Spirited child, spirited mother

Embracing my own intensity again

I often write these posts at the library. I usually sneak there between errands to sit in the same spot for a blessed hour and see what comes. The other week, as I puzzled through a piece of writing, I scanned the shelf and was surprised when a new title jumped out at me— Raising Your Spirited Baby. 

I immediately grabbed it and started thumbing through. I had heard people refer to my daughter as “spirited” when she was baby, but I had no idea it was a literal category of child—replete with definitions, characteristics, and tendencies. As I read, I recognized her immediately. Persistent, determined, intense, perceptive, sensitive…more in a way that is sometimes hard to put a finger on, but always present.

As I read, I saw my child on every page. But I also saw myself.

Babyhood was hard on us. A lot of the things I imagined I’d be able to do just weren’t possible. I often looked on in awe as other mamas brought their babies out to picnics and chatted as the little one rolled around in the sunshine until they fell asleep.

In contrast, for us, car rides were brutal. The transition from inside to outside was often too intense to be attempted. And sleep was hard won— Every. Single. Time.

I often had moments of melting down, but even in my hardest times I didn’t ask why, because I knew why…

My daughter was spirited because her mama is spirited—and the deeper I go into the experience of mothering the more I recognize the truth of my own spirit.

I wasn’t an “easy” child. My mom often likes to joke that she didn’t sleep through the night for ten years.