Crying after making love

           “It’s been a long time since you cried after making love.” Andy noticed this the other night. 

            It took him by surprise, the first time I wept—and the next and the next. “Uh,” he’d wonder. “Is everything all right? I mean––” Being a man, he was naturally concerned about his performance.  

            He didn’t understand why I’d release like that, my ecstasy turned so suddenly, and thoroughly, to agony. Just part of my process, I told him. Grieving the loss of my boys—well, a fifty percent loss. He argued that the boys were fine, but my limbic brain tuned into the boys’ absence despite my neocortex’s insistence that all was well, that they were safe, and I so happy in love.

           

            It made sense to me—or at least that’s how my body made sense of things. My grief when the boys weren’t with me was always there. Deep, in the middle of my brain, in the place where I am a mammal, where it is imperative to touch my pups, to nuzzle and cuddle them, to herd them and teach them and always, always, have my eye on them, there was a disconnect when they were not there.

            Oxytocin (released during orgasm, childbirth, and breastfeeding) is a neuropeptide that is sometimes referred to as the “love hormone.”* Science is currently investigating oxytocin’s role in various behaviors, including social recognition, pair bonding, anxiety, and maternal behaviours. 2011 evidence suggests that oxytocin promotes 'tribal' behaviour, incorporating the trust and empathy of in-groups with their suspicion and rejection of outsiders.** Certainly we must recognize that our biochemistry plays a role in the feelings and behaviours of motherhood, perhaps parenthood.

            We’ve all heard of the mother bear syndrome, and most people—women and men—have experienced the change that comes with motherhood. Priorities shift, focus sharpens, attentiveness changes: most women immediately bond intensely with the infant and channel the majority of their energy into care giving. Many men feel left out in the beginning. The mother-child bond is mysterious, intense, and hard-wired. How each family unit manages this shift and how couples transition in and out of early parenting often predicts sustainability or breakdown of their marriage

“Does my child need me?” A woman I know is trying to do what is right for her two-year-old. “Or is it that I need her?” She and her ex are currently navigating the waters of parenting after separation. “Is she fine with her dad fifty-fifty right off the bat? Or is it better for her to be with mom more?”

            What good questions. Questions that require the heart of Buddha, the wisdom of Solomon and the genius of Einstein to answer.

            What is the truth?

            When I asked my boys—now seven and ten—this question the other day, I received interesting answers. Secundo said it should be fifty-fifty. “That’s fair,” he said. Primo looked inwards: “A kid needs his mom more,” he counseled. “Because she knows how to take better care of a young child.” Is that his experience? Or is that a universal?

            We know that primate infants taken away from their mothers (how terrible) prefer an inanimate surrogate covered with soft cloth more than a wire structure. We see that orphaned infants raised in sterile conditions with no loving physical contact or attachment develop more poorly and show anti-social behaviours when they grow up. In short, mammal babies need a primary caregiver with whom they can bond physically and emotionally.

            In the legal system there is no presumption in favour of equal parenting. It is something that couples must negotiate. It is the one piece I was stuck on, and the sole point for which we sought legal guidance: I did not want fifty-fifty to start; the boys were one and four when we separated, Secundo a baby and still breastfeeding, Primo accustomed to my care. We settled on a seventy-thirty arrangement, working toward fifty-fifty by the time Secundo was full-time school age.

            The trend toward participatory fathers is increasing. No longer does father’s role end at sperm donation. Now the meaning of father includes actually raising his child, and taking care of all its needs, not only the financial.

Societal trends also show that the age at which children experience their parents’ separation is becoming steadily and increasingly lower. So if we combine these two trends with our forty-five percent divorce rate, we will see children receive more and more primary care from their fathers, care that includes the child’s physical, mental, emotional and spiritual health.

Fathers can do this. They may do it differently. But they are certainly capable, and as a society we can only benefit from the strengthening of this trend. However, it’s still up to each individual couple to sort this out. And in this case, it will be the meek who inherit the earth. For with the emphasis on consensual joint parenting and agreement rather than conflict, it is the emotionally intelligent who wield the power, and who can design the structure that works best for all involved.

            So, what’s the answer? Who should have more care and custody of the children, the mother or the father? Well, has the father willingly participated in childcare since birth? Has he been parenting 24/7? Has he taken equal responsibility in those early months and years? Can he handle the responsibility of the care of a young child (or children)? Does he want to do it?

I know women (and I myself was on this edge) neurotic about taking care of their children. Perhaps they are (over) compensating for their own childhoods (as I did), but I must tell you that my instinct and experience of mothering is right up there with any peak experience I have had, including meeting and mating, and is powerfully joyful, satisfying, pleasurable, and transcendent.

To have that taken away because the partnership that created the children deteriorated, that triggered—and still does—my grief.

Wait, you say, the children are not exactly taken away. You still have them some, or even a lot, of the time.

Yes, that’s true. But you must agree, there is loss. And not only are the children not with me, but they are with the person that I have decided I cannot live with.

You’ve got to see the difficulty in that—and the irony. The two adults who cannot live together must let go of their child/ren into the care of each other—to live with, to bond with, to love and adore and depend upon, and to need and miss and to look forward to being with.

Seriously, folks, this is not easy. Just try it some time.

What we need to do in this situation is to draw upon or develop self-esteem, tolerance, acceptance, super-excellent communication skills, respect, trust, and a really, really good sense of humour. We need to believe, as Kahlil Gibran (a childless man) wrote, “Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself. They come through you but not from you, and though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.”

            We need to trust that our children will find their own way through the world. Yes, we must provide for them, guide, assist and nurture them. And we must also let go of controlling their lives. They have their own destinies to fulfill.

So, why was I crying after making love? It happened again just the other day. I miss them, dammit. I just don't like it when my kids are not with me. Will I miss something important? A new word or concept? An epiphany or new development? A turn of phrase, an emerging facet of their psyche, a growth spurt? Will they not get what they need? Or will they? Will he do something better than I do? Will they like his cooking better than mine? Or his Christmas presents? Or possibly (probably) the tidiness of his house?

I, who reveled and succeeded in being the provider of life, the goddess of creation, life support, and chief translator and first responder, must now let go of those roles and that identity in which I find so much satisfaction and pleasure.

I have to believe they are fine when they’re not with me. I have to trust that they get what they need, and that if I pay attention next time they’re with me, I won’t have missed a thing.

Maybe I’m just a suck, or maybe after orgasm there is a primal release where my grief and longing infuse with the ecstasy and transcendence of sex and I begin to see, finally, the miracle of this opportunity which provides space for me to integrate all my identities. I become mother, partner, friend, sister—me!—someone whole, with neural decks cleared and heart open.  

*http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oxytocin

**De Dreu CK, Greer LL, Van Kleef GA, Shalvi S, Handgraaf MJ (Proc. Natl. Acad. Sci. U.S.A. 108 (4): 1262–6. January 2011).