I knew the arrival of a new baby would be tough on her. I knew she’d have some serious adjusting to do, going from being an only child to a big sister. I had devoted the last two years of my life to her (nearly three, if you count the pregnancy), and she knew nothing but my undivided attention and time.
I had expected that she would start showing favoritism toward her daddy. I had expected that she would show some resentment toward her little brother. I expected she would be jealous for my time and attention.
But still, it didn’t prepare me for her bubbly soft and sharp-edged words: I don’t like Mama.
Tears sprang in my eyes and I stood there, unmoving. I was nursing her brother but trying to be part of her bedtime routine to encourage our former connection, trying to invest more of myself and my time in her. I knew she missed me, and that her words probably came from a place of confusion, but it cut to my heart like nothing ever has before.
I don’t like Mama.
I wanted to grab her and hug her and pour myself into her and remind her of all the good times we’d had together. I wanted to ask her, “We had a date at the museum, remember? I took you to the zoo, remember? We played at the park and went to the library and went for walks and played at Gymboree… remember? Remember?? I carried you for nine months, vomiting the whole way through, singing to you and talking to you and loving you… remember? I went through the excruciating pain of nursing you, with tears, sweat, and blood. Mastitis. Sleeplessness. But I persevered. For you. Remember?? I held you through the night and came to you when you cried and played with you in your fort and made you a beautiful room- remember? Remember, little bear? Don’t you know how much I love you???”
Instead, I walked out of the room and cried. It had been a few weeks coming, and this finally broke me. I don’t cry very easily, but it only takes a few words from my darling to break open the floodgates.
The next night, I debated on whether or not to join in on her bedtime routine again. It was asking for hurt. I knew she was going to ask for it, shining her sweet smile at me and asking, “Together? Do it together?” Every night since her brother was born, she asked that we put her down together, reading her book, praying, and swaying in a group hug as we sang her bedtime song. She would wrap one arm around Ben as he held her, and wrap her other arm around my neck, pulling me close to her and holding me tightly. I could hear her soft breath in my ear, and I sang gently and sweetly in her ear. I loved it. Though I am not usually a huge fan of physical affection, I could cuddle and snuggle with my children all. day. long. So I basked in that unusual display of affection and treasured the moments she wanted me close.
But one night, after pulling me in close, she suddenly pushed me away and said, “Just Papa.” I stood there, stunned, and tried to finish the song with Ben, but she pushed me away again and said, “Bye, Mama.”
I had never felt such cold, solid rejection.
I quietly walked out of the room and tried to tell myself it was all part of her transition and adjustment. She was dealing with a lot, after all, and a toddler only has so many ways to process such emotions, right?
The next night, she did it again.
And again.
And again.
Each night, my husband would come out and give me a comforting pat on the arm, offering a sympathetic look. I tried not to be jealous. We were a team. He was, after all, spending most of her waking hours with her, so this was only natural, right? And if she was going to prefer someone over me, it had better be him.
But after a while, you just don’t want to go in and get pushed away again. She was playing with my heart, and I was tired of getting stepped on. Each night, I would resolve to let Ben put her down himself, but when she looked up at me with shining eyes and asked, “Together? Do it together?” I melted each time and thought, “Maybe tonight, just maybe, she’ll keep me.”
And each time, it would end with her pushing me away, shattering my heart in a way only this 1-year old could do.
I knew I was asking for it, yet I kept going back, hoping she’d change.
She hasn’t, yet. Tonight, I walked out quietly again, wondering how many more times I was going to take this.
Why do I do it? I don’t know. Because she’s my daughter. Because some day, she will realize she’s not upset with me, and that I still do love her as much as before, even if I can’t spend as much time with her.
But mostly, I do it because I want her to know that I love her unconditionally, even if she keeps rejecting me. I want her to know that no matter how many times she pushes me away, I will always be there for her when she asks. Because that’s what Jesus would do. Because that’s what Jesus continues to do for us. No matter how many times we push him away, forget him, ignore him, put others before him, He still chooses to love us unconditionally. He is always there, and he will always be there when we reach for him- no matter how many times we’ve broken his heart.
He delights in nothing more than having us pull him close, enjoying the soft gentle song in his voice and feeling him close. He loves to be there for us, and loves to be loved by us. He loves to love us. And he will keep loving us no matter how many times we push him away.
I’ve never known heartache like the way I’m experiencing now. I never thought you could give so much of yourself to a little person, offer yourself so vulnerably to this immature and capricious creature, only to have your heart thrown around like a ping-pong ball.
I now know a little bit more of our Father’s heart- his devotion and affection for us, his delight in us. I also know a little more of the pain and heartache he chooses to endure for the sake of loving us. I don’t know why he does it, but I know I appreciate it a little bit more today than I did yesterday.
15 responses to “The Father’s Heart”
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I think the lessons of love learned in marriage and parenthood can be the very central experiences missing from many members of today’s Catholic priesthood – not all, but many. These lessons in deeper love are truly difficult, but also truly REAL (think Velveteen Rabbit).
Thank you, Barbara.
Beautiful, vulnerable post. I don’t know if this will make you feel better, but kids often prefer to wind down with whichever parent they spend less time with. Your daughter may be in a phase, or she may be cherishing time with her dad if she sees you more frequently and wants one-on-one time with him. I know it’s hard but try to see it less as a rejection of you and more of an affirmation that she spends a LOT of time with you and wants to grow her relationship with him.
Thanks, Heather =). Things have been getting better, though I’m sure they will continue to evolve over time. This parenting thing, man…!!
Oh JoEllen… hugs from one Mama to another. No words of wisdom here, but I sure can feel your pain. Lots of love for you on my end.
Thank you 🙂 It’s been getting better! *Sighs* :]