We’re visiting our daughter and
family. I’m in their basement suite getting ready for Shabbos and hear our
granddaughter’s voice from upstairs. She’s busy running here and there, singing
her sweet songs one moment and making demands of her parents in the next, very
much acting like her two-year-old self.
While I don’t remember being that
age myself, the story that’s been told to me on numerous occasions is that by
the time I was three, I was a force to be reckoned with. Like my cute little
granddaughter upstairs, I had a voice that was naturally loud. I was interested
in everything around me and made plenty of comments. I “called them as I saw
them,” whether they were happy exclamations or angry outbursts. I had a voice
and made my opinions known to one and all.
As the years went by, my thoughts
were turned outward, and I became sensitive to the plight of others. My voice
was one of compassion and empathy, intolerant of injustice and hypocrisy. Oh,
the self-righteousness of youth. When our children came along, my voice became
motherly: loving, kind and caring, soft and sweet, fierce and protective as a
mother bear for her precious cubs. It was a wonderful place to be and embraced
my whole being – though, unbeknownst to me, my own sense of self was pushed
away into another room, a tiny closet without any air.
I rode high on the wave called
motherhood. What a fulfilling space to occupy. I was on a mission and was
determined to chart the proper course for our children. There was a lot of
choppy water throughout those rides and many bumps and bruises when I fell off
my surfboard. But I climbed back on and stood right back up, ready to face the
next wave, hopefully stronger and more prepared than the last time.
Although one can listen to the
experiences of others, no one can ever be prepared for parenthood until they
are in it with both feet. And while you are tackling the treacherous waves of raising
children, it is hard to believe that life can ever be anything but challenging.
And then one day, it is. The temper tantrums, the bickering between siblings,
the angry daughter who thinks her mother is so unfair are suddenly not
something you have to deal with.
It is a long journey, and when it
ends, you are older and have moved on to the next stage, called
grandparenthood. Now, your daughter is riding her own surfboard. She’s getting
knocked around by the waves in the same way that you once did. You watch her
with the pain of being her mother, but she, like you used to do, climbs right
back up ready to face the pounding of the surf time and again. You marvel at
her skills, your memory becoming foggy when you can’t remember ever doing what
she is doing now.
Now, remarkably, your body no longer
gets battered and bruised from the waves of the past. Instead, you sail in
calmer waters and focus on personal growth. Quite unexpectedly, you find new interests,
discover new passions, and unlock the closet, setting free the voice that’s
been trapped, hidden, and forgotten about for so long. This voice that used to
take care of and protect your children is foreign to your ears because now it’s
a spokesman for you. This voice that had counseled and refereed for others is
tripping over itself in learning how to act on your own behalf. It’s a new
skill to learn with many falls along the way, but the memories of riding the
waves for your children come back to your mind and you know full well how to
fall off and get right back up.
And so you do, no longer alone but
with the help and encouragement of those who are closest to you. You learn how
to take care of you, how to treat yourself with respect and kindness and how
not to be taken advantage of. Of course, you still love taking care of others,
but you also learn with time how not to throw yourself under the bus, and you
discover that you no longer allow anyone else to do that to you either. Old patterns are
hard to break, but you are finding this new experience to be an exhilarating
adventure as these unwanted patterns are broken and discarded one by one.
I hear the pounding of little feet
upstairs once again as my granddaughter runs back and forth singing her sweet
little song. I smile as I think of my own song, entitled “Finding My Voice,”
and I hum along with my granddaughter’s tune because I’m just learning the
words for the very first time.
Zahava Hochberg
created the weekly column “Musings Through a Bifocal Lens” for the Monsey Mevaser newspaper. Zahava can be
reached at zahava.hochberg17@gmail.com.
