My son was a happy baby, but he wasn’t an easy baby. In utero, he used to move his body towards my midwife’s hands during every exam. “You’ve got a snuggler in there,” she’d say and I’d beam with pride. Out of the womb he proved my midwife right. If he was in my arms, he’d coo and smile better than any Gerber baby. But if I dared put him in a swing, Johnny jump up, or exersaucer, he’d cry after a mere minute or two. As for his crib, that became storage for clothes and toys. And my breasts were no longer mine, they were on demand for his soothing and nourishment every couple of hours.
This exacerbated me to the point of often screaming, “I can’t take this!” at two, three, and/or four in the morning. But I did take it, because that’s what mothers do. Being a first time mother meant I didn’t have a reference point to my son’s demeanor or needs. In many ways, his needs were simple: he needed me. When he had that, he was full of giggles and baby babbles. His face lit up every time he looked at me, even when I was by his side all day and night. This unadulterated love softened the burden of being on demand twenty-four hours a day.
Once the nursing was over and he finally started to sleep through the night, I thought my life would become easier. And in many ways it did. Having use of both of my arms again and being able to work or go out with a friend for a few hours in a row felt like miracles. My son remained cheery, sweet, and talkative throughout his toddlerhood and preschool years, but he also grew more serious and anxious. At times, I couldn’t help have the sense that he still wanted to be back in my womb, where everything was warm, quiet, and peaceful.
I knew he was a sensitive child and unlike most boys in his love of younger children and his refusal to play war, army, or anything to do with weapons or capturing of things or people. “Unless all we’re going to do is study them and then release them,” he’d tell his friends, who would then look at me with exasperation. I knew he was different, but for the most part I appreciated these differences. But at times, I worried about his sensitive nature, his need to always be with me or his sister, his inability to put himself back to sleep when he woke in the middle of the night, and the underlying worry I saw on his face. What did a six (seven and now eight) year old have to worry about?
His anxiety increased when he began Kindergarten, so I transferred him to a quiet Montessori school. It increased again before my divorce, when he knew something was amiss but didn’t have a name for it, but subsided once we told him what was happening and how it was going to play out. I asked his teachers at conferences if he seemed nervous and anxious and they would reassure me that he was a happy, cheerful participant in class. “He likes to do well and wants to know exactly what is expected of him, but he gets along with the other students and is generally a delight.” I wanted to believe them, so I stuffed my concerns and told myself he was fine.
But deep down, I knew he wasn’t. And I knew if I didn’t do something to help him his genes on both sides of the family were packed with depression and anxiety, so it was very likely he would become so too. The problem was, I didn’t know how to help him. I reached out to his teachers and father, but they didn’t know how to help him either.
After years of considering it, but negating the urge, I started researching child psychologists. In the past, I told myself I was his mother, I should be able to help him, but I was now ready to release that responsibility. I had also been afraid that seeing a therapist would cause him to feel bad about himself, as if something was wrong with him, but both his father and I had been seeing a therapist for years, so I felt comfortable that my son would perceive it as normal and helpful, rather than shameful. My final hurdle was the fear that the therapist wouldn’t understand my son. Being on DSHS limited my choices and most of the clinicians’ websites talked about more severe cases of troubled youth than my son. I was worried that they would negate our needs and problems or not have time for us, but I was willing to take the risk so I called an office near us.
A couple of days later a woman called from the office to gather some information about us. After stating no to several “is he at risk for hurting himself or others” type of questions, I started to doubt myself again. She sensed this and said, “It is a great thing that you are doing something to help your son now. I am going to make sure we find the right person on our team to work with what sounds like his very bright and sensitive nature.” I thanked her and carried on with my day not fully understanding the magnitude of what I had just done.
The following evening I burst into tears for no apparent reason. I tried to explain it to my boyfriend, but all I could come up with is, “I keep seeing my son in my mind, so I know it’s about him, but I don’t know why.”
“Do you need to?” he asked.
“Yeah, I want to understand it so I can move through it.”
“Maybe all you need to know is grief is moving out so joy can move in.”
“Maybe,” I said, but being overly analytical, I didn’t really believe him.
The following week my son and I went to his first therapist appointment. It was one of the first sunny days of spring and in many ways, I wished we were going to a park rather than an office. “Can’t we be through with the hard times,” I thought to myself. “I’m ready for the days when we’re all well-adjusted and skipping through meadows of daisies.” I knew in order to get there, we had to go through some more rain and mud first, so I continued driving to the office.
The appointment was mainly asking questions again and filling out forms, but she echoed what the previous woman had said about it being a very good thing that I was addressing this problem now and how special my son was. And again, two days later I burst into tears. But this time I knew why I was crying: it was due to relief. Relief to have finally been able to admit that I needed help and even better, having found a person who validated this need who I trusted could help us in ways I wasn’t skilled in. It was probably the first time as a mother that I had come across one of my children’s needs that I wasn’t able to meet. But rather than continue to feel bad about this, I felt enormous gratitude and pride not only for finding the therapist, but for myself for letting go of being everything for my kids. Because letting go and trusting other people is the only way we are going to be able to get to those sun filled daisies.

Corbin Lewars is the author of Creating a Life: The memoir of a writer and mom in the making, which has been nominated for the 2011 PNBA and Washington State book awards. Her essays have been featured in over twenty-five publications including Mothering and Hip Mama. She has been a writing coach and instructor for over fifteen years and currently sees clients in the old Carnegie Library Building in Ballard. Contact her for details.