motherhood

Seven years ago, on the first of July, I was standing in my soon-to-be baby’s nursery, heart aflutter with both excitement and trepidation. The first day of July meant that it was only one month until August, and the arrival of August meant the arrival of motherhood. It was my dream, my destiny, coming into fruition. Motherhood was happening earlier than I had imagined, my (now) husband and I were still newly engaged and living in a tiny apartment, but I didn’t care about any of that. Soon, I would have a brand-new little soul nestled into my arms.

I was filled with anticipation, optimism, and a profound sense of responsibility; the kind of hopefulness new mothers feel swelling from deep within their soul until the lump in their throat is too much to contain, and the tears of gratitude spill over, cascading across a smile wide enough to light the night sky.

Soon, oh-so-very soon, I was going to change the world by raising a world changer.

That first year was a whirlwind of joy. First latch and milk-drunk sleep; first adorable tooth and baby puree; first grin and giggle, roll and crawl and step. All of those firsts made up one of the happiest times of my life. I have thousands of pictures to prove my enamored delight, and look back at them with tender admiration. Every first he achieved was a first for me, too. The first time I cried in the night, wondering if I was enough. The first fever and ER visit, which left me reeling from the weight of my love, the awful possibility of ever losing him. The first time I understood what it meant to truly live my life for someone other than myself. That first year was the year I learned to be a mother.

The first year of motherhood, when love hits you hard.
The first year of motherhood, when love hits you hard.

There were hours upon hours of reading books and sitting on sidewalks to observe a ladybug’s plight, a blade of grass swaying in the breeze. There was a tiny, babbling voice filling our apartment, an infectious laugh that we never knew we needed to feel truly alive. There I stood, before my one and only child, giving myself to him eagerly and entirely, captivated by his every move.

Those were the days when motherhood felt wildly alive with an electric current of possibility, fueling the fire which kept me moving through exhaustion and uncertainty.

Those were the days of firsts and more firsts, before the somber sorrow of the firsts turning into lasts filled my heart, as it is has now, all these years and two more children later.

Please, don’t get me wrong, my hearts beats fiercely and equally for all three of my children. Each time my belly swelled with the blessing of another sibling, so did my capacity to love. But I can’t help but think, especially in the rare and stolen moments when I catch myself gazing at my infant daughter, have I lost my sense of wonder?

In these seven years of mothering, have I misplaced the joy?

I can hear it in my voice, which used to be so gentle, as I catch the sharps commands hurled at my older boys.

I can sense it in the hurried way I bustle their baby sister from one place to another; this frantic woman, once so intentionally calm and purposefully present.

I can feel it when I say that one book before bed is enough. The ladybug on the sidewalk will have to wait. The finger-paints must remain on the shelf. Mama is just too tired today.

It burns sharply when I answer a phone call, exasperated by the chaos under my feet, the baby crying at my hip, and I hear my best friend’s voice waver, “I’m still not pregnant.” She has been ready for seven years.

I can taste it in the salt of my tears, crying in the solitude of the night, when I find myself recalling the new mother I studied at the library. I watched her, her smile wide with understanding, as she sat beside her toddler, enthralled by every baby-rambled word.

I cry because I once was her; I cry because I have forgotten.

I have forgotten the way in which I held my blossoming belly with deep reverence, wondering who I might have the honor of raising.

I have forgotten the way that little hands and little minds can turn the simplest moment into an adventure worth taking.

I have forgotten that the hundreds of “why’s” and millions of interruptions are born from the very curiosity which once taught me to remember that this world is alive with amazement.

I have forgotten how deeply I have always longed to be a mother; forgotten that this is a treasure denied to so many.

In my full hands, in my hurry, I have forgotten that the past seven years have been the very best of my life.

We were sitting beneath the fireworks when I remembered. My beautiful baby girl nursing in my lap, content amongst the fervor, my three-year-old boy mesmerized by the colors, and my almost seven-year-old big boy snuggled into my side. Reaching out to hold my hand, I felt him relaxing into my body. I breathed in the scent of his hair, so different now from the softly intoxicating, infant smell his baby sister radiates. Giggling with delight, echoing the “ooohs” and “wows” of his little brother, as the spectacle shimmered above us in the sky.

I remembered that July seven years ago, when our hearts were still beating side-by-side, and I would lay awake in the night, wondering who he might become. Now here he was: becoming. That July was a lifetime ago; it was only yesterday.

“Can we stay here all night?” his sweet little brother asked, grinning into the sky.

“Can we live here?” was my dear oldest one’s reply.

Beneath the red and blue and gold, beneath the lighted sky, I knew exactly what they meant: I wanted to hold on to my gratitude. I wanted to stop the time.

When you feel the joy is seeping out, when the firsts are rapidly passing you by, when seven years upon seven years escapes before you can even absorb it with your weary mind, this is when you should pause to behold the wonder, as our children do each year beneath those beautiful explosions in the sky.

Motherhood is exhausting

When motherhood has left you spent, when it’s hard to find your smile, this is when you must look deeply into your children’s unchanged eyes.

Remember, just how it felt to see them looking into yours for the very first, blessed time — your first glimpse of motherhood. That joy you felt then still lives within you now. That happiness will not ever pass you by.

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