H is for Helpers

Every child should have at least two mothers. The second mother can be a neighbor, aunt, gramma, friend, spouse or well trained labradoodle. Having an extra set of eyes or hands is crucial to parental sanity.  One thing you can't have enough of is help.

 

Even Lady Granthum agrees, "Parenting is hard enough, even when you like the child."

cousins in Seattle
pic by Auntie Kirsten

When there's an age gap between siblings or cousins, it's like home-bred childcare.  Older siblings and cousins can be vital second mothers, filling in on playground and carpool duty or handing you a clean diaper, depending on the age.  Even if they complain, they enjoy the responsibility.  

My eldest has stepped in to help my sister with her kids while simultaneously she is helping me with him.  My cousin's daughter has done the same. When I was little I often stayed with my aunt's family in Texas for the summer. I was mothered by her and my five older cousins. When my parents divorced one of those older cousins came to stay with us for a few weeks to help my mom with the move, and she learned to drive a stick shift out of necessity. And I learned what skinny dipping was.  Win-win.

cousins in Switzerland
pic by Auntie Kirsten

Lady Grantham:  "One forgets about parenthood. The on-and-on-ness of it."

Isobel Crawley:  "Were you a very involved mother?.....I'd imagined them surrounded by nannies and governesses, being starched and ironed to spend an hour with you after tea."

Lady Grantham:  "Yes, but it was an hour every day."

Mary Allison Tierney's essay The Gingerdreadman is included in the anthology Mamas Write, available at Amazon, or your local independent bookshop. 

Tweet

Salish

Two years ago I had the privilege of participating in my nephew’s birth. When I arrived,  I waited behind the curtain until her contraction peaked and then went in to say hello.  

"You’re a liar and I hate you," she said weakly. 

While it was best that she didn’t witness my first two deliveries, watching me sneeze out my third probably wasn’t the best preparation for this day. With my third I wised up and got the epidural.  It was a significantly more graceful process.  I napped.  I read.  I glanced over at the monitor when I felt my e-friggin’-normous stomach tighten.  “Whoo – that was a doozy!” My sister rubbed my feet and fought with my husband for the cozier recliner

I tried to explain the difference but she wasn’t buying it.  I gently suggested that she get the drugs.  You get numb for a filling, right?  There’s no shame in getting relief ; no extra credit for suffering needlessly.  Of course it was useless. In this Seattle birth center, we had a dula, a tai chi master/labyrinth facilitator/impending grandma, two expecting parent biologists, and me; there would be no drugs today.

I’d never been present for the birth of a baby, outside of my own three. I’ve been the big sweaty groaning mess who couldn’t remember how to breathe.  Playing a supporting role was a relief.  Holding her hand, lifting her knee, offering words of support and encouragement came easily.  I knew my brother in law wanted to be down at the business end where I was, to watch his son’s head crown, but my sister had him in a headlock as her contractions heated up. She wasn’t letting me relinquish my post either, with her knee and hand.

When Oliver Salish emerged, after the feeling returned to my hand, his new grandma and I shared the most biologically bizarre sensation. The unmistakable tingle and ache of letdown. We were both very physically and emotionally immersed in this birth, so this must be Nature’s way of making sure the wee one eats.  Nice to know you can be useful.

2007
Mary Allison Tierney's essay The Gingerdreadman is included in the anthology Mamas Write, available at Amazon, or your local independent bookshop.

Tweet