The melancholy of parenting

Of COURSE everyone tells you how wonderful parenthood is. And they will also tell you how hard it is. The wonderfuls and the difficulties are obvious: the former comes when you gaze at your little creation sleeping soundly and cozily; the latter, when they're screaming and you can't determine why.
But there is something else that comes with parenthood -- something more profound and more difficult, sometimes, to bear than the worst temper tantrum. I think it's melancholy.

It starts the instant you find out you are pregnant. Something *snap!* changes; You Are A Parent, and you can never be the same. Whether that pregnancy results in a healthy baby, or in a miscarriage, or something in between, is immaterial. You've felt the tug, the pull, the ache that is the melancholy.
And immediately, you're forced to start letting go of this creation, this little essence you haven't even seen yet. You can take your vitamins, quit smoking, whatever else you can do... but that's all you can do. The main decisions: boy/girl, tall/short, gay/straight... those are beyond your power. (I suppose someday soon, with genetic selection, these will come into our control, but that's another story for another day.) So you let go.
And, if you are particularly blessed, those little essences get born and keep right on growing. They choose their own way right from the start -- they like this bottle over that one... they sleep, or they don't... they get attached to a blanky, or a stuffed dog...
And you start hearing love songs in a different way. You watch the news of all the dreadful things in the world, with new eyes. You listen, breath held, outside the door of that baby's room, weighing ever-so-carefully whether or not to open that door: you might wake the baby, but at least you'll be sure she's still breathing. And you let go, and learn to trust your baby to make some mistakes and learn along the way.

Someday something a little scary happens, and you're reminded of the fragility of life. Or something a LOT scary happens and all you can do is hug your baby tight and let your tears, and her tears, run together.
Last night I was driving home from picking Lucy up at Dee's and I drove past a guy pointing a gun at another guy on the sidewalk, just three blocks from our house. The police were just arriving and I could NOT get out of there fast enough. I didn't burst into tears until we were inside our garage. It was terrifying.
And it just.
Never.
Ends.

But you do learn to live with the constant fear and worry. It isn't always debilitating; it ebbs and flows. The other part of this melancholy is the guilt, the constant wondering which boils down to infinite permutations of "Am I doing too much or not enough?". Moms who work outside the home have to live with the fact that they sacrifice time with their children. Moms who stay home have to live with the fact that they're not contributing to the family income. And so, so many moms in the compromised space between don't have it any easier.
I try to draw a grid in my head to determine where the needs and wants intersect. (I should probably try paper.) X is money. Y is happiness. What's the critical mass, the perfect recipe? What's the right thing to do? Where's my Magic 8 Ball?
And the days slip by, and I keep plugging along... through projects and meetings, through toodling and feeding. I woke up the other day and Lucy was a little girl. One day, God willing, I'll wake up and she'll be a woman.
And I'll still be melancholy.