Poot and Cubby

There are as many nights as days, and the one is just as long as the other in the year’s course. Even a happy life cannot be without a measure of darkness, and the word ‘happy’ would lose its meaning if it were not balanced by sadness.

-Carl Jung

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I don’t know how it started. It’s something I do without even realizing it. Like many moms, I kiss my kid’s owees (anyone know how to spell that?) Now if I forget, Elliot calls me on it. When she injures herself she quickly flings the afflicted body part towards my face and commands, “Kiss it!” So I do. The crying immediately ceases and she says, “All better.” Other times, like in the mornings when she’s not sure why she’s sad, a hug is in order. When the healing hug is complete she’ll tell me, “Mommy hug me. I all done crying. All better now.”

Now she is starting to return the favor. She’s my little shaman. Yesterday, while making dinner I was seized by a mighty muscle cramp that extended up my upper leg and into my ass (am I the only one who gets an unwelcome shock when she realizes that her butt even has muscles?) Overcome with concern, she marched her furrow-browed face over to her frozen mother and planted a kiss squarely on my ass. “I kiss. All better now.”

I love this cause-and-effect reasoning and this belief in the magical powers of the almighty kiss. You kiss it. It heals. No stitches. No prescription drugs. No surgery. I got all teary as this moment replayed itself in my head. I wish it really were true that there will never be a time when Elliot has a hurt so big and complex that a kiss won’t heal it (when she worries that she’s not smart/pretty/funny/skinny/good enough; when some asshat dumps her for no reason; when she fails at something that she tried really hard for; when someone she loves dies; or any of the other awful things that will inevitably happen).

I wish someone could explain to the world that Elliot’s belief about kisses is real. This past week, one of my sister’s close friends died. As often happens, I had no idea what to say, but, “I’m sorry.” I’d kiss your heart better if I could, Jen (or I would lend you my wee shaman if I thought it would help).

Just as I was thinking about all this sadness, I read this. Poor Jenn at BEAM (as eloquent as ever even while suffering what sounds like a crippling bout of depression) made me cry again. If only everyone’s virtual hugs and kisses could turn off whatever it is in her brain that is making her so sad. I wish it were that easy to pull her – and anyone else that is there – out of that dark place. She’s a brave person for even admitting that this place exists. Many mothers, including myself, fear we will disappoint or freak out our loved ones if we slip out of our roles of chipper caregivers and admit that sometimes we’re sad too.

Now that I’ve depressed myself (and you – sorry about that), I’m off to give Elliot a cuddle and try not to let my intense gratitude for her innocence knock me off my feet. And I’ll try not to get sad again when I think about how this brief time when she believes that the most painful thing possible is a cat-scratch or a knee-scrape, will soon be over.