Same Angle, New Lens
Today as I was driving to Large Corporate Tax Prep's end-of-season off-site "celebration," I was talking to my friend Cagey about my sudden awareness of motherhood's altered perspective.
I found myself in another conversation at Dave & Buster's (yes, this is where the "team building" was held) with a guy I've never met before but who works for my company. This second conversation was similar to the first, though a bit more alcohol-induced.
Cagey and I were talking about how motherhood changes the way you look at things. I pointed out on her blog yesterday or the day before that I see the issue of immigration as a family issue. One of my students told me in class last night that one of her nuclear family members (and she's in her late forties and has been in this country most of her life) is still undocumented. I mention this because I think most people see immigrants as single people who can just be sent back, but I see them as members of a family - some of the family members have probably been born here and are thus Americans - and some of the family are not. You send back part of a family, and what happens to the rest? Besides ripping a family apart, you've also introduced a whole new other host of problems for the American taxpayers.
I guess I see almost every issue as a family issue, now that I have one. The little angel's head teacher at Toddler High unexpectedly lost her husband on Monday. My good friend L's close friends lost their toddler unexpectedly tonight. I can't even bring myself to call her yet, because I can't bear to think about a toddler suddenly dying. I can't think about it, because I will throw up. Because I can't let myself think anything horrible could ever, ever happen to the little angel.
It's as if having her in my life flipped the lens through which I view the world from choice "A" to choice "B," just like during an eye exam: You can see through both lenses just fine, but there's a sharper edge to one. One just seems more clear, though it's hard to put your finger on exactly why.
I'm in the same romantic relationship than I was before her, but now it's got a new definition. I have the same friends, but I see some of them differently than I did before. I now understand the mothers better than I did before I became one. I've become less judgmental of everyone. I'm softer around the edges mentally and emotionally than I was. My new glasses mean that I can't watch a Lifetime movie without crying, but at the same time, I'm suddenly able to make heart-wrenching career and personal decisions without flinching or faltering. There is no discussion for me when it comes to her. She's changed my worldview.
And just as she's changed it now, as a toddler, I know I'll see the world through lens "C" when she enters grade school and probably "D" when she starts driving and "E" when she goes off to college. I'll probably go blind by the time she gets married and be wearing bifocals when she calls to tell me she's finally given birth, MY GOD MOTHER WHY DID THE EPIDURAL TAKE SO LONG?
This conversation I had at the team-building thing was with a childless man. He was asking me to guess his age (one of my least favorite games, especially with people I have to see again), so I pegged him at between 29 and 35, though he could've been anything. I had no idea. He first told me he owns a plane, then he told me he's 35. I have no idea if either is true. He said that he feels 28, and I said, hell, who doesn't? I feel 25 even though I often have to realize that I'm the adult in the room, and if I don't pay attention to where the sharp objects are located, someone's going to get hurt.
So despite my extreme trepidation, I'm going to call L. and see if she's okay or wants to talk about the toddler. And I took a peace lily over to the daycare for the little angel's teacher, who is having an understandably hard time getting past the fact that her husband was dead on the couch when she got home from work. All this heaviness would've made me sad three years ago, but it weighs on my heart like lead now. Like lead.