Previously, my monthly newsletter had a section called "Your Monthly Baby" where I showcased a picture of my growing son. Now that he is not a baby, I write something about parenting instead. Subscribe to receive next month's essay along with book and music recommendations.
I am what's clinically called a "headache girlie," also a "tummyache girlie," albeit less relevant to the story, as the point is that I got my first migraine when I was about nine years old and I have wrestled with headaches for what has essentially been my entire life. I am fortunate to not need to be medicated for my migraines, in that to some degree they can be managed with over-the-counter medicines—I know for many people this is not the case. But suffice it to say there is a lot going on in my brain most of the time and it is truly chaotic. I don't know any authors for which this does not also apply.
What I didn't realize until much later in life is that apparently not everybody gets headaches. Crazy, right? Sounds like a myth. But I've observed this to be true because over the course of our thirteen years together, Mr. Blake has only had one headache total whereas I have had probably one a week on average. And slightly more significantly, another person who doesn't get headaches is my mom.
My mom has always been wary of gratuitous use of medication. For this reason, the first time I ever took anything for a headache was on an eighth grade class trip to Disneyland, when I assumed that the oncoming pulse behind my eyes was going to ruin things for me unequivocally. Then an adult chaperone offered me my very first dose of Ibuprofen, and I understood with a sort of heavenly clarity that suffering was actually optional to some extent. I proceeded to have a very fun trip, and gradually, once my sister proved to also be a headache girlie about nine years after I did, we convinced my mother that we were not, in fact, making this shit up and actually did need to be medicated in order to make our way through our lives without pain.
Later in life—way later—like, very recently—like, honestly, so recently it's almost a weird joke—my mother experienced a headache. According to her, she took to her bed for the entire day to cope. "Is that what it feels like for you all the time?" she said with a sort of awe. Let me remind you, I've now been experiencing migraines for a quarter of a century. So I think I was pretty charitable by simply confirming that yes, headaches really are that bad, and yes, I was experiencing pain the entire time that I was expected to power through it.
But this isn't really a story about my mom. Actually, this is a mea culpa.
I recently took my son to the dentist for the fourth time in his sweet young life. He hates the dentist with a severity I find, I'll be honest, extreme. Previously he has screamed so hard he's burst blood vessels around his eyes. I thought possibly this one would go easier, because he's older and does many things now without screaming, and I prepped him as much as possible in advance. I told him we would do two un-fun things (get our flu shots and go to the dentist) and then two fun things (a trip to the science museum to ride in a spaceship and some ice cream). He took the flu shot like a champ, no complaints. He even thanked the nurse for his shot and told me it was time for the dentist. The entire time leading up to the dentist, I really thought things might go okay.
I was wrong.
There was obviously screaming. There was wriggling and multiple counts of attempted escape. There was thrashing. There was vomit directly into my bare hands multiple times as he attempted to scrape the tooth polish off his tongue and failed. There was refusal to swallow the tooth polish, and therefore there was excessive drool. There was utter refusal to calm down or drink anything. It all got to be so much that I think my frustration was very, very visible on my face.
"Some kids just have sensory issues," the dentist said, fretfully.
"I know, it's just that he's never like this except for at the dentist," I argued, and then I stopped.
Because, dear reader, as you probably know because I keep beating you over the head with it: my son is extremely measured and intuitive and kind. He's not a big tantrumer. Certainly he has his moments! He's not a sleeper, for one thing, and he has little frustrating eccentricities that are... (watch me calculate this like the algebra lady meme)... sensory related. He doesn't like to change his clothes, which I've never understood except to estimate from context that it has something to do with temperature change. And he apparently really doesn't like whatever happens inside his mouth at the dentist, which must be related to the tooth polish, because he lets me brush his teeth for the full two minutes every day and he lets me floss his teeth at night, too.
Which is when I realized: Well, fuck. Something is happening with my son's body that I obviously don't experience myself and can't relate to. But I don't have to understand it to treat it as real. He's never given me any reason to doubt that whatever he's experiencing is untenable to him in some way. Similarly, I don't think I'd given my mom any reason to doubt me when I said my head hurt. So how might things have been easier for me to bear if my mom had trusted my experience to dictate how she should respond?
I think there's too much therapy speak out there about breaking cycles or whatever it is that's en vogue right now. Parenting trends can be so stupid. The answer to almost everything I see on the internet is that I should get off the internet and throw my phone away. Ultimately we're all trying our best. And I know that normally I conclude with some kind of generalized point to make this relevant to something bigger than just my singular experience with my son, but as I come to the end of the year with the weight of the election on my back and my sense of dread about the future, I find myself thinking a lot in an existential way about what trying my best actually means.
For the record, he still has to go to the dentist. It's once every six months, he'll survive. But how I respond to his experience has to change because I am capable of it. Change. Maybe someday he'll get over whatever this feeling is that bothers him so much, or maybe he'll be able to articulate it in a way that we can both substantively address. Change! He is full of it, and ultimately that's half the magic, half the curse. But whether he does or doesn't, I am not stagnant and I can prove it. I will prove it.
Bring on 2025. I am not afraid to be tested, for I have plans to grow.