| “I Don’t Think I Can Do This” by Kathryn Renick Winter 2008 |
Squatting, head down, hands stretched across the bed holding my husband’s so tightly I could
hear the bones crackle, grunting with the effort of riding wave after wave of tsunami-like
contractions I hissed, “I don’t think I can do this” – give birth, I meant. But of course several
hours later with the assistance of forceps and painkillers (definitely NOT in my birth plan) my
son was born.
Several weeks later on a particularly blue day I recall gazing down in the cradle at my tiny son
who had finally knit more than 5 minutes of sleep together. His cherubic face, so calm in repose
tore at my heart. “I don’t think I can do this” – have total responsibility for nurturing and guiding
this fragile being, I meant. But the blues mostly went away and I began to have more
confidence and enjoyment in my new mother-role.
During his fourth year I believe my son spent more hours in his room in time-out than
elsewhere. I remember standing in the hall, feet braced against his door holding onto the
doorknob with all my might while he exerted almost equal pressure on the other side. In the
moment when I willed my brain to block out his screaming tantrum I thought to myself, “I don’t
think I can do this” – keep my cool, be rational, come up with a plan, I meant. But this stage also
passed and though I certainly wasn’t always cool, rational or possessed of a plan, we muddled
through.
At fifteen I got a call from the police – “We have your son here on charges of possession of
alcohol. Could you please come down to the station?” As the officer relayed the events to my
numb brain and asked me what I felt he should do given the extenuating circumstances – the
death of my husband a month before – I thought, “I don’t think I can do this” – be a single mom
to my teenaged son, I meant. But of course, I had no choice.
Over the next 6 years there were many times when I truly wasn’t sure if I could “do it” – be a
good parent to the son who seemed so bent on his own destruction. But we weathered
emergency room visits, more calls from police, sessions with therapists, bicycle injuries too
numerous to mention and an accident that resulted in five broken bones and a close call so
close that had he been a cat he most surely would be dead.
Last week I bought my son his first suit. It was a big deal - not in the choosing and tailoring, not
in the fact that he looked so handsome in it – but because it was important to him to look good
for the wedding he was attending with his new girlfriend. It was important to him because she
was important to him. I could see it in the new haircut, the polished manners, the care he took
in explaining to me that she was special, a long-term relationship. And I could see that she was
and how this colored his talk about the future, a topic he had always scorned.
As I left his house that night he hugged me tight and told me he loved me. Driving away I felt
tears slide down my face and I thought, “I don’t think I can do this” – get my hopes up, believe
that it really is going to be okay, I meant. But of course, I have no choice.
Kathryn Renick, mother to a son, step-mother to a daughter, and nana to 2 and 5 year old
grandaughters lives in Loveland but splends an inordinate amount of time crossing the
continent between a cabin in Michigan and cottage in Nova Scotia. She has just become an
American citizen so look out at the polls come election time!!
hear the bones crackle, grunting with the effort of riding wave after wave of tsunami-like
contractions I hissed, “I don’t think I can do this” – give birth, I meant. But of course several
hours later with the assistance of forceps and painkillers (definitely NOT in my birth plan) my
son was born.
Several weeks later on a particularly blue day I recall gazing down in the cradle at my tiny son
who had finally knit more than 5 minutes of sleep together. His cherubic face, so calm in repose
tore at my heart. “I don’t think I can do this” – have total responsibility for nurturing and guiding
this fragile being, I meant. But the blues mostly went away and I began to have more
confidence and enjoyment in my new mother-role.
During his fourth year I believe my son spent more hours in his room in time-out than
elsewhere. I remember standing in the hall, feet braced against his door holding onto the
doorknob with all my might while he exerted almost equal pressure on the other side. In the
moment when I willed my brain to block out his screaming tantrum I thought to myself, “I don’t
think I can do this” – keep my cool, be rational, come up with a plan, I meant. But this stage also
passed and though I certainly wasn’t always cool, rational or possessed of a plan, we muddled
through.
At fifteen I got a call from the police – “We have your son here on charges of possession of
alcohol. Could you please come down to the station?” As the officer relayed the events to my
numb brain and asked me what I felt he should do given the extenuating circumstances – the
death of my husband a month before – I thought, “I don’t think I can do this” – be a single mom
to my teenaged son, I meant. But of course, I had no choice.
Over the next 6 years there were many times when I truly wasn’t sure if I could “do it” – be a
good parent to the son who seemed so bent on his own destruction. But we weathered
emergency room visits, more calls from police, sessions with therapists, bicycle injuries too
numerous to mention and an accident that resulted in five broken bones and a close call so
close that had he been a cat he most surely would be dead.
Last week I bought my son his first suit. It was a big deal - not in the choosing and tailoring, not
in the fact that he looked so handsome in it – but because it was important to him to look good
for the wedding he was attending with his new girlfriend. It was important to him because she
was important to him. I could see it in the new haircut, the polished manners, the care he took
in explaining to me that she was special, a long-term relationship. And I could see that she was
and how this colored his talk about the future, a topic he had always scorned.
As I left his house that night he hugged me tight and told me he loved me. Driving away I felt
tears slide down my face and I thought, “I don’t think I can do this” – get my hopes up, believe
that it really is going to be okay, I meant. But of course, I have no choice.
Kathryn Renick, mother to a son, step-mother to a daughter, and nana to 2 and 5 year old
grandaughters lives in Loveland but splends an inordinate amount of time crossing the
continent between a cabin in Michigan and cottage in Nova Scotia. She has just become an
American citizen so look out at the polls come election time!!