Trying Something New
By Cara Stolen
@carastolen
“Hey mom? I want a snowboard for Christmas next year,” Royce says as I plop down in the chair across from him. His eyes are trained on the TV, where a snowboarder is descending what looks like an honest-to-goodness cliff at breakneck speed.
“Uh. Well,” I respond. I don’t want him to do anything even remotely that dangerous.
The scene changes on the “adventure sports” documentary he and my husband Levi are watching. Now, two snowmobilers race up what looks like the same cliff (surely it isn’t, right?).
“And a snow-ma-bile!” He shouts, jumping to his feet on the couch.
I look over at Levi, whose grin tells me he would love nothing more than to share his love of snowmobiles with his son. “Did you ever ski or snowboard?” I ask him, wondering if it’s something his family did together before his parents’ divorce.
“I snowboarded once,” he says, without elaborating—equally enthralled by the scene on the screen in front of him.
“Would you ever go again?” I ask, imagining my adventure-loving boys flying down a mountain together.
He gives a noncommittal shrug by way of response, and I can tell it isn’t something he’s dying to do again. I smirk as I imagine the things he isn’t saying. Like there are too many people at ski resorts. Or he’d rather play in the snow on something with a motor.
***
My sophomore year in college, eight of my closest friends and I went to Whistler, B.C. for Spring Break. We rented a huge cabin and drove up from Seattle in a caravan, loaded down with ski gear, enough food to feed a small army, and, of course, enough alcohol to, well, you know.
While I definitely ate my share of the food and consumed my share of the alcohol, I didn’t bring, or even plan to rent, any ski gear that week. Partially, I didn’t want to spend the money. I barely scraped together the money for my share of the trip as it was. But mainly, I didn’t rent ski or snowboard gear and head up one of the most famous chair lifts in the world because … I was scared.
Not scared of danger, mind you. No, I was scared I would be terrible at skiing. Scared I would embarrass myself in front of my friends.
Now before you go picturing 19-year-old me sitting all by myself in a cabin, let me assure you I was never actually alone. We were a group of college students, and lift tickets at Whistler-Blackcomb are outrageously expensive, so nobody in our group skied or snowboarded for more than 3 days total. So I spent my days hanging out with whoever stayed home that day, doing things I was already good at—watching the DVD’s stacked under the TV in the cabin’s living room, meeting other members of our group in the village for burgers and beers, or drinking mimosas in the hot tub.
Make no mistake, it was a glorious week, one I’ll remember fondly for the rest of my life. It’s just … as we sat in the long line of cars waiting to cross the border on the way home, I listened to my friends’ stories of days spent on the mountain and felt … like I’d missed out on part of the experience.
***
The first diaper I ever changed was Royce’s. And I was terrible at it. Mere hours into motherhood and already I was confronted by a new skill I couldn’t execute properly.
Under the watchful (hawk-like) gaze of the brusk night nurse who helped deliver my new baby boy, I carefully undid the tabs on the diaper. Then, I peeled back the top and stared in horror at the tar-like substance covering Royce’s tiny bottom.
Reaching for the wipes the nurse held out, I started wiping at the sticky, slimy poop, immediately getting it all over my hand. I wiped, and wiped, and wiped some more, until I’d used at least 25 wipes.
“I think that’s enough, mom,” the nurse sighed.
I attempted to roll up the minuscule diaper like a burrito the way I’d seen other veteran moms do, but the mountain of wipes wouldn’t be contained, so I just grabbed the whole mess and walked across the hospital room to the garbage.
“Now mom, when you’re at home, your changing table probably won’t have sides like the bassinet here. Never leave your baby unattended on a surface.”
My cheeks grew hot. How had I already forgotten what we learned in birthing class? How was I already bad at caring for my own son?
I crossed back to the bassinet, only to notice there was poop smeared on its plexiglass side. Certain the nurse had already seen it, I decided I would clean it up later and bent down to retrieve a clean diaper from the drawer in the bassinet.
But as I stood up, my adorable newborn son peed directly in my face.
The nurse didn’t even crack a smile. “Gotta move quick with little boys,” she said.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Finally, another 25 wipes later, I cradled Royce to my chest and sat back on the hospital bed, exhausted by my feelings of embarrassment and inadequacy. I waved a half-hearted goodbye to the nurse and prayed I wouldn’t have to change another diaper under her scrutiny (or maybe ever).
A few days later, in the comfort of our tiny rental home, I watched Levi struggle to change Royce’s diaper for the first time. Like me, he moved too slow and got peed on, sending me into a fit of giggles from where I watched on our bed. But, unlike me, he was unfazed by his “failure.” He laughed, then tossed me the pack of wipes and asked me to help him clean up.
As I wiped down the changing pad (and our bedside table), I thought about how Levi and I were both beginners when it came to caring for our newborn son. Neither one of us had the slightest clue what we were doing. The difference was, my beginner status sent me into a tailspin of inadequacy and shame, while my husband simply shrugged his shoulders and tried again.
The pee cleaned up, we snuggled up on our big four-poster log bed, cocooned around our freshly diapered son. I smiled across at Levi and felt my inadequacy thaw a little. I wasn’t in this alone.
***
“Mom! Did you hear me?” Royce asks.
“I’m sorry, buddy, what?” I say, realizing I’ve been lost in thought.
“I said, I want to ask Santa for a snowboard next year!” He shouts, jumping up and down on the couch.
Levi reaches his hand out and guides Royce back to his bottom without taking his eyes off the TV.
“Oh, yes. Sorry Royce, I did hear you. That sounds like it would be so much fun!” I say, with enthusiasm I don’t necessarily feel.
I’m amazed by his total absence of fear at the thought of trying something new. Was I ever that way? Or was I born afraid to be a beginner?
I think of all the experiences I’ve missed out on because of my fears. All the skills left unlearned, all the sports and activities left untried. All the pursuits I’ve abandoned because I wasn’t instantly good at them.
But as I look at my son, who challenges me more than any sport or career endeavor ever could, I realize something: I have yet to give up on motherhood. Even though I feel like a failure at least ten times a day. Even though I lose my temper, and hurt my kids’ feelings, and feel like an idiot when I change a diaper. Even though the voice in my head screams at me constantly that I am a terrible mother.
Despite all of those things, I still wake up every day and change the proverbial diapers. I read books, ask for advice, and seek counsel from my girlfriends. I listen to podcasts, see a therapist, and strategize with my husband.
I keep showing up.
Partly because, well, I can’t exactly take back my decision to have children. But mainly because motherhood has helped me understand that there’s a whole lot of middle ground between success and failure. I’ve yet to meet a perfect mother (aside from the one who exists in my head), and I’ve yet to read a parenting book whose author doesn’t admit to screwing up on occasion.
We’re all beginners together.
I look back at the TV in time to catch a skier flying over a massive jump. I’m amazed at the skill and talent of these athletes and can’t help but wonder what they were like as beginners. Were they terrified of failure? Did they laugh off each wipeout and simply try again? Or did they look around the lesson group and gain enough confidence to head down the bunny hill for the first time together?
“Hey Royce, buddy?” I say. “What if you ask Santa for ski lessons next Christmas? And what if mommy joins you?”
Guest essay written by Cara Stolen. Cara is a ranch wife and work-at-home mama of two living in rural Washington state. She loves exceptionally early mornings, strong (decaf) black coffee, and listening to her children giggle. You can find her hiding in her pantry sneaking chocolate chips by the handful, or on Instagram. She also blogs occasionally.
Photo by Lottie Caiella.