A few years back "Mountains Beyond Mountains" made the book-group rounds. Give it a read, if you haven't already. By Tracy Kidder, it tracks the work of epidemiologist Paul Farmer and his work fighting infectious diseases around the world. This sounds like a kill-joy, I'm sure, but it's not. The man's devotion, especially to the poor in Haiti, in Russian prisons and elsewhere, is awe-inspiring.
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What does this have to do with me and Daniil? For one, the connotations suggested by the title. Always there's a next mountain--be this a next suffering person to understand and reach, a next challenge to tackle, a next rewarding vista for your ongoing efforts. Translate to Daniil and me: a next spark of emotion, a next need for understanding, a next moment of intimacy that I never could have imagined before becoming a Mama. The journey's never done, the trail twists and turns unexpectedly, there are impasses and dead-ends--and it's totally worth it. Once you've set out, there's no turning back. The trek, be it up a mountain, or heeding a call to wipe out tuberculosis, or motherhood, becomes a daily devotion.
Some new keepsakes along this devotional path...
Meal times. We start every meal with a short prayer, often after Daniil has already dug into his flaxseed-loaded pancake for breakfast or bowl of chicken soup at lunch. "Dear God, thank you for this food." Daniil's words come out all wrong, but his intention is clear. Both of us then say the gentlest "Namaste," our hands directed toward one another. "Namaste, Daniil," I say. "Namaste, Mama," he says in return, blessing me a smile that takes me aback with its genuineness. I was floored by how Daniil took to the word "Namaste" when I nodded one morning toward the Buddha statue in our dining room. (For those of you unfamiliar with the term, "Namaste" roughly translates as "I salute the divinity in you.") Daniil mimicked me with no hesitation--this was on Day 2 after his arrival--and with surprising solemnity and focus for a toddler. I've always been skeptical about reincarnation, but my boy's naturalness with this ritual gives me pause.
Bath time. Baths began as pure joy, Daniil squealing with delight, dunking his head under water, sticking his bottom under the running faucet, squeezing and squirting his plastic seahorse, frog and duck. Then they took a distinct turn for the worse. Baths became a battleground for our two wills. Daniil decided it would be hilarious to spit bathwater at Mama, sitting outside the tub. My stern "nos" and "all dones" had little effect. He resorted to kicking full force with his legs, splashing water all over the room. I'd lift him up from the tub, ending his game, he'd cry, what a rotten way to enter bedtime. This became a running pattern three nights in a row. The more upset and uptight I got, the more vehemently Daniil dug in. This is so classic, it's embarrassing! Try as I might, I couldn't "unhook" from my wanting things to go a certain way, my way. I put out a call for help via Facebook. My friend Cara from New York City supplied the winning solution, so simple it had never crossed my mind: close the shower curtain and let him spit, let him splash, let him have his fun while I'm safely out of range and dry outside. Do I really care that Daniil splashes? Is that the issue? No, not in the least! I'm sure I'd want to do the same if I were three years old in the tub. Isn't that what water's for? And there's been an unexpected benefit. With the shower curtain closed (Mama peeking in to make sure there's no drowning or other danger), Daniil independently washes himself, spits once or not at all (I removed the rinsing cup), has a blast kicking for 15 seconds or less, and the bath is over, happily, in no time. "Do you want to put on your pajamas and read your spider book?" I ask. "Da... Yes, please," Daniil has answered for four nights in a row at this point. He stands up, beautifully buck naked, and holds out his arms for me to whisk him him up out of the tub. I wrap a huge white towel around my dripping-wet mishka, and off we go to Eric Carle (The Very Busy Spider) and a cuddly goodnight.
Goodnight, Watermelon... I will write more about our tender goodnights in one of my next posts. Once again, it grows late and I need to turn in.
l
What does this have to do with me and Daniil? For one, the connotations suggested by the title. Always there's a next mountain--be this a next suffering person to understand and reach, a next challenge to tackle, a next rewarding vista for your ongoing efforts. Translate to Daniil and me: a next spark of emotion, a next need for understanding, a next moment of intimacy that I never could have imagined before becoming a Mama. The journey's never done, the trail twists and turns unexpectedly, there are impasses and dead-ends--and it's totally worth it. Once you've set out, there's no turning back. The trek, be it up a mountain, or heeding a call to wipe out tuberculosis, or motherhood, becomes a daily devotion.
Some new keepsakes along this devotional path...
Meal times. We start every meal with a short prayer, often after Daniil has already dug into his flaxseed-loaded pancake for breakfast or bowl of chicken soup at lunch. "Dear God, thank you for this food." Daniil's words come out all wrong, but his intention is clear. Both of us then say the gentlest "Namaste," our hands directed toward one another. "Namaste, Daniil," I say. "Namaste, Mama," he says in return, blessing me a smile that takes me aback with its genuineness. I was floored by how Daniil took to the word "Namaste" when I nodded one morning toward the Buddha statue in our dining room. (For those of you unfamiliar with the term, "Namaste" roughly translates as "I salute the divinity in you.") Daniil mimicked me with no hesitation--this was on Day 2 after his arrival--and with surprising solemnity and focus for a toddler. I've always been skeptical about reincarnation, but my boy's naturalness with this ritual gives me pause.
Bath time. Baths began as pure joy, Daniil squealing with delight, dunking his head under water, sticking his bottom under the running faucet, squeezing and squirting his plastic seahorse, frog and duck. Then they took a distinct turn for the worse. Baths became a battleground for our two wills. Daniil decided it would be hilarious to spit bathwater at Mama, sitting outside the tub. My stern "nos" and "all dones" had little effect. He resorted to kicking full force with his legs, splashing water all over the room. I'd lift him up from the tub, ending his game, he'd cry, what a rotten way to enter bedtime. This became a running pattern three nights in a row. The more upset and uptight I got, the more vehemently Daniil dug in. This is so classic, it's embarrassing! Try as I might, I couldn't "unhook" from my wanting things to go a certain way, my way. I put out a call for help via Facebook. My friend Cara from New York City supplied the winning solution, so simple it had never crossed my mind: close the shower curtain and let him spit, let him splash, let him have his fun while I'm safely out of range and dry outside. Do I really care that Daniil splashes? Is that the issue? No, not in the least! I'm sure I'd want to do the same if I were three years old in the tub. Isn't that what water's for? And there's been an unexpected benefit. With the shower curtain closed (Mama peeking in to make sure there's no drowning or other danger), Daniil independently washes himself, spits once or not at all (I removed the rinsing cup), has a blast kicking for 15 seconds or less, and the bath is over, happily, in no time. "Do you want to put on your pajamas and read your spider book?" I ask. "Da... Yes, please," Daniil has answered for four nights in a row at this point. He stands up, beautifully buck naked, and holds out his arms for me to whisk him him up out of the tub. I wrap a huge white towel around my dripping-wet mishka, and off we go to Eric Carle (The Very Busy Spider) and a cuddly goodnight.
Goodnight, Watermelon... I will write more about our tender goodnights in one of my next posts. Once again, it grows late and I need to turn in.
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