Before I became one, I had a definite misconception about what it meant to be a mom. I supposed that it involved relaxing at home with little ones who were compliant because I disciplined them well, dressing in cute clothes that I bought with money my husband earned at a secure job, living in a good school district and happily handing the kiddos off to their teachers when the time came, letting my kids run the neighborhood because I could trust them (and everyone else) to follow my rules, preparing gourmet dinners while my children played blissfully with Legos and never asked to watch TV (or dumped said legos out in a giant heap on the middle of the living room floor), getting plenty of sleep, and reading good books. As a secondary teacher, I acknowledged that there might be a few years where the stress would increase a bit, but mostly parenthood was going to be a welcome respite from the nonstop worry of school, work, and the challenges of learning to live on my own. I was a brave early twenty-something, and eventually I would hang up my big girl pants and retreat to the safety of mommyhood. I. HAD. NO. CLUE.
Pregnancy was my first indication that my assumptions were slightly incorrect. Even with meds, I vomited with various levels of severity, from week six, day one until I delivered the baby. EVEN DURING DELIVERY! I must have skipped that chapter in What to Expect, because I didn’t. When I was fourteen weeks, a friend lost her pregnancy at sixteen weeks, well past what the books told me could happen. Suddenly this whole pregnancy thing felt very fragile, and sort of selfish. Why did it happen to her and not me? What was to say it wouldn’t happen to me? At thirty weeks, my precious dad was diagnosed with aggressive leukemia. I had assumed he’d never die. When I was thirty-six weeks, he did.
My expectations were shattered. The impossible could happen, and it could happen to me. When my oldest was born four weeks later, I tried to sigh with relief, but I couldn’t. Everything was terrifying. My colicky firstborn screamed when he ate, screamed in his crib, screamed in the car, and even screamed when I held him. The clothes that weren’t covered in fresh spit up and (occasionally) poop were covered in stains from spit-up and poop. I was exhausted and gutted and I did not handle the sleepless nights with grace and peace. I cried and screamed and wondered what I had done to my life. It was then that I realized motherhood is not a respite. It is not a relief. Motherhood demands the highest form of courage.
No matter how you arrived at this place, it took guts. Adoptive moms don’t know for sure that birth moms won’t change their minds, that foreign countries won’t wipe out all contact with their expectant little ones with one stroke of the pen. They worry about deadlines and court dates, attachment and the BIG questions their children will have when they’re older. Birth moms worry about fragile pregnancies and genetic defects and complicated births. We all worry about strange symptoms and wonder if we are making the right decisions and hope to God this one box of processed mac and cheese won’t forever alter our kiddo’s behavior. We have to trust our kids with strangers and hope that the background check was thorough. We choose the school we think is best for each child and cross our fingers that we made the right decision. We eventually have to look both ways 347 times and let our precious kiddo walk across the street on his own. We realize that we have so little actual control.
Sometimes society tells us moms are weak. We are emotional. We are worriers. What we do doesn’t look all that difficult or important. How hard can it be, really? But I think we are brave. We know how much love can hurt, and we love anyway. We know that some three-year-old’s may need discipline five times a day for two years before they learn their lesson, and we discipline anyway. We know that someday our little people will make their own decisions and they might not make the decisions we hope for, and we show up night after night, morning after morning, anyway. We don’t quit. Because we are brave.
I’ve been facing a lot of big choices lately, and my mind keeps telling me that I just can’t. I can’t do sixty squats; I’m too tired. I can’t write; I don’t have anything to say. I can’t make choices that better our family life; I’ll never follow through. But you know what, if I can tackle ten days of puke times three kids and one husband, I can do sixty squats. If I can swallow my fear and drop my fragile little baby off at the church nursery for an hour, then I can write an essay. If I can get a five-year-old to double-fist broccoli and ask for more, I can teach my boys to make their beds. I can.
This week, I am going to do those things that have been rolling around in my mind, and I challenge you to do the same. You can do it. Look at those tiny faces, and those puppy dog feet, those chubby knuckles, the smattering of freckles across that kissable little nose, and realize what you’ve already done. You are a mom, and you can move mountains.
