The Tamesis
I just got back from three days of skiing in Switzerland with my husband. This was the first time in nine months since she was born that we sent our daughter to her grandparents three nights in a row. There are, of course, countless privileges that make this possible: a baby who is (for now, hopefully always) sociable and seems immune to changes in the environment; a baby who has not yet chosen a favorite parent (for comfort, for feeding); grandparents who are eager, willing, available.
From the beginning, I was wary. Is she too young? Am I too persistent? Are we Both Secretly being her favorite parent, which means that without us she would tear the bungalow down screaming, reject her bottle, reject her bed? Would I be like Kevin’s mother, who sat bolt upright on the plane, suddenly in agony and filled with regret? Home alone? Will the pain of missing her overshadow the joy of piste and après ski?
In fact, the most striking feeling upon landing in refreshing St. Moritz is that of gentle calm. There was a faint pull, a distant pull—like the smell of the diaper pail I had become accustomed to. My daughter is out there, somewhere, without me, but it doesn’t feel like an urgent call to arms, it feels like a fact. I don’t worry about something going wrong, that her safety is compromised, or that my presence (and my husband’s) is the only presence she needs to survive and thrive.
Our expectations of separation didn’t match up to what it actually felt like on the tarmac, and it didn’t arrive with me at the hotel. I loved her, I loved her, but I didn’t miss her. I love her but I’m just not with her.
The entire culture told me that I should feel differently. I was supposed to feel that longing you see in Oscar performances; a numbness of losing a limb. I’m supposed to feel bad…right? Or less content. Or less for free. I awaited the heartache, guilt, and separation anxiety. I waited to feel selfish. It didn’t come.
All the questions I expected my child’s grandparents to ask myself when my child came home for the first time—Is she okay? Is this normal breathing? Is this milk enough?— but they absorb the effects of a newborn, like a crash-test dummy that gave birth to four children 30 years ago and are as familiar with the rules as they are. Unlike me, they don’t mind noisy toys, so the baby was engrossed in a spinning top that played “Macarena,” a miniature piano, and a couple of small vehicles with squealing sirens. When I reached the slope she joined Stomp.
Once the focus on the baby dissipated, I quickly tended to my own needs – which sound Selfish, but I really don’t feel it. The intense focus of raising children gives way to a mind unaffected by the sting of teething, wet diapers, and about-to-be-bumped heads. In Switzerland, my soul feels free.
What I’m dealing with is myself, not the children and then I. I ate when I was hungry. When I’m tired I go to bed. I can doze off while drinking three martinis in the morning. I can go to the bathroom alone and it seems really amazing. I saw that my husband’s face wasn’t illuminated by the baby monitor. I jumped into Pilates with gusto and left with abs buzzing and legs forced into the twists and turns of an oxbow lake. I hotpoted until I was about the size of a barge. I thought about Jil Sander again (still can’t afford it). I could notice who wore whom at the Oscars.
It wasn’t a feeling of revenge, or of regaining my time because I was freed from responsibility. I’m not pretending that I’m not a parent or trying to be funny to prove that I can still be a parent. Overall, I feel the same way, just baby contented in another continent. Honestly, it surprises me – easily exist. I’m not “completely satisfied” on the “baby’s first weekend away” bingo card.
