quick fire challenge
A pregnant friend asked me today if I had any motherly wisdom to share with her as she prepares for her first child.
(Clearly she must be pretty hard up for advice.)
I'm only a couple of years into it, but I’ve learned, at the very least, that my truths are only that - mine. There are so many common themes to motherhood, and to parenthood, but it’s inconsiderate at best - and emotionally crippling at worst - to pin your experiences on another mother as if you alone can see the roadmap to her future.
So I held back the flood of feelings and memories and regrets, and gave her the safe advice instead. Bring your own towel and some soft, comfy pajamas to the hospital. Stock up your pantry and freezer with easy meals. When someone offers to do anything to help - to hold the baby, or wash your dishes, or make a grocery run - let them.
Take turns on poopy diapers whenever you can. In my house, “poop debt” is a legitimate state of being that can lead to all manner of unpleasant consequences.
If you’re keeping score on poop debt, you also need a rating system. Sometimes, especially early on, you’ll get one that’s bad enough to be classified as a two-fer.
Then there’s the generic philosophical advice you read in every mommy blog that your friends post to Facebook.
Trust your instincts. Even the mother who looks perfect from the outside is making tough judgment calls and only doing the best she can at any given time.
Sleep when the baby sleeps. No, seriously. Let go of the ideals - and hell, the standards - that you’ve had in your head up till now. The dishes in the sink won’t get up and walk away if they sit for a day or two. Showering daily is more of a luxury than a necessity.
Bras are for people who don’t need to feed a hungry newborn every 90 minutes.
Get over your bad self.
Are you a zombie? Yes. Yes, you are. And it’s going to go so fast, and you’re going to look back on it wistfully while at the same time wondering how you survived.
And you’re probably going to cry the first time you pack away clothing that your baby has outgrown.
It’s all true. But none of it really prepared me for the heart-bursting, soul-sucking melee of motherhood.
So if I could look back at Stacey two years ago, and tell her what she needed to know, here it is:
It’s going to make you bigger and smaller than you have ever been, at the same time. On the one hand, you will love your body and your soul more than you ever have, because you will see yourself do extraordinary things that you never believed possible. You will nurture life. You will dangle from the precipice of utter exhaustion, hanging on by your fingernails for as long as you have to. You will find patience, and selflessness, and tenderness for even the most insignificant things. You will fall desperately in love with a sneeze, a wriggle, or even a wayward fart, and it will happen a thousand times a day.
At the same time, you won’t be able to ignore everything that you aren’t. Your own shortcomings will loom into sharp relief alongside everything that you suddenly realize your child deserves. You will want to be the best person in the world, and for all your sudden transformation, you will still just be Stacey. And sometimes you’ll resent it all, and miss the days when things were simpler. Sometimes you’ll wonder if the person you were before is lost forever, and if everything in your existence is reduced to this one title: Mommy.
And you’ll hate yourself for not embracing that with your whole heart for every minute of every day, because that’s what he deserves.
But he will love you enough each day to put those broken pieces back together. And you’ll soak that in, and promise yourself that you’ll be a better person tomorrow.
Despite your best efforts, you’ll still worry about what other people think. You’ll want everything from his clothing to his diet to his birthday parties to demonstrate the depth of your feeling for him, your dedication to nurturing him and making him feel loved. People will tell you it doesn’t matter, and they will probably be right, but you won’t always know how to let go.
And that’s okay, too - if and only if you can keep all the bullshit from infringing on the little ways that you show love.
That’s where your bread and butter is in this motherhood thing, Stacey. It’s not the photos or the playdates or uber creative pinterest-inspired activities. It’s the tickle fights, the laughing fits over nothing, the way you and your husband tear up to hear him humming My Neighbor Totoro. It’s in the ways that you learn to be present, to finally put down the damn cell phone, and read your least favorite Eric Carle book for the hundredth time this week because he asked you to. Because having him sit in your lap and smile up at you reminds you that all this other stuff in life - all the things we use to fritter away our time and numb our minds - only drains us.
Being a mother, being Tim’s mother, refills your cup every day. And being Owen’s mother is going to be just as beautiful, even if some of the details are different.
