"It's the best thing that will ever happen to you!"
"It's different when it's your own child."
"You'll never love anyone as much as you will love your children."
"It's hard, but it is so worth it."
Motherhood changes you. Of course it does. It changed my whole world. But I was always skeptical that these things people always say were really going to be true for me.
People sometimes make it sound like you will grow a pair of giant, glowing-white angel wings and weild a sword of justic, commanding all things around you to your will. Like you will be able to flawlessly love your own child so perfectly that you wouldn't possibly allow your selfish humanity ever get the better of you. Like you won't notice how constantly exhausted, achy, frustrated, hungry you are.
But I still think I never quite believed all that was going to happen for me. That's why I was always on the fence about having kids in the first place.
And in a way I was right. But I was also wrong.
Instead of wings, I grew an intense neck and shoulder pain. Instead of a sword of justice I weilded a quick temper. I command absolutely nothing and, instead, constantly feel that there are too many things that I cannot possibly do myself, and why won't everyone read my mind that I need abc done (or not done) in xyz way? In one sense I feel like I haven't changed at all, like I didn't gain anything to aid me in rising to the challenge of motherhood.
The first several weeks of my son's life were an absolute blur. I don't know if it would be fitting to say I was struggling with postpartum depression, but I certainly went through something that I can only equate to the feeling of being on laughing gas during an earthquake. Physically feeling everything, but somehow totally unable to process what is going on. If you had asked me then if I loved my son more than life itself or whatever, provided I was under a truth serum, I would have probably said, "I have no idea." I would have done anything then, just as I would now, to provide for him and to protect him (I was not going to go through 18 hours of intense, unmedicated labor for nothing), but at that time it was as if I was a robot still trying to perform at 100 percent just after being brutally beaten with a bat.
And when I look at him today, over a year later, I know without a single doubt in my mind that I love him with every ounce of my being. I don't know if he even comprehends that concept beyond needing me for nurishment and comfort, but in an inexplicable way, that doesn't matter to me one bit. Sometimes I can't help but see images in my mind of him as a teenager shouting at me "I hate you!" the way I'm sure I did at least once, but as much as it breaks my heart to think of, I know that no matter what he does, I will always love and care for him just as furiously as I do now. There wasn't a moment that I can remember that it suddenly became clear. But as I watch him grow and learn and develop into this unique human, it is increasingly evident that I am truly witnessing a miracle.
And still, in spite of all of this indescribable love I have for him, it is all still incredibly hard. In some ways it is a significant loss. And can more often than not leave you feeling totally incapable and helpless.
It's caring enough about what people think to feel guilty for not doing more, but not having enough energy to care the amount it takes to actually do more.
It's a loss of control of those little things that maybe don't matter in the grand scheme but that still give you a sense of balance and serenity. A loss of the freedom to immediately tend to your own needs and wants.
It's doing everything you can possibly think of to do things the "right" way, and somehow, still, he's crying, I'm crying, no one else wants to be around either of us.
But what I am beginning to understand - slowly - is that exactly who I am, in all my exhausted, frustrated, struggling glory, is exactly enough to be a good mother to my son. Seeing him giggling and exploring and finding joy within and all around him is my constant reminder that we (his parents) have cultivated a space for him to grow into himself with the security of knowing that we are always there for him. And it confirms to me that as long as I can always come back to the fact of my deep (and deepening) love for him, as long as I can be humble both to myself and to him, as long as I can always have grace and forgiveness for both myself and for him, as long I know that I am doing my best, It is exactly best for him.
"It's different when it's your own child."
"You'll never love anyone as much as you will love your children."
"It's hard, but it is so worth it."
Motherhood changes you. Of course it does. It changed my whole world. But I was always skeptical that these things people always say were really going to be true for me.
People sometimes make it sound like you will grow a pair of giant, glowing-white angel wings and weild a sword of justic, commanding all things around you to your will. Like you will be able to flawlessly love your own child so perfectly that you wouldn't possibly allow your selfish humanity ever get the better of you. Like you won't notice how constantly exhausted, achy, frustrated, hungry you are.
But I still think I never quite believed all that was going to happen for me. That's why I was always on the fence about having kids in the first place.
And in a way I was right. But I was also wrong.
Instead of wings, I grew an intense neck and shoulder pain. Instead of a sword of justice I weilded a quick temper. I command absolutely nothing and, instead, constantly feel that there are too many things that I cannot possibly do myself, and why won't everyone read my mind that I need abc done (or not done) in xyz way? In one sense I feel like I haven't changed at all, like I didn't gain anything to aid me in rising to the challenge of motherhood.
The first several weeks of my son's life were an absolute blur. I don't know if it would be fitting to say I was struggling with postpartum depression, but I certainly went through something that I can only equate to the feeling of being on laughing gas during an earthquake. Physically feeling everything, but somehow totally unable to process what is going on. If you had asked me then if I loved my son more than life itself or whatever, provided I was under a truth serum, I would have probably said, "I have no idea." I would have done anything then, just as I would now, to provide for him and to protect him (I was not going to go through 18 hours of intense, unmedicated labor for nothing), but at that time it was as if I was a robot still trying to perform at 100 percent just after being brutally beaten with a bat.
And when I look at him today, over a year later, I know without a single doubt in my mind that I love him with every ounce of my being. I don't know if he even comprehends that concept beyond needing me for nurishment and comfort, but in an inexplicable way, that doesn't matter to me one bit. Sometimes I can't help but see images in my mind of him as a teenager shouting at me "I hate you!" the way I'm sure I did at least once, but as much as it breaks my heart to think of, I know that no matter what he does, I will always love and care for him just as furiously as I do now. There wasn't a moment that I can remember that it suddenly became clear. But as I watch him grow and learn and develop into this unique human, it is increasingly evident that I am truly witnessing a miracle.
And still, in spite of all of this indescribable love I have for him, it is all still incredibly hard. In some ways it is a significant loss. And can more often than not leave you feeling totally incapable and helpless.
It's caring enough about what people think to feel guilty for not doing more, but not having enough energy to care the amount it takes to actually do more.
It's a loss of control of those little things that maybe don't matter in the grand scheme but that still give you a sense of balance and serenity. A loss of the freedom to immediately tend to your own needs and wants.
It's doing everything you can possibly think of to do things the "right" way, and somehow, still, he's crying, I'm crying, no one else wants to be around either of us.
But what I am beginning to understand - slowly - is that exactly who I am, in all my exhausted, frustrated, struggling glory, is exactly enough to be a good mother to my son. Seeing him giggling and exploring and finding joy within and all around him is my constant reminder that we (his parents) have cultivated a space for him to grow into himself with the security of knowing that we are always there for him. And it confirms to me that as long as I can always come back to the fact of my deep (and deepening) love for him, as long as I can be humble both to myself and to him, as long as I can always have grace and forgiveness for both myself and for him, as long I know that I am doing my best, It is exactly best for him.
You are a great mom Nina Ruth. I can say ditto to almost everything you say in this sweet post. Motherhood is a miracle and the hardest job anyone can have and do it well or with love that takes so much sacrifice. Little Ezra is blessed with wonderful parents and family. Love you much.
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