Motherhood. The Gift.

Yesterday, we spent a whole day in the room where she’ll sleep.

At one point, I actually managed to wrangle all three of my wriggly worms to some sort of order across my diminishing lap – and in this millisecond of stillness, I marveled in this miracle of motherhood.

This same faded chocolate fuzz chair has now rocked three, soon four of my flesh. I’ve nestled against the cushions and nuzzled each one when only I’m awake in the loneliness of the night. I’ve lamented impossible latches and tender breasts and felt the consuming dark in which it seems I will never sleep again. I’ve studied the rise and fall of supple baby chests, listened to each breath, traced eyebrows, apple round cheeks and peaked lips while evaluating needs for doctor calls, urgent care visits, emergency room trips. I’ve cried salty tears of hormones and pain and joy and the weight of dreams of what’s to come, the crusts of which probably remain in the ridges of this sweet chair.

Because, let’s face it: it’s not just pregnancy that’s difficult. Motherhood, every step of the way, is hard and heavy.

Perhaps if you’ve been following this series, you’ve noticed I’m not one of those who “loves” being pregnant.

See, if I’m being honest, it’s easy to find myself consumed in the spread of my middle, insecurely concerned with the incline of my weight on the scale, the creak of every joint, the waddle, the slowness, the fatigue. If I’m being even more honest, I often feel very discouraged by the un-femininity I feel compared to the fullness of femininity that pregnancy seems like it should be.

I think, in a way, we all feel these pains; we all bear these burdens of motherhood in different ways. Sometimes these scars are physical, forever tatooed across our bodies, harsh reminders of the smaller clothes we used to wear or the smoothness our skin used to boast. Perhaps the burden is the career we still miss, the validity and affirmation we heard and felt on a daily basis. Perhaps its the heart-wrenching departure each morning when we pack the diapers, the breast pump, the bottles and wave another goodbye, throw kisses in the dark and muster up the courage, the dedication to take on another day apart. Maybe its the the darkest, deepest ache helplessly watching milestones be missed, gaps widening between the littles we’re surrounded with and our own precious one.  Maybe its the relentless frustration, unending exasperation, daily battle with an enormous personality bottled up in a tiny stranger that just so happens to call us mom. Perhaps its the constant state of comparison we the bedraggled, disheveled and sleep-deprived are consumed in as we see every other mother around us fly gracefully, beautifully multi-tasking, succeeding at it all. Perhaps its the grief of babies dreamed and lost, perhaps its childhood passed too quickly, perhaps its the constant questioning, debating, doubting of nursing or formula, organic or Aldi’s, working at home or out of the home, schooling choices, discipline decisions, ear-piercings, curfews or first dates … the burdens we bear as mothers weigh deep within the heart and at times, we find ourselves lost in the discouragement, demeaned, debilitated as women.

A wise woman recently shared a story with me. As a fellow photographer, she found herself walking a sunbathed field with a woman so preoccupied she couldn’t see the light. Feeling the weight, the photographer asked her to share her plight. The woman, new baby on hip went on to detail the rolls that spilled, a blouse that pulled, a round bottom just too saggy. The photographer tried her best to console, to encourage, and yet, as we as women know so well, our own words sometimes hold the most weight no matter how untrue or unfounded and the woman remained unconvinced.

Months later, this woman wrote the photographer. After sweet words of thanks for memories immortalized in the images, she explained her recent cancer diagnosis, ravaging treatment and the resulting mastectomy. She then shared the enlightenment. When looking at herself just months earlier, the softness she once despised she now saw as the essence of her womanhood at its fullest. Those curves she cursed were what gave and sustained life. What she once had considered a burden, was in fact the kiss of motherhood. It wasn’t until it had been heartlessly stripped away, that she fully realized the loveliness of her identity; being a woman, being a mother is a gift.

And so, embracing this gift, we lift our heads.

We swallow our own tears and kiss away theirs. We remember fondly leisurely mimosa brunches but eat peanut butter sandwiches with tiny companions in thanks. We  reminisce high-heeled late nights out and host memorable afternoon dance parties instead.

In just weeks it will be four times over I’ve fallen in love with the gift of my babies and I know, once again, it will be just as magical, just as spiritual as every other time.

I already crave the weight of her surrender against me as they place her in my arms, the sticky, warm curve of her cheek as I kiss and kiss and kiss. I can already feel the scratchy flannel of hospital grade swaddles bound tightly around my little girl. I can hear the silence when the room is still again finally after her debut, and it’s just me and my husband and this miracle creation. And she’s here. Honestly, at this point, remembering the fulfillment of these moments is what gets me through these final days. And they’ll get me through the sleepless nights to come. Because there’ll be a time, sooner than later, that I’ll look back and have forgotten the back pain and remember only the glorious fullness of my round belly as it undulates in rhythm with my little girl inside. I might even miss the waddle. Or maybe not.

And then, beyond those reminiscent times will come the days where I’ll crave the peanut butter sandwiches and long for the music of afternoon dance parties.

And when that time comes, I want to remember that I wasn’t looking inward at the burdens, the scars, the heaviness, but loving outward with purpose, embracing this beautiful gift of motherhood.

Photo credit: Allison Corrin

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