My children were not planned. I always wanted to be a mother, but I had pictured it as a more controlled endeavor, all the way around.
In no way is motherhood, in my experience, a controlled endeavor.
This began with the knowledge of the existence of my first child. Kelly was the first of my sisters and I to have a baby, and I distinctly remember announcing to my mother at the preparations for Kelly's baby shower that I would not be attempting motherhood for a very long time. I had so much to work on before I dove in.
I pretty much found out I was expecting Molly the day that Kelly's son was born.
So much for that. I stumbled my way through the first months of pregnancy in a very sick daze and assumed that I would just, at the end of 9 months, deliver a healthy baby. Instead, lots of hospital time but months before her due date, my daughter came the color purple and weighing 1 pound, 10 oz. She lived her first month in a little plastic house at the hospital and connected to beeping machines. I spent every minute I could parked outside that isolette, trying to be a good mom, whatever that was, because I loved that baby so much and I thought I would die if she did. I tried not to make her heart rate spike and her O2 rate drop and willed her to get fatter and I tried to simultaneously obey the nurses and assert my independence as a mother.
3 months later, a day that still ranks at my top 10 best ever, my husband and I proudly carried home a 4 lb 3 oz peanut packed into an infant carseat that was still much too big for her. We spent the first weeks taking turns watching her constantly, and at some point began our descent into our style of laissez-faire parenting. We assumed every baby slept as much and cried as little and was content to sleep anywhere including the movie theater. She was healthy and perfect and we did not give that much thought.
3 years later, I decided I very much wanted another baby. 2 years later than that, I gave up on the idea that I would ever produce another child. It wasn't that simple, but not unlike many other disappointments that come with the territory of motherhood. And like those, I survived. I pursued a career in nursing, partly so that I could be one of the understanding nurses in the NICU who help bewildered mothers feel better and not worse.
Then I discovered I was expecting another baby and would not be completing nursing school on time. My doctor ordered me to bedrest and no clinicals. And my healthy, roly-poly, very loud and very hungry second child was born with a very much black hair and a personality very unlike her sisters'. This daughter showed me that babies can ingest endless amounts of breast milk, crawl and walk too early, ignore the word "no," bite other human beings, throw fits in every store in town, not want to do anything that you want to do, and still be impossibly adorable in spite of all that. I spent every minute worrying that she would be a holy terror, trying to be a good mom, whatever that was, because I loved that girl enough to forfeit my own life. Which is what I felt I did for the first years of her life until at some point I began my descent into my style of laissez-faire parenting.
Both girls are growing into lovely young women now. Yesterday, my husband and I attended our youngest's children's theater performance. It was an impressive show and she had been working hard. We had been told that "the big kids got the main roles." So we were surprised when our 8 year old seemed to still be one of the major characters with solos, while several older children did not have the same privilege. She delivered a great performance, and when she sang her solo we looked at each other in amazement. Wow!
Later that day, my husband and I tried to figure out how we managed to get two fabulous kids. They are fun. They are smart. They are talented. They have good hearts. We know there are many better parents out there, but we are pretty certain there aren't too many better kids. It's really a miracle.
If you are a mother, I am guessing you feel much the same way. You look at these little people running around your house sometimes and wonder how in the world you ended up so lucky. (Or maybe you only wonder that when they are all snuggled in bed asleep - I've been there too). If you are one of those mothers that is convinced that your children are products of your superb parenting skills and perfect planning, then we probably don't have much in common. I know myself, and I know the greatness of my children is something that in my most honest moments I view as something I should say a prayer of "phew...thanks...I didn't deserve this...." about. There are moments I try so hard I think I will faint and others that I don't and I'm not sure which benefit my children more.
I love them. I get mad at them. I love them. I have fun with them. I love them. I am amazed they are mine. I love them. I love being a mom, whatever that means.
