Mommas are good at worrying.
When we’re pregnant, signing forms, decorating a nursery, getting an older child’s room ready, purchasing diapers, stocking up on toys, feeling small twitches of movement, or memorizing the picture of a face we already love, we worry. We wonder if we’re prepared. We wonder if we’re ready to deliver a baby, nurse through cluster feeds, and bathe a small infant. We wonder if we’re equipped for night terrors, big emotions, defiance, and even fear.
No one truly knows what to expect when expecting, but we feel how the love driving us grows our very souls.
I remember being stressed about nursing my firstborn. The first time I second-guessed myself happened when I saw my baby boy after his circumcision. Suddenly I wasn’t sure we’d made the right choice. Then I fretted over his car seat straps. Despite my own discomfort, I swayed and rocked him during our first night home. It’s what mothers do.
From the beginning, we care. We love. We grieve. We memorize. We learn.
I remember the rawness of the early days. I thought we’d found our rhythm at two weeks, only to start drowning by week three. Four weeks felt so far away, but days and nights blurred and somehow we found our feet again.
The beautiful truth of motherhood is that while we’re racing to catch up with our growing babies, we’re blossoming too. Our hearts are heavy but our arms are stronger.
Somehow, his milestones came slowly yet swiftly. And with them, my own. I remember struggling with my son’s frustrated screams as he rocked on pudgy knees and tried to crawl. Nothing grows patience like a screaming 7 month old. I relish the memory of joy when he finally inched toward the dog. I don’t know when it happened, but my husband and I both fell in love with the sound of our son’s hands slapping the tile floor as he sped along after us. The destruction of cabinets followed. Every time I turned around, he’d emptied the bookshelf, tussled the blankets, and bonked his head. My worry returned.
Our toddler stood up and walked during a video call with daddy my while my husband was deployed. My shoulders alone bore the safety of our child. I had to protect him from tumbling off the couch, or falling down the stairs. I didn’t always stay ahead of our sweet boy. Sometimes, the baby gate failed. Sometimes, the tile, door frames, and footie pajamas proved a dangerous combination. But I learned. As our son discovered new places, I found safe places too. Places to keep things out of reach, and areas where he was free to crawl and trip to his heart’s content. My worries eased; joy bubbled and burst.
The beautiful puzzle of motherhood is learning how everything fits together, and accepting the things that don’t.
I remember peeing on a stick ten days after my husband deployed only to discover I was a month along with our second baby. Our oldest was a mere nine months old. Fears battled away any sense of joy, and I had to fight to find it. To seek the joy of a surprise baby. But then my belly started swelling, and I couldn’t wait to get bigger. My best friend became pregnant, and we shared food cravings. My son learned the words “daddy” and “baby.” My heart grew. I loved feeling my daughter kick, and longed to share her with daddy. I yearned for my surprise baby, even as I mourned the specialness of having one-on-one time with my boy. When my husband returned, we would finally be a family unit of three again, and then four.
I remember when my daughter arrived. In those first moments, with the cord wrapped around her neck and her skin graying, I had a fleeting, selfish, heart-sick thought: “I did all this for nothing.” But she was never nothing. She was always mine, and I wanted her badly. Then her arms flew into the air and a glorious squall filled our hospital room. I remember her daddy holding her, and the way we both memorized her sleeping face during our stay in the hospital. I remember being so proud when my milk came in even faster for her than it did with my son.
The glorious heart of motherhood is found in refinement- in the radical struggle and gift of loving someone more than yourself.
Being a mother is about more than parenting. It’s learning how to balance all the other things even as that takes precedence over our time and minds and hearts. My husband has grown me in ways no other other person has, but my children changed me from the inside out.
Mommas are good at worrying, but we’re even better at growing.