Tunesday : Good Mother

Good Mother

(Arden Richards, J / Foster, R) Performed by Jann Arden

I've got money in my pocket
I like the color of my hair
I've got a friend who loves me
Got a house, I've got a car
I've got a good mother
and her voice is what keeps me here

Feet on ground
Heart in hand
Facing forward
Be yourself
I've never wanted anything
No I've, no I've, I've never wanted anything
so bad...so bad

Cardboard masks of all the people
I've been
thrown out with all the rusted, tangled
dented God Damned miseries
You could say I'm hard to hold
But if you knew me you'd know
I've got a good father
And his strength is what makes me cry

Feet on ground
Heart in hand
Facing forward
Be yourself
I've never wanted anything
No I've, no I've, I've never
wanted anything so bad...
so bad

I've got money in my pocket
I like the color of my hair
I've got a friend who loves me
Got a house, I've got a car
I've got a good mother
and her voice is what keeps me here

Feet on ground
Heart in hand
Facing forward
Be yourself

Heart in hand
Feet on ground
Facing forward
Be yourself
just be yourself
just be yourself

Feet on ground
Heart in hand
Feet on ground
Heart in hand

As I keep saying, I've grown fairly bored by my own life's story, and looking back, that may have resulted in me skimming over Kennedy's infancy as I moaned about other things that were happening at the same time - I'll try to correct that this week. I chose Good Mother because: 1) I like the song and it's from the right timeframe; 2) finding a path to being a "good mother" was my greatest hope; and 3) with Jann Arden releasing the book Feeding My Mother - about Arden's current role as the primary caregiver for her mother who suffers from Alzheimer's - I feel a kinship with the singer today that I didn't have before. Onward.

Right from the beginning, Kennedy was such a sweet baby. Yes, she cried, but only when she had a problem. Basically, Kennedy expected the world to be benevolent, always on her side, and it was always a shock to her when something went wrong - a vaccination needle, a door closing on her fingers, waking up alone; there was always a delay of stunned surprise before Kennedy would start to cry, and although I loved her belief that life should be smooth and easy, I worried that she was being spoiled if she didn't start to get the hint that awful things would happen to her and she would need to be prepared for them. (It was only when Mallory was later born the polar opposite to this that I recognised this is a core component in Kennedy's personality: for better or worse, Kennedy is still surprised when the world hurts her. And it's a strength straight from her beautiful soul.)

Also right from the beginning, we began co-sleeping without really meaning to. At the hospital where she was born, Kennedy slept through her first afternoon and evening while visitors dropped by; only waking up, screaming, after everyone had left and I was finally permitted to sleep. A rather cranky nurse came in, took Kennedy from her clear plastic bassinette, and pushed her towards me as though I would know what to do. I attempted to get Kennedy to latch and the cranky nurse started squeezing my nipple and forcing it at Kennedy, saying, "Here, like this, like this." Exhausted, sore, wanting nothing more than to be a good mother, and feeling a little harrassed, I pulled away from the cranky nurse and made my own gentle attempts at breastfeeding; the nurse happy to go back to whatever she was doing as I raised my shoulder as a barrier between her and my baby. We found our way there, me and Kennedy, and as I rolled onto my side and let Kennedy latch from there, we both ended up falling asleep. (I don't think I saw the nurse again until we were getting ready to leave the next day, and when I got up the nerve to tell her that my doctor had advised me to ask her for a "stool softener" before I left, she started yelling at me that she couldn't dispense any medication without a written order. Cranky.) So that's the routine that Kennedy and I started - when she was really little, we'd go to sleep together, her at my breast. At some point in the night she'd wake up nuzzling at me, and if she felt wet, either Dave or I would get up and get her a new diaper, and after rolling onto my other side, she'd start to feed again. If she wasn't wet (or stinky), I'd just shift her to my other side and she'd feed without fully waking either of us up. I understand that co-sleeping can be considered dangerous - and especially with another adult in the bed with us who might have rolled on top of her - but we were in tune, no one ever rolled on top of Kennedy, and it felt like the most loving and comforting arrangement for a newborn (if it's good enough for baby monkeys and litters of puppies and bear cubs, it was the least I could do for Kennedy).

That first year was a blur of visiting back and forth between her two sets of grandparents - all four of whom loved and doted on their first grandchild - and she was surrounded also by aunts and uncles, but few other kids. This is probably why Kennedy has always seemed so mature - all of her early influences were adult ones. I didn't keep a baby milestones book, and I regret that now. I know that Kennedy talked early, but don't remember her first words (probably dada), she was always off the growth charts (I took her to my father's doctor once for a well baby check [as we were still not settled down anywhere], and whether or not it was to ingratiate himself with my Dad - as everyone seems to want to do - the doctor said to me, "You ought to consider having more children as you obviously create a superior product".) Kennedy looooved her first taste of pablum and then the carrots I mushed for her, and after never really learning to crawl (she was more of a roller), she was a late walker (I think it was at nearly fifteen months; which I've anecdotally learned is common for bigger babes.) In that first year, Kennedy was baptised by the same priest who had married both me and Dave and his parents before us, and choosing Ken and Lolo to be her godparents was a happy choice; her uncle Ken in particular has always played up their special bond. My mother was always taking us places: shopping for sweet dresses and Oshkosh overalls; going through the McDonald's drivethru just to buy all their Happy Meal toddler toys; feeding the ducks down at Burlington Bay.

The round dimpled cheeks, the soulful blue-green eyes, the curly golden hair: Kennedy was cherubic in her beauty. Soon after she turned one, Dave and I went away for one night (down to a toy show in Rochester, really just an excuse for a break), and although I had only been away from her for something like thirty hours, seeing Kennedy again was like seeing her for the first time; I had forgotten just how beautiful she was and it filled my heart to breaking just to look at her. And her nature was so sweet: never fussy, never whiny, always serene in her faith in the benevolence of the world. If I was sitting, Kennedy was on my lap. If I was walking, Kennedy was holding my hand. If I was sleeping, Kennedy was curled into my side - because even after she was big enough to be put to sleep in her own little bed, she knew that if she woke up in the middle of the night and burst into our bedroom, I'd have heard her coming and be waiting for her with the blankets open and ready to receive her. This is what you want from a firstborn: a reason to think you could handle a whole litter of kids.

So does this do it? Have I made it clear that Kennedy was bright and chatty and beautiful and loving as a babe? That she made me feel like a grownup in a way that I hadn't before; that she made me and Dave feel like a family in a way that we hadn't before? Oh, and Kennedy was so loved: by everyone who ever met her, and especially, by all the adults in the family for whom she was the first - first child, first grandchild, first great-grandchild, first niece. Loved and loving; the one who made me want to be a good mother; Kennedy was, and is, a beautiful gift.