Dear Moms, I (Sort Of) Get It Now
For the longest time, motherhood has felt like an exclusive club that only those in it could really, truly understand. It’s a club I haven’t really had too much interest in; I mean, one day for sure. But I wasn’t walking around cursing that I wasn’t part of it just yet. Instead, for the past few years, I’ve sat back and watched as some of my best friends and my sister received their invitations. I’ve witnessed the anxiety, the exhaustion, the second-guessing and self doubt, and the alleged kind of love “you just can’t understand until you have your own.” I’ve sympathized as best as I could, but have always been acutely aware of my own ignorance of and detachment from the real deal.
Until this month. My sister (who also happens to be my best friend) decided to undergo breast reduction surgery (something she’s wanted for years) and needed me to fly up to Chicago to not only take care of her, but also help her wife wrangle their twin babies who just turned 1 in February and are newly crawling at the speed of light. I booked a week long trip there without a second thought and didn’t let myself think too hard about what my temporary duties might be. I just knew I had to go help my sister and her family thrive during a major operation.
The first few days were childless. It was just myself and my sister at the hospital and at the hotel near the hospital, recovering. But eventually, it was time to go home and dive headfirst into pseudo motherhood. I would be remiss not to mention how little confidence I’ve always had in myself re: kids and babies. They’ve always made me feel awkward, unnatural, and insecure. Granted, I haven’t been around a lot. Like I said, my friends just started having kids so there haven’t been many exposure opportunities for me thus far. In fact, one time when I was around a 4-year-old, I sarcastically called him a liar, and he sobbed so my track record of interacting with little humans is not impressive.
Of course, being around my own niece and nephew is different, but I hadn’t been around them this much and hadn’t been this hands-on with them. Because my sister was recovering and couldn’t so much as lift her arm to grab her iPad, I fully assumed her position as mama to Jack and Sloane. I was up at 6:15 each morning (even if I pressed snooze 5 times), I was changing diapers (which I didn’t really get a handle on until the last day), wiping butts, changing clothes, serving meals, pouring bottles, putting them into high chairs and taking them out, on the floor with them constantly, watching them constantly. Along the way, I bent arms wrong. I accidentally scratched with my long nails. I let Jack fall over because I took my eyes off of him for .2 seconds. And it all made them cry. Howl. And I felt like an absolute failure.
I didn’t put the diaper on correctly and it had to be redone. I got out the wrong nightie and extended their time laying there cold before finding the right one. I forgot to put their bib on and ruined their fresh new outfit and created more laundry. I just kept failing.
Within the same minute, I would both think “I’m exhausted. I can’t play anymore” and “I want to play with them forever.” My alarm would go off, and I would whimper quietly to myself, begging for just one more hour of sleep only to see them standing in their cribs, smiles on their faces and ready for the day, and my heart would melt. I would quietly watch the clock for bed time and, when it came, miss them already.
In my time there, I taught Jack how to high five and cheers. I sat on the couch with Sloane as a personal heating pad in my lap as we watched Sesame Street with her mouth agape in wonder. I would feel an inch from total exhaustion then suddenly have the energy to play 8 rounds of peek-a-boo with them. When we dropped them at daycare, I felt a pang in my chest—I wanted them to be there and they needed to be, but I missed them. My last morning, they woke up uncharacteristically at 5am but were ready to go back to sleep by 6. As to not disturb the peace, I stayed in their nursery in the recliner with Jack laying on top of me, using me as a mattress, for 2.5 hours. All I wanted was sleep, but keeping one eye open to make sure he didn’t fall off of me was the main priority. He stretched and switched sides and used my arm as a pillow. My neck killed. I was so uncomfortable. But I dare not move an inch because I just wanted him to be completely comfortable and fast asleep.
At multiple points, I felt such a deep love for them that the notion of “you just can’t understand until you have your own” hit me like a ton of bricks. I let myself imagine how it would be to feel the love I was feeling for my niece and nephew, but for my own, and was completely overwhelmed. It’s going to hurt so much. It’s literally going to destroy me. I’m going to be a whisper of my old self for a while, but so deeply in love that it will propel me forward. I know this now.
The exhaustion is unlike anything I’ve experienced. It took a full week to recover and feel like me again. Only a few hours in, I heard phantom cries throughout my sister’s house. I worried. I beat myself up over everything. And I learned so much.
I learned that all mothers are incredible.
I learned that we’re all just failing up.
I learned that no matter how much you do, you will never allow yourself to believe it’s enough.
I learned that, when the time comes, nothing else will seem as important anymore.
I learned that we’re all doing the best we can. Some days, it works out. A lot of days, it doesn’t.
I learned that all the tiredness and anxiety is worth the moments you see them learning, discovering, and growing.
So, moms—I (sort of) get it now, and you’re doing a great job.
