Jasmine crawled into my lap. She was wearing the pink flannel nightie I’d made for her. You couldn’t buy them anymore because they combusted children, apparently. Jasmine was her usual little furnace of heat and felt like a sack of elbows but I snuggled her close, breathing in the scent of markers and plastic barrettes and hair that could have used a shampoo.
She was full of complaints, and questions—demands for my full attention, which she’d made obvious by climbing into my lap, pinning me in place. Even though in an emergency, I could have snapped her up and run, she was long past the age of me carrying her although I still carried her little brother from time to time.
“Mommy,” she whined, in her need-to-know voice. “Mommy, when are we going to…?” It could have been a dozen things she wanted. A dozen things she wanted to know or do or have. Life was just not moving at the speed Jasmine thought it should.
She was about five or six years old. Her life was full of school friends and new games and skills. She had a lot going on and a lot of angst. It appeared she had inherited neuroses the same way she’d inherited her grandfather’s nose and her grandmother’s eyes. She worried a lot.
Holding her and listening, even though I probably couldn’t have cared less about her latest problem, I realized she was the age I was when the following happened:
For some time, I’d been referred to with a nickname in my family, which I didn’t know whether it was an insult or a point of pride. No, who am I kidding? I knew it was an insult. A not-so-subtle message that there was something wrong with me. The nickname was Kissy Day. It still causes me deep shame.
How did I earn this moniker, you may ask? Well, obviously, it was from the copious amount of kissing I was doing. Or demanding. I’m not sure which.
I was five or six, remember. Who was I kissing? All I can tell you is that there was only one person in the world I adored and that person was my mother. I remember kissing her soft cheeks and her hands, no kissing on the lips in my family. That was germy and not something a normal person did. I remember kissing my mom but do I remember her kissing me back? Yes.
Was it enough? No.
Not for me. And I admit I was probably one of those dastardly kids who, when their mother leans over their bed to kiss them goodnight, throws their arms around their dead-tired mother’s neck and traps her close. Get the picture? Hence, Kissy Day. At least that’s my grown up interpretation of it now.
Anyhow, around the time of the Kissy Day nickname, another thing started to happen. Whenever I crawled onto my mother’s lap, looking for comfort or in need of attention, I was hearing this phrase, accompanied by groans and sighs, “You’re too big.”
I was too big.
I was too big for my mother’s lap.
The age of self-consciousness was upon me.
How could I have been so stupid?
How could I not have known that I was too big a burden? A gigantic, needy creature weighing down this poor woman who happened to be my mother. “You’re too big.”
I am too big. My wants and needs are too big. They’re more than anyone can handle.
I felt Jasmine’s heft in my lap. I held her close. She was not too big, or too mature to need my attention. She was just her, with her peculiar talents and learning style. A little kid saddled with an active mind and a wealth of inherited insecurities and fears trying to navigate a big crazy world she hadn’t asked to be born into. She was not too big.
And neither was I.
I listened to Jasmine with sympathy but without commitment, recognizing that life is so damn hard. Even when you’re five years old. Your goals and expectations are crushed.
My mother’s words come back to me. “You’re too big.”
I was not going to say those words to Jasmine. I would never tell her that the burden of raising her was too big for me to carry. I’d brought her into the world and she had every right to expect big love to envelope her.
Kerry toddled into the room, and seeing Jasmine curled on my lap wanted up there too. I did have two limits and two children in the lap was it. I distracted them with food. “Who wants night lunch?”
They raced to the kitchen and I followed. The inevitable competition for bowls and cereal boxes ensued and I refereed as was my role. Soon enough I’d be alone having a drink after they’d fallen asleep. Soon enough I’d be alone with the silence and the space of aloneness. Soon enough I’d be eating and drinking whatever I wanted without having to share. Their father would be home later. I had a few hours to myself in front of the television. I wanted only to zone out. To be alone, but not too alone. I wanted only to be held in the safety of the family I’d created for myself. To soothe myself and pretend to the world that I was lovable, that I was worthy, that I wasn’t too much or too big a burden. I could pretend all day long. And when pretending didn’t work anymore, I had ways to drown the pain.