Motherhood is something you just stumble into, I think. You have a very clear vision in your head of what it will be like, what kind of mother you're going to be, and you imagine what that kind of love will feel like. And then you hold that baby in your arms for the first time and it's nothing like you ever could have imagined. Not even close.
I thought when they handed Oliver to me for the first time, I'd instantly love him. I thought I'd feel like a mother that very second, and he'd feel like my son, and my lifelong quest toward this golden goal would be accomplished. It was nothing like that. They handed him to me, and I was frightened. I was exhausted from 24 hours of labour and a c-section, I was disappointed after what felt like a failed delivery (though I know now it was quite the opposite.) I was distracted by the dim lighting in the room, telling my husband to call our friends and family, and trying as hard as I could to force those emotions into the moment. I was desperately injecting them where they had no place.
It wasn't until two days in to our hospital stay that the feeling came over me. Until that point, there was nothing but fear, absolute terror really, and confusion. It was a blur of emotions and expectations. And then, in a sweet small moment, when I let the expectations fall away, his tiny fingers reached up and stole my heart from my chest. He was laying against me, and I could feel his skin which was my skin, and his heart beat, which was my heart beat, and I realized that he was me and I was him, and that was it for me, really.
After that it was just one day at a time, trying not to make the big mistakes, becoming comfortable with the little ones, making something fit into a life where there didn't really feel like there had been a hole before. We thought there was when we decided to have him, but we had no idea how big a space he would need to fit into. He was so big, so much, so many, so great. Oliver taught me how to love like I've never loved anything or anyone. Oliver taught me that there was such a thing as a ferocious love, an all consuming, ravenous, unquenchable love. Despite the countless sleepless nights, hours spent nursing and rocking, and moments where I thought I might fall to pieces. In those moments I found strength in the depths of me I never knew I had, and I carried on anyway. I was transformed.
When Theodore was born it was a little different. I was already a mother this time, and when they handed him to me, the moment felt more like, "Yes, that's right. That's how this goes. Thank you." Getting to know him was easy, because every second of the first week of his life he longed to be close to me. He would only sleep in my arms, and open his beautiful eyes for only mama. The strange part was that I could only sleep when he was with me, too. He was as much me as Oliver had been, which is impossible to fathom because I thought that I was all the me I would ever be. Theodore taught me how to be loved, and still teaches me every day that I am deserving of his love. Any love. Pure, unapologetic, not-from-concentrate love that he gives with abandon. He still can't stand when we're not in the same room, which is as sweet and beautiful as it is frustrating.
I should mention, though, that I don't think having kids makes you a mother. I think someone is one, or they aren't, regardless of the pitter patter of little feet. I think if you are a caregiver, if you put the wellbeing and happiness of others before your own, if you nurture the people, plants, animals, community around you with all of your heart then you deserve to wear the badge. If you fiercely love a lost child or pregnancy, if you hold the dream of your future baby gently in your arms, if you spend your days trying not to get your hopes up because your entire heart and soul are bound to the child you know you've been promised, you are a mother. You are what makes a mother a mother, and you should know that you are just as fiercely loved and treasured.
I don't really want to get into this too much, but I do want to say that I think now it's time to stop comparing ourselves to other mothers, to movies, swapping "birth stories" and exalting natural labours, putting cloth diapers/breastfeeding/sleep training advice anywhere it hasn't been solicited, and just start loving each other the way our mothers loved us. It's time to love your sister and your mother, your husband and your children, your pets and garden, and everything on the outside or in between, because that is the essence of motherhood. Love so passionate you can see it in someone's eyes, hear it in a kind word, taste it in some home baked cookies. Love so intense it chases you down every time you try to run from it, because you need it and we all need it. Life's too short not to tell the people we love that we love them, to embarrass ourselves with confessions of love and support, out loud, even when it isn't the right time. Because it doesn't often feel like the right time, but it usually is.
If motherhood has taught me anything, it's that I can and do love with all of me.
And all of me deserves to be and is intensely loved.
And whether you're a mother or not, the same goes for you, too.
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