When N was a baby, she did not sleep all that well. And so, of course, neither did I. And I discovered that I am not quite at my best when I have gone without real sleep for days or weeks at a time. I was exhausted and hormonal and probably slightly depressed, and though I was incredibly grateful that I got to be her mother, I was just.so.tired. And yet, all around me, when people would see N in her eight-month-old cuteness, they would go on and on about what an absolutely wonderful stage it was. And sometimes it was. Smiles, babbling, playing patt-a-cake, crawling. Sometimes, though, it wasn't. Teething, crying, clinging, not yet sleeping through the night. Aren't they supposed to be sleeping through the night by eight months? Sometimes--most days perhaps- it was a wonderful stage and a not so wonderful stage, at the very same time. But no one ever said that. They only said how absolutely amazing it was.
I'm thinking that the vast majority of these people had children long past N's stage of development. Coincidence? They say that time heals all wounds. Does it also help us forget that our babies cried for the first 9 months of their lives? Or never slept for more than three hours at a time? Or wanted to eat every half an hour until they were six months old? Or maybe their children's infancies just weren't as much of a struggle for them as N's sometimes was for me. Maybe their babies were better sleepers. Maybe they were just better parents. Maybe they were taking incredibly high doses of xanax. Whatever the reason, it seemed that no one was talking about how hard this motherhood thing could be at times.
On a couple of occasions, when I had a brave moment, I actually said, out loud, "Some days this is so hard" and the responses I got were along the lines of "No! This stage isn't hard! This stage is fun! Hard comes later". While I could appreciate that maybe their experiences had just been different than mine, I also couldn't help but feel that I had broken some rule of motherhood by speaking, out loud, that sometimes it wasn't all sunshine and roses. Why wasn't I allowed to say that it was hard? Did they think I was complaining? Well, I was I guess, but about the difficult parts, not about motherhood in general. So, I started keeping my mouth shut, and wondered why no one else ever thought it was hard--or at least why no one felt that they could say it was hard. I fully agreed with those who talked about what a joy and blessing it was. But inside, I longed to hear someone also acknowledge what a struggle it could be. Honestly.
And then, we went to the grocery store one day when things had started to seem a little easier, when we were sleeping more at night, and therefore having better days, on a day when it wasn't really bothering me that N was grabbing at everything, and wanting me to hold her, and getting fussy. A woman who was also shopping looked at me, smiled, and said not unkindly "Wow, I am SO glad I'm long past that stage. It's so hard." I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to ask her where she'd been six months--or six weeks--earlier. I wanted to ask her to go have a cup of coffee with me. I wanted to ask her to be my best friend. Instead, I just smiled and headed for the baby care aisle, where I spent so much of my time those days.
The irony is that, on that day, I didn't particularly want to be past that stage, in spite of the fact that it was often hard. At that point, I wanted to have another baby and do that stage--and those before it-- all over again. But not because it wasn't hard. In spite of the fact that it was. Nevertheless, I was so incredibly grateful for this woman's honesty and willingness to say out loud that it could be hard, that six years later, I can still tell you exactly what she looked like.
So, in the name of honesty and solidarity, I just want to say: today was hard. There were parts of it that, given the choice, I wouldn't really chose to repeat. I changed too many diapers. I broke up too many fights. I found B feeding O my diet Pepsi. I had a crappy mommy moment when I realized that O had 3 new bumps on his head...one from a brother, one from the floor, and one from the piano. I got disgusted when I thought of how many times I had cleaned the same area of the house only to have it trashed 20 minutes later. I got depressed when I thought of how much laundry I do, and how it never all gets put away. I got tired of B fighting with me when its nap time and again when we have five minutes to get out the door to pick up N from school. I got tired of rushing all the time. So yes, much of today was a struggle.
But you know what? It was also a really good day. I got to be the one to break up the fights. I got to be the one to kiss the three new bumps, and see for myself that there was no blood. I got to read B a book at nap time. I got to pick up N from school, and hear her talk for a hundred minutes about the 100th day of school. It wasn't all sunshine and roses. Like every other day, it was messy and loud and exhausting. And when I think about changing more diapers tomorrow, or doing more laundry, or cleaning the kitchen floor yet again, I am very aware of the struggle. I don't particularly want to do any of those things again tomorrow. But, God willing, I also get to read B another book, and give O another kiss, and pick up N from school. And those things, I would do a thousand times over.
So I guess if I have to deal with the hard parts to get the good parts, then so be it. It doesn't mean it's not hard. It doesn't mean it's not sometimes a struggle. It just means that the struggle, in the end, is worth it. Honestly.
Sleep definately makes it all better. Mine, as you know, never slept through the night until I stopped nursing them, at a year. I have to say, the day is so much better after a full nights' sleep. These days, when I've exhausted all my patience, I just know...go to bed. It will all be better in the morning.
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