 “Tomorrow is a special day”, I say.
“What day is it?” she asks. “It’s the day that George became spirit.” “Oh yeah!” she flashes her big smile at me, and remembers. “July 22. That means it’s my birthday in 9 days.” A fact she will never forget. “It really is a special day,” she declares. “What are we going to do for him?” We begin to list off the possibilities.
 One hour ago, my entire life changed. I took my girl to school, and came home alone. From this day forward we will live by the school year, and the school bell, and for the first time since her birth we will begin leading separate lives. I will not know what happens in her day. She will not know what happens in mine.
This feels monumental. I am shaking with exhilaration, a heart full of gratitude and pride, a mind in disbelief that this day has finally come. I no longer have a baby. I have a heart-strong, tough-minded, independent child who barely looked up from her artwork when I left her at school today, a girl whose joyful spirit would never lead you to believe that her first years were steeped in heartbreak. Somehow, we made it through. We made something beautiful out of something tragic. As I take in my surroundings at the kitchen table this morning, gazing through our living room to the park outside, the sun streaming through the windows, soon to disappear beneath the shadow of the moon, I am struck by the multitude of turns my life has taken since George left our earth. Little by little, the decisions I’ve made for my family have culminated in this moment, in this home, in this new beginning that is no longer filled with hope, but with certainty. I am where I want to be. We win. I was watching Nova play with a balloon this morning, throwing and batting and catching it while she laughed with delight, that pure expression of joy that children give out so effortlessly. And in that moment, I saw my premonition come to life.
Wow. This is it. My premonition was the moment I decided I wanted to have a child with George, in early 2012. We were sleeping in one morning, and I awoke first. I watched him sleep. He was so beautiful, so peaceful, and my heart was struck by how much I loved him. If anything ever happened to him, I would want his child, a piece of him, to be left with me. Since day one of being a mom, I have coveted my moments alone. It's not that I don't love my child and it's not that I don't enjoy spending time with her, but as a single parent (who wasn't planning to be one) and an introvert who needs quiet time to recharge, I have never shied away from taking time apart.
 This motherhood thing. Man, we really blow it all out of proportion. Yes, it’s hard. Yes, it’s exhausting. Yes, we sometimes, often, want to run away. And we will never admit that to anyone, not even to ourselves. But we definitely dream about it. But come on, guys. Is it really that hard? I mean, yes. Of course it’s fucking hard. Of course it’s one of the hardest things we will ever do, requiring an enormous amount of effort and endurance and most of all, patience -- but is it really -- that --hard? It’s hard because we have to give up our freedom. Another human (or humans) now comes first, from birth until -- well, forever. It’s hard because we’re spoiled and we want to go out for dinner and a movie and then go out for drinks and not have to worry about what time we’ll be home or the babysitter bill. It’s hard because we want to go to sleep when we’re tired and not be required to wake up at 6 a.m. on a Saturday (or 2 a.m., for that matter). It’s hard because we want to go to yoga but the baby needs to breastfeed or we find a few minutes to meditate but the baby starts crying, or we go the whole day and realize we’re cranky as hell because we forgot to eat. It’s hard because when we don’t feel well we just want to stay in bed all day. And it’s hard because we no longer feel as though we’re in control of our lives, though truth be told, we never really were. This is all entirely unavoidable. And no matter how prepared you are for parenthood, at some point you will feel the squeeze of another human being encroaching on your life, and you will want to scream. But this is not the kind of hard I’m talking about. I’m talking about the way we agonize over how and where they are born, whether and how long they breastfeed, what kinds of toys we let them chew on, what kinds of diapers we make them wear, which soaps and lotions and butt creams we let touch their skin, which foods we allow into their bodies, how we teach them language and manners and whether to use the word “no”, how long we let them cry at night, how much television they can watch, what kinds of shoes they should wear to best support their tiny newly walking feet, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. I am constantly judging myself for the choices I make in these and all related (and unrelated) areas and it is, utterly, EXHAUSTING. And let’s be honest. We are fortunate to even have these kinds of decisions to make. We are fortunate to have clean running water to bathe their little butts in. Here’s the thing. At the end of your child’s life, he or she is not going to judge you by these things. He or she will only want to know -- to FEEL -- that you loved them and sacrificed for them and wanted them. They will want to know that you did your best, which is not to say that you researched the hell out of every little thing to make sure you chose the right preschool or toothpaste or sleeping method, but that you followed your instinct, your heart. That you wanted the best for them, and that you tried your hardest to provide it while also maintaining a wholeness for yourself. So every day, just try your best. Tell your kid how much you love them. Spend a few minutes each day making sure they know this. Apologize if you screw up. Tell them you’re learning too. Thank them for being on this journey with you. Those are the things they'll remember. And give yourself a break, Mom. If your kid is alive and smiling, you’re doing an awesome job. Happy Mother’s Day! |
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