The Tidal Wave of Motherhood

I stopped writing practically the moment I found out I was pregnant with my first baby. Here, on my blog, obviously–but also privately. I have countless wordy journals from every other stage of life starting with my adolescent years, all through high school, into college, and then as I navigated “the real world,” met and married Riley, and adjusted to marriage, moving, and becoming rooted in a new place. A large box of books filled with inked words in my handwriting sits on a shelf, wondering if I’ll ever return. I hope one day I will.

Writing was perhaps the first sacrifice of motherhood. Before baby Nora grew in my swollen belly, I used to spend hours every day stringing words into sentences. It was always how I processed the world, my life, my faith, my relationships; an integral part of my existence.

Writing was soon joined by other pieces of me: exercising (too nauseous), sleep (pregnancy insomnia…and then newborns), alone time (no explanation needed), regular dates with my husband, reading books (far too exhausted), and our social life to name a few.

Setting aside parts of me made room for my journey into motherhood. Two babies in two years forced me to dig deep and develop a fortitude previously unknown to me. The work of mothering little ones is rewarding and beautiful, and it is absolutely exhausting. Many nights in those early years, and especially after my son Colin was born, I would close my eyes, wondering if the Blair I had known for almost thirty years still existed at all. Had she packed up and left? Had her neglect made her dissolve into nothingness? Could I convince her to come back?

This is what women only whisper about, guilt lacing every word: Motherhood wrecks you.

It is more all-consuming than they say. More challenging than they say. Requires more of you than they say, and when you’ve given everything, just a little bit more is required. (Be careful not to whisper this too loudly or you’ll be accused of selfishness and ungratefulness.)

But the miraculous truth is that being wrecked also brought me freedom that I never could have anticipated. Everything fades into smallness when my focus is on my children. Nothing–or very little–else matters. My two eight pound babies blew up our lives, but the rebuild is better than before. It’s colorful, electric, wild, alive, and free. It’s boundaries and saying “yes” only when it’s truly right for our little family. It’s sleepy snuggles every morning in our bed, something I swore I wouldn’t allow before kids (“they need to learn to sleep in their own rooms”), that somehow make my heart grow a little bit bigger each dawn. It’s knowing favorite books and favorite episodes of Bluey. It’s answering questions like, “How did God make cars?” It’s styling ringlets and scrubbing dirty toes. In a word, it’s everything.

My husband and I are finding our way back to ourselves and each other as our children grow (now four and a half years old and two and a half years old). We both exercise regularly, we get sleep (most of the time), we have slivers of alone time and together time, I’m back to reading, and we have friends and a social life.

Our home is still messy every single day. Some nights, after baths and books and bedtime kisses, Riley and I clean it all up. The beads and crayons and glue stuck to the kitchen table, the dinosaurs on every flat surface, Barbie dolls floating naked in the pool, puzzle pieces scattered like they were part of a hide-and-seek game. Other nights, we laugh at the chaos and crawl into bed, knowing tomorrow will bring more of the same.

While the demands of little babies have waned, we are now faced with new, perhaps weightier, demands: teaching kindness, awareness of others, gentleness of touch, respect, courage in scary situations, self-advocacy, honest and open communication. No doubt I believe the old adage about parenting is true: “It never gets easier, it’s just different.” We’re here and prepared to embrace all the differents our kids throw our way.

We’ve been hit by two tidal waves we created and named, and we’ll never be the same. We’d never want to be.

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