I’m sitting in a travel clinic a month before my husband and I embark on an epic 14-day trip to South Africa. It’s 2013. I’m telling the doctor who’s giving me a preventative tetanus shot along with tons of other travel-required injections that I’d like to get pregnant soon – very soon. As he warns my husband and I not to try to conceive while visiting somewhere we could contract malaria (we took his advice!), I sat back, still kind of in shock at hearing those words come out of my mouth. “I’d like to get pregnant. As soon as possible.” Was I sure, though? Could I really do this motherhood thing, something I’d only recently even discovered that I kind of, sort of wanted?
. . .
I’m in the teeny, tiny bathroom of the teeny, tiny townhouse my husband and I live in as newlyweds. I’m holding a positive pregnancy test in my hand, just gaping at my husband. Is this for real? We got pregnant the first time we even tried? Does that happen? It was supposed to take months and months to get pregnant. More time for me to get used to the idea. A flood of elation and a smidge of fear take me over. “I guess I’m not having that glass of red wine tonight,” I joke to my husband. My first sacrifice.
. . .
I’m in the hospital. It’s some ungodly hour of the night. I’m trying to sing a song to my newborn son but I can’t remember all the words and I start to weep because I’m supposed to get this perfect. A nurse holds my hand and offers me some tea and I just nod because I’m getting taken over by this blue-ness. That’s what it is, baby blues. Yes?
. . .
I’m sitting cross-legged in front of the full-length mirror that hangs on the back of our bedroom door (the same mirror I used to use to aid me in pulling together the perfect ensemble for work), my infant son in my lap. I sing the Itsy Bitsy Spider for the 14th time, watching my son in the mirror as he watches my arachnid hands crawling upwards. He’s mesmerized. And happy. I’m doing all the right things. I’m singing the songs. Giving the hugs. Pureeing the food. But I’m devastatingly bored and feel a bit, well, empty. I never say this out loud.
. . .
It’s summer. My son toddles over to me, full of pride with these beginning steps. We’re sharing a big blanket on the lawn of the public pool area of our townhouse complex. I can breathe in the sunshine. I can start to relax into him. We are smiling together.
. . .
It’s winter. I wake before my 18-month-old son and lie in bed, waiting to hear him stirring. Once he does, I get up and walk into the bathroom of the rental house we found (a whole house! a yard! 5 minutes from my parents! everything is supposed to feel way easier now, right?!). I look into the mirror and start to cry. This is becoming a daily routine. I am so overwhelmed at the start of every day. Filled with insecurities, doubts, dread – can I get through another day of seemingly endless hours? I’m afraid and sad and confused. A few months ago I shocked both myself and my husband by declaring I wanted to try for a second baby. Now, I’m not so sure.
. . .
Summer. We’re at our local zoo. As I watch my 2-year-old son skipping down the path ahead of me, I breathe in the grace of how happy I am (thank Goddess for time. And for therapy). We’re so solid, he and I. We’ve clicked, we’ve got this now. We’re friends, we’re in love.
. . .
I’m standing in the bathroom of our rental house, holding a positive pregnancy test in my hand, looking at my husband in disbelief. Didn’t the doctor just tell me last week, after the latest round of tests, that my levels weren’t good, that it wasn’t going to happen? Hadn’t I just come to terms with all of that, made my peace, even felt the smallest sense of relief? Do I want this? Is my son going to be ok with this?
. . .
I’m sitting on the living room floor of my rental house, reading book (after book after glorious book) to my 2.5-year-old son. He rests his hand on my growing belly, asks me why it’s getting so big. And so I take a big breath and tell him this wonderful news, all about how we’re having a baby and he’ll be a big brother. It will be so great, I reassure him (and myself).
. . .
I’m sitting in a hospital bed, cooing to my newborn daughter. Instant love. Instant relief. No dark sadness to cloud this. She’s perfect. I slip into mothering her like a second skin. My body knows how to do this now. My mind, my heart know how to do this now.
. . .
Summer. A large blanket is spread on the lawn of our new house (we’re homeowners! There’s even a picket fence!). My son and daughter (almost a year old now) and I are sprawled out, surrounded by Legos and laughter. We’ve weathered a long winter and there’s another long winter of challenges coming (and another, and another . . .). But as I feel the sunshine on my face, as I listen to my son’s little-boy-voice squeaking out his latest plans for building yet another masterpiece, as I watch my daughter crawling over to the mulch to once again get gloriously filthy, I breathe in the awareness that I’ve arrived – fully, beautifully, imperfectly, and perfectly – into motherhood. Soon, I’ll have to scoop up my little one and convince my son we have to go in to give her a bath. But for now, I allow myself to sink into this moment of growth, of peace, of joy. Here we are.
