I “have” to be somewhere at a certain time are the (very rare) mornings that I get frustrated.  As soon as I put on my “I’m very, very busy and important hat” I start expecting things to go a certain way. And then things go horribly awry, usually ending with me having to take deep breaths while Elliot laughs maniacally and removes his clothing for the thousandth time.

 

Some of my friends have told me that this is evidence that I need a routine.  I’ve spoiled him long enough, they say, and it’s time to buckle down and get tough about nap times, what he eats and when he does things but my gut tells me that to do this would be to miss the much larger opportunity for spiritual growth. My heart tells me that this is not about my high energy son, but about me.

 

It’s about learning that if I cease to be busy, I will not cease to exist.  It’s about learning that my baby is growing so fast that my heart aches and this time in his life will pass, is passing, and I should treasure every single second of it.  It’s about knowing that if I can let go of the future, even just a little bit, my life become profoundly simpler, richer and more open. It’s about realising that, most of time, what lies beyond my very unimaginative expectations about my day is much better than anything I could ever dream up, if only I let it come to fruition. I have no doubt that the Universe handpicked this little boy and threw him into my life to teach me a thing or two (or a million) about my own importance, or lack thereof. So for now, as challenging as it is, I focus on that rather than on the growing pile of things I put off until ‘later’ in order to play blocks with my son.  That pile, filled with e-mails and paperwork and bills and chores, seems to grow in size whilst diminishing in importance. 

 

Somehow, it all gets done on time anyway. I don’t really understand how it works, and I don’t need to.  I just need to stay in the moment where there is a gorgeous little boy who loves his mummy.  You see, I expect that someday, when he’s a teenager…

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