Happy Mothers Day...

On Mother's Day, I often find myself thinking back to the days when I first become a mother. 

Everyone told me that it would be blissful. And they were right. They told me that it would be incredible. And it was. They told me that I would love this new little person in a way that was unlike any other love in my life. And I did.

But it turned out there was so much more to this journey than that.  In addition to all of the wonderful things other women couldn't wait to tell me about motherhood, there were all the things they didn't tell me. Maybe they had forgotten what those early days and weeks were like. Maybe it was different for them. 

Maybe they didn't want to scare me.

But in addition to being blissful, and incredible, and awe inspiring in terms of how much love I felt for this new person in my life, the beginning of my experience as a mother was, at times, also incredibly, unbelievably hard.

Hard, and exhausting, and absolutely mind boggling.

Who knew that this baby--this beautiful, chubby baby girl, could sleep so little? And eat so often? And cry for two hours at a time?

Who knew that nursing could be so hard that it would require seven different lactation consultants to come to my aid, before I ultimately deiced to ignore them and go home and wing it?

Winging it was actually what ended up working. When it came to nursing and a few other things, too. 

Most things, in fact.

Once we took our daughter home, we were disheartened to discover that, in spite of all the wonderful advice we'd gotten, in spite of the books we'd read, and in spite of the classes we'd taken, we were completely, utterly clueless when it came to caring for an actual baby.

And yet, we did just fine.

Eventually.

We learned that nursing wasn't such a problem for her, as long as we followed her lead. We learned that during her nightly two hours of screaming, time outside did wonders for all of us. Eventually, we even learned that she would sleep much better if we actually laid her down, instead of holding her for six hours at time.

I won't tell you at what point we realized this, because it would be incredibly embarrassing to admit, for example, that it wasn't until she was seven months old.

The point is, we learned, and we relaxed, and eventually, we even slept.

Three years later, we had a second child. Some things were easier this time. The sleep issue, for example, was much better--mainly because this time, we had no expectation that we would actually get any sleep. 

That turned out to be a good thing.

 Some things, however, were harder. I once left the baby on a mat on the floor, and jumped into the shower, thinking my husband would be home for a few more minutes. I came out to find my three year old kneeling over her wailing, red faced brother, inches from his face, screaming, "Just Stop Crying!"

Eventually, we all dried our tears, and I made a mental note to write my shower times--or days--on the calendar for my husband's future reference.

But again, we survived, and  two years later, we had a third child.

And now there are three. Our days are a whirlwind of school, and play dates, and homework, and dishes, and laundry, and diapers. And, of course, the grocery store. Where everyone knows my name. Or, at least my moniker, which I’m pretty sure is “That lady with those screaming kids”.

That chubby baby girl has grown into a long legged seven year old with a slight lisp thanks to two missing bottom teeth. She does her homework without being asked, and writes poetry, and does perfect cartwheels, and dances everywhere she goes.

She even sleeps through the night.

Her four year old brother, whose headstrong ways kept us quite frazzled for a few years, swore that he was never going to use the potty, or go to school, or make friends.

Now he does all three. Amazingly well, in fact. More importantly, he assures me that he will, in fact, love me forever, and will never, ever want to live anywhere else.

I suspect we'll both have different feelings about that at some point in the future.

Our two year old keeps me running, and laughing, and frustrated, as he gets into the dog food, and the peanut butter, and the toothpaste. Fortunately, he also loves to hug his mommy. 

When he's not filling the bathroom sink with toilet paper.

And yet, I will cherish these moments. Not every one of them. But enough of them.  Because I know they won’t last forever.

Most people seem to agree that motherhood is not for the weak of heart, and it is certainly not for those lacking a sense of humor. But we don’t talk much about who it is for. It’s apparently for those who don’t mind not showering for days at a time, who don’t mind wearing the same sweatpants three days in a row, and who accept that some days, adequate nutrition consists of four cups of coffee, two glasses of wine, cold mashed potatoes eaten while standing over the kitchen sink, and the crust from a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Not necessarily in that order.

It’s for those who know that their body is no longer their own. Who know that it’s possible for seven people to fondle your breasts in a three day period.  And not one of them is your husband. Who know that your body will not only nourish a baby through pregnancy and infancy, but that it will become a playground for a three year old who is fascinated with your “jelly belly”. 

 At least someone likes it.

It’s for those who know that with absolutely no effort on your part, you are forever emotionally connected to this other person. Their tears are your tears, and their triumphs your triumphs.  It’s also for those who know that a house you spent three hours cleaning can be trashed in under three minutes. For those who know that the dishes never end, and the laundry never ends, and the homework never ends. But the fleeting moments of childhood? They end all too soon.

It’s for those who know that you will take your first child to the doctor because she has a fever for two days (apparently 99.9 isn’t even really a fever), or because she smells like syrup (they laughed at me), or because you think she has worms (don’t ask),  but that your second child will be given Tylenol and watched for three days before the doctor is even called, and your third will be lucky to get to his well-child visits once a year.

It’s for those who know firsthand that motherhood, in all of its frustrating, mind numbing, exhausting glory, is not at all like the diaper commercials would have us believe. After all, they only show the baby after he’s been changed, with a woman who is obviously not his mother, since she has clearly had time to shower, brush her hair, apply make-up, and put on something besides her husband’s old t-shirt. (Which is probably dirty anyway, since no one has had time to do laundry in a week).

Motherhood is for those who know that some days, we still second guess ourselves.  And wonder what we have gotten ourselves into.  It’s for those who know that we’re not perfect. And that we’re just doing the best that we can. It’s for those who know that in a day, or a week, or a year, life can change in ways we never imagined, and rarely does it turn out exactly as we thought it would.  It’s for those who know that “miracle” is not the same as “perfection”.  And yet, that doesn’t make it any less of a miracle.

And it doesn’t make perfection any less of a myth.

It’s for those who now accept the peanut butter hand prints on the walls and puddles of syrup on the kitchen floor as part of the decor, in a house cluttered with broken crayons, and toys, and mismatched shoes. It’s for those who would like their house a little cleaner, their kids a little better behaved, and their bank account a little larger, but who know that none of these things will happen anytime soon.  

And that they will happen all too soon.

It’s for those who look into their children’s eyes and wonder where the time has gone, as they realize with gratitude that most of their parenting mistakes so far have somehow gone unnoticed, or at least unpunished.  And hopefully, undocumented.

Mostly, though, motherhood is for those who know that you don’t always have to know what you’re doing. You just have to keep doing it.  You don’t have to do it perfectly. Just the best you know how. You don’t have to love every moment.

You just have to find the moments that you love.

And cling to them.