Don't worry. You're ready.
therealljidol week 36: open topic
(Clearly she must be pretty hard up for advice.)
I'm only a couple of years into it, but I’ve learned, at the very least, that my truths are only that - mine. There are so many common themes to motherhood, and to parenthood, but it’s inconsiderate at best - and emotionally crippling at worst - to pin your experiences on another mother as if you alone can see the roadmap to her future.
So I held back the flood of feelings and memories and regrets, and gave her the safe advice instead. Bring your own towel and some soft, comfy pajamas to the hospital. Stock up your pantry and freezer with easy meals. When someone offers to do anything to help - to hold the baby, or wash your dishes, or make a grocery run - let them.
Take turns on poopy diapers whenever you can. In my house, “poop debt” is a legitimate state of being that can lead to all manner of unpleasant consequences.
If you’re keeping score on poop debt, you also need a rating system. Sometimes, especially early on, you’ll get one that’s bad enough to be classified as a two-fer.
Then there’s the generic philosophical advice you read in every mommy blog that your friends post to Facebook.
Trust your instincts. Even the mother who looks perfect from the outside is making tough judgment calls and only doing the best she can at any given time.
Sleep when the baby sleeps. No, seriously. Let go of the ideals - and hell, the standards - that you’ve had in your head up till now. The dishes in the sink won’t get up and walk away if they sit for a day or two. Showering daily is more of a luxury than a necessity.
Bras are for people who don’t need to feed a hungry newborn every 90 minutes.
Get over your bad self.
Are you a zombie? Yes. Yes, you are. And it’s going to go so fast, and you’re going to look back on it wistfully while at the same time wondering how you survived.
And you’re probably going to cry the first time you pack away clothing that your baby has outgrown.
It’s all true. But none of it really prepared me for the heart-bursting, soul-sucking melee of motherhood.
So if I could look back at Stacey two years ago, and tell her what she needed to know, here it is:
It’s going to make you bigger and smaller than you have ever been, at the same time. On the one hand, you will love your body and your soul more than you ever have, because you will see yourself do extraordinary things that you never believed possible. You will nurture life. You will dangle from the precipice of utter exhaustion, hanging on by your fingernails for as long as you have to. You will find patience, and selflessness, and tenderness for even the most insignificant things. You will fall desperately in love with a sneeze, a wriggle, or even a wayward fart, and it will happen a thousand times a day.
At the same time, you won’t be able to ignore everything that you aren’t. Your own shortcomings will loom into sharp relief alongside everything that you suddenly realize your child deserves. You will want to be the best person in the world, and for all your sudden transformation, you will still just be Stacey. And sometimes you’ll resent it all, and miss the days when things were simpler. Sometimes you’ll wonder if the person you were before is lost forever, and if everything in your existence is reduced to this one title: Mommy.
And you’ll hate yourself for not embracing that with your whole heart for every minute of every day, because that’s what he deserves.
But he will love you enough each day to put those broken pieces back together. And you’ll soak that in, and promise yourself that you’ll be a better person tomorrow.
Despite your best efforts, you’ll still worry about what other people think. You’ll want everything from his clothing to his diet to his birthday parties to demonstrate the depth of your feeling for him, your dedication to nurturing him and making him feel loved. People will tell you it doesn’t matter, and they will probably be right, but you won’t always know how to let go.
And that’s okay, too - if and only if you can keep all the bullshit from infringing on the little ways that you show love.
That’s where your bread and butter is in this motherhood thing, Stacey. It’s not the photos or the playdates or uber creative pinterest-inspired activities. It’s the tickle fights, the laughing fits over nothing, the way you and your husband tear up to hear him humming My Neighbor Totoro. It’s in the ways that you learn to be present, to finally put down the damn cell phone, and read your least favorite Eric Carle book for the hundredth time this week because he asked you to. Because having him sit in your lap and smile up at you reminds you that all this other stuff in life - all the things we use to fritter away our time and numb our minds - only drains us.
Being a mother, being Tim’s mother, refills your cup every day. And being Owen’s mother is going to be just as beautiful, even if some of the details are different.
Don't worry. You're ready.
therealljidol week 36: open topic