I have come to the realization that I believed that when my childbearing days were over I’d step out of one world and into another. From the world of emerging parent to that of established parent. It has taken me some time to come to terms with the reality that Sweetie and I have (only? exactly? ) three children. That we are blessed to have three children. And. And that there will not be more.
But then, everyone else keeps having babies. Friends new and old. Neighbors. Co-workers. So many of the people that I see and talk to daily are still emerged in the world of pregnancy, infancy. Of new life brimming full of coos and milk and swaddling.
I love my children. I love watching them grow. It’s likely–if such things could be measured–that I love them more now than I did when they were infants. There is more to love. More body. More brain. More ideas. They are more of who they are–each of them. But there is just something about that squishy little infant. The newness. The unmarked, unmarred, unharmed innocent babe. No parenting mistakes yet made. No slights from which I must cringe as I watch them recover. Oh, I think, if I did it again I’d be so much better. I’d have more patience. I’d worry only about the thing that truly warrants worry: Is my child happy? I’d care much less about potty training, balanced diets, bathing.
But there will always be thoughts like this. There will always be regrets for mistakes made. There will always be days of looking back at my children who grow so amazingly fast. There will always be sweet nostalgia for the early days of getting to know each one of them. The endless weeks of wearing a curled up baby in a sling for hours on end. The days before talking back. Of building block towers simply for the joy of knocking them over. These days are nearly behind me now. And it takes a strong heart for me to accept this reality.
My very best high school friend is expecting a baby. She has all of this parenting ahead of her. And there’s so much I want to tell her: Enjoy every second–EVERY SECOND–that you can. Don’t hurry through any of it–not the bad parts, even. Don’t be afraid of all of the uncertainty you will feel along the way. Trust yourself. Seek out other parents. Squeeze tight that little body as often as you can. Breathe in the scent of your baby girl’s head. Memorize her features every day. You will marvel at how she changes. Sing, dance, howl. Yelp, hop, cry with joy and pain.
Let all of the feelings out. Be emotional. Be real. Be you.
That moment of giving birth. Those days of infancy. There is nothing that quite compares. And I look at my friends’ babies and inside I sigh–even cry–a little. For a moment or two I long to be back there. At the brink of it all. Back in the days that at the time seemed so impossibly challenging. The responsibility of keeping a new life lit brightly so daunting. Six years in, though, I know that there’s even more at stake now. And I know, too, that I didn’t have children just to have babies. Motherhood is ever changing. And it’s about the growing. Of all of us. Of each of us.
We mothers all have to find our own ways, which maybe is why I so often feel that what I am writing about has all been said before. Motherhood is the oldest of professions, of course. And my friend will find her own way, just as I continue to find mine. She will stumble as I have, and she will thrive. It is all the same. She is just a few years behind me, and in a few weeks, when her baby enters this world, she will be consumed by all that is motherhood. Instantly. Overwhelmingly.
I still am consumed, of course. But the details are different. My days with my children now are full of real conversations. Two-way conversations far beyond cooing. Conversations about the life cycle of a butterfly and, sigh, the need for caskets. And everything in between. Our days still are full of snuggling and kisses. My children still need me to get their food and help them in the bathroom and make sure their uniforms are clean. And at night, when we snuggle together with books, as we’ve done nearly every night for the past 6-and-a-half years, sometimes my son reads out loud to me instead of the other way around. It is magical. Like that butterfly breaking out of the chrysalis. It is the cycle of his life. This learning. This growth. This true true magic.
Each day I must let my heart swell with my children's achievements and allow it to break at their hardships. And above all I must not forget their baby days, but I must not put too much weight on them, either. Each of my children is exactly who s/he always has been. And that is much more than enough. And I must trust myself to continue to be the best mother that I can be. The best mother for my children, as they grow to be the best people I can hope for.
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Originally published in November 2010