On Becoming a Domestic and Laboratory Goddess

Tonight was the annual Isis Family Christmas Eve Cocktail Party at Auntie Isis-in-Law's (I think I'll post more on this later because Auntie Isis-in-Law warrants her own post). The Isis women donned their finest sparkley garb and drank champagne while the Isis men indulged in assorted manly scotches. Dr. Isis got to sit among the gaggle of Isis children and watch them exchange gifts. She sat amongst piles and mountains of shredded paper and tissue and ribbon thinking how lucky the Isis children are, and then watched them politely dole out kisses to all of the adult Isises as they said their "thank yous."

Figure 1: I lack the neuropeptide that prevents normal people from impulsively pinching adorable children in feetie pajamas.

All, of course, except for Little Isis.

Little Isis is no fool and realized he was being scammed into bedtime so that his mother could engage in more shenanigans.  Two hours of laying on the floor next to Little Isis's portable crib (Little Isis can escape and I dared not leave him unattended in a non-childproof home) while Little Isis protested and Dr. Isis realized that her only option was to take him home to bed.  As I walked out of the house, leaving behind my own unopened pile of gifts and my half-finished glass of champagne, members of the Isis family lamented that I was departing without getting to enjoy the remaining festivities.  All I could reply was, "I'm a mother and this is what we do."

I realized buckling my rambunctious two year old into the car that this has become a mantra of sorts for me.  When I wake up in the middle of the night, hearing him cry, and leave bed to comfort him to back to sleep I realize that "I'm a mother and that is what we do." When I am sitting in the rocking chair in the middle of the night, singing to him, and wondering how I am going to be coherent enough to teach the next day I think, "I'm a mother and this is what we do."    When I have to plan a day of experiments and meetings and writing around 6 pm swimming lessons I think to myself that "I'm a mother and that is what we do."  When I am so exhausted I can barely see straight, standing in the kitchen trying to cook dinner, and trying to keep my child from pulling my pants off as he tries to scale up my leg while crying "Mommy, up" repeatedly, I remind myself that, "I'm a mother and this is what I do."  Sometimes caring for my children feels like a responsibility and I spend moments wondering how I will survive from one task to the next.

But now we've settled into bed.  The stress of trying to put my child to bed in a strange house has passed. The house is quiet and my baby is wrapped up in my arms with his face nuzzled against my breast. I can revel in how he has grown over the last year -- how he has changed from a baby to a little boy and how brilliant he is becoming. I can see bits of myself reflected in him, but I can also see bits of a person that is better than me.  I can see pieces of my family's past, all the people I have loved, but also my family's future.  I wonder about the man he'll become, whether he'll have his own family, and pray that he'll cherish his children as much as I cherish mine.  I imagine a day when I am white-haired Isis, bouncing my grandchildren on my knee in a living room chair, and watching him kiss his wife across the room. But now, my baby's face is serene, I'm watching his eyelids flutter as he dreams, and my mantra just doesn't seem to fit this moment. 

I'm here with him, instead of anywhere else, because I'm a mother and this is my gift.

Figure 2: Little Isis, six hours old.