Unrequired Love

When I was younger I thought that my immense vocabulary was certainly something to be haughtily proud of. By seven or eight, I was soooo much wiser than all those other kids who foolishly thought that some tart named Madonna was singing "Like A Virgin" -- "Who would be singing about baby Jesus' mom outside of church?" I scoffed. I knew that it was "Like, Aversion" -- didn't have a clue what Aversion was, but I knew it was a word and a BIG word at that -- therefore, it must be right.

I also remember hearing about "unrequited love," and assuming that some idiot must have misspoken -- the term, I was certain from my little grade school soapbox of superiority, was "unREQUIRED love." It made much more sense. You could love someone to death, and that was enough -- if they didn't return the affection, it was all good -- you had enough love for both of you and their reciprocation was, in fact, unrequired for your happiness. I mean, I had unrequired love for four out of five New Kids on the Block at one point or another and that was enough for me. It wasn't until I was 15 or so and developed the first gigantic crush of my life that I realized that just my participation in this love fest wasn't gonna cut it -- love was, cruelly, a two-way street of requirement.

The concept didn't really strike me again until recently, and in a way I never thought possible. Unrequired (yes, I mean to keep phrasing it that way) love doesn't just work between two grownups of incompatible attraction. It is just as strong and infinitely more heartbreaking between a parent and child.

As background, let me point out that I am currently "transitioning" -- er, "crashing" as my husband would say -- between medications. The Effexor I had been taking for a few months hadn't been doing its job -- neither had any of the multitude of other anti-depressant/anti-anxiety/SSRI/herbicide/pesticide concoctions we've tried over the years. I have recently been more and more frequently rendered absolutely helpless under panic and anxiety attacks, scaring fellow airline passengers from coast to coast as I shake, sweat and squirm as though being questioned by the Iraqi Republican Guard (sorry, I watch too much "Lost") while the rest of the people on board somehow manage to blithely go on with their existence around me. Bastards.

Anyway, I have just "ramped down" off of Effexor and am "ramping up" on Zoloft with a chaser of Klonopin every day. Let me tell you, Klonopin is fuuuuuuun stuff. Not so sure I should be driving, or walking, or even attempting to pee unassisted while on it, but it sure does negate those anxiety attacks. wheeeeeee.

I digress. (as usual). In addition to bottoming out my supply of Effexor and still taking only a tiny dose of Zoloft as my body adjusts to the new meds, this week is also what Dan and I refer to as "Mr. Happy Week" -- signaling the arrival of the ONLY thing whose absence made pregnancy enjoyable. Let me tell you what kind of head-on, pedestrian vs. 18-wheeler at 100 mph collision PMS and emotional/psychological drainage does to you.

Has anyone out there who takes medication for anxiety or depression or any of their related mental cousins ever wondered what kind of parent they would be without the meds? For me, I feel like my mommy license should routinely be suspended -- and that's WITH the aid of things that are supposed to keep me in control. For weeks and months, I have been snappy; frustrated; prone to slamming down the spoon and leaving the room when Molly won't cooperate with mealtimes and begging Dan "YOU do it -- she hates me. She won't eat for me." I have no patience and I hate it. I have no control over my emotions and I hate it. I wonder every day of my life why God made such an immature, selfish, unstable human being responsible for a helpless little blond creature who doesn't know any better that her continued insistence on putting the food in her hair makes Mommy leave the room and cry. And I hate it.

I was overwhelmed yesterday with feelings of unrequired love in regard to Molly. I feel like I am a passing fancy to her -- interesting when I first walk in the room, but never anything that elicits feelings of joy or love or clinginess or need or anything. When moms on my baby board ask other moms for advice about how to get their child to stop crying "Mommy! Mommy!" when they leave the room or stop clinging to their leg or who won't go to sleep unless Mommy tucks them in, I want to reach through cyberspace and smack them in the head with some unrequired hatred. I feel that I am nothing more than an interesting diversion to Molly and that I am pouring love on her the best way I know how, which admittedly is very flawed and littered with frustration, self-doubt and anger that I will never get this Mommy business right.

One of the only times I feel that my unrequired love is being returned, or at least tolerated, is bedtime -- the times when she actually allows me to rock her to sleep; when she nuzzles up to my neck, pokes me in the eye a few times just to make sure I'm still there and still gazing at her, and then drifts off to sleep. Part of me relishes this ritual so much because it makes me feel like it is the only part of Mommyhood I am any good at, and the only time I feel like she needs/wants me. But then other times, like last night, I realize that she would probably curl up with Jack the Ripper or the Son of Sam for all she cares - it has nothing to do with me being special to her.

As I rocked her last night, after an evening full of Mommy throwing down spoons, declaring that Molly will "never" walk because she is clearly sooooo far behind, only taking 10-12 steps at a time at 14 months (10-12 steps at a time is 11-12 steps more than she took a week ago, mind you), I absolutely fell apart in her comfy glider chair. I was torn between "she needs me and loves me and I am a toxic, horrible mother in return" and "she couldn't care less about me, and I could snuggle and cuddle her here til 3 am and nothing is going to change that." I laid her in her crib, sat down on the floor next it, and cried. For a very long time. I even scooted over to the darkest, smallest corner of the room I could find, wedging myself between the crib and her dresser, wanting to curl up into the smallest, most pathetic ball possible (yet staying away from the monitor lest Daddy hear the muffled sobs, think it was Molly crying, and come up to find me holed up like a wounded badger).

After about half an hour I thought I had a grip, so I went off to bed. Two minutes after laying down it started all over again. And despite the fact that Molly was happily asleep in her crib, I padded down the hall, picked her up, and brought her to bed with me. I laid there with her on my chest, crying as quietly as possible so as to not wake her up, until my mom, who is staying with us during weekdays to help watch her until she starts daycare (too soon), got up to go to the bathroom and noticed Molly's door was open. She checked her room, found no baby, and came into my room to find her 30 year old, fiercely independent, well educated daughter trying to quickly wipe a mess of tears and mascara off her face while desperately hugging an oblivious sleeping toddler in the other.

My mother, who has dealt with a host of mental issues both personally and in her family, found very little odd about this and simply asked, "is she OK?" knowing full well it was not because Molly couldn't sleep that she was curled up with Mommy.

I had already taken a sleeping pill to try to help numb the mess in my head, so I answered back "Yes. It's me. She didn't need me -- I needed her. It's just...just...this is the only time I feel like I am being a good mom to her. She doesn't need me. I need her."

Lovely - I am crying all over the place even rehashing this, which is super duper considering I am about to get on a conference call at work.

My mom gingerly picked Molly up, put her back in her crib, and somehow I wasn't embarassed any more -- I kept saying "I can't do it. I'm a horrible mom. I mean, all these meds -- what kind of mom am I that I need medication to function, and I can't even function very well WITH them."

I don't remember what she said except that she sat on my bed and said reassuring things - the things I expect a good Mommy to say, whatever age they are, to their messed up, hysterical child, whatever age THEY are.

There is no happy moral to this story. I woke up with a blinding migraine and just wanted to die. I have been crying on and off all day. I am sure those of you used to reading my humorous blatherings on all things banal will think an alien took over this blog for the day - but as I said yesterday, to know me is to love all of me, even the crazy parts (and the dysfunctional ass). I just hope my mom is right, and that I am not suffering from unrequired love from Molly. Maybe my mom felt the same way at some point as I was growing up. I'm just glad she knew that she was desperately required by me last night, and I hope someday, Molly will do the same.