6 Years Late

My mom always  told me that my sense of purpose and reason for living would become immediately clear the moment I saw my baby's face.  She told me the love I'd feel for my child would transform me forever; that it would be immediate and uncontrollable and would shock me like no other moment in my life.  So when Mini was handed to me, seconds-old and beautiful, I waited to feel the ZING!  Nothing.  A few hours later, I held him again and waited, the two of us staring at each other like we'd known each other forever.  I waited, ready for the bolt of lightening to hit me.  It didn't.  I loved him, of course.  He was my little miracle and my life's defining moment to that point, but I wasn't a different person.  My Purpose still wasn't clear.  I assumed I just needed a couple of weeks.  Then months.  Still didn't get it.  When the transformation I'd been promised didn't really happen, I stopped waiting for the lightening bolt and began wrestling instead with the question of whether or not my experience of motherhood was "right."

Mini, a few hours old.  July 3, 2009

For me, motherhood is pretty hard most days.  Being a mom of a child with special needs means I question my mothering even more, because Mini can't be defined through a normal lens of "am I Momming him right or not."  I look around and feel outside the norm of the moms surrounding me.  I feel out of place in Momdom because I assume most moms had that instant moment of clarity after childbirth that I didn't have.  I have never really identified with the sidewalk chalk, the daily excitement of craft planning and playdate attendance, the constant contact, the central-to-the-world, moon around the earth orbit that seemed to be the way successful moms moved around their kids.  I love being with my kids, but I also, guiltily, crave time away from them.  I've assumed other moms don't need refueling like I do.  Honestly, for the last 6 years, I've wondered:  perhaps I don't love my kids enough.  Was I not supposed to sign up for this job in the first place?  Was I simply not selfless enough to be the right kind of mom?  Did I find out in the worst possible way that I should never have been a mom- at the expense of my sweet children who would never have the kind of mother they deserved?

Pumpkin, a few hours old.  April 11, 2012

Perhaps that sounds melodramatic to some.  Perhaps others will read these few paragraphs and wonder, truly, if I should have had children.  But if there is one thing I've learned about being a mom, it's that there is no operating manual.  Each of us has to stare at our little newborn in the eye, and figure out who we can handle being now that we have this enormous responsibility laying in our arms.  It took me 6 years to realize that I have to create the role on my own.  Each of us does.  Mothers are a tribe; it's true.  We connect with one another instantly, we understand each other.  In the airport a few months ago, I offered help to a new mom at airport security and she burst into tears- she'd been terrified to travel alone with her baby and felt so relieved that a fellow mom offered support.  I love being part of this group called Moms.  It is a sacred world full of honesty and truth and power and strength, and it is a gift I relish and don't ever take for granted.  But there are as many methods to motherhood as there are moms.  There's not a prescription.  And friends, THANK GOODNESS there is no prescription.  6 years after Mini was born, I realized that my identity as "mom" isn't a cage.  I was looking at it all wrong.

My identity as mom is the same wide open space I've always lived in.  I'm as free to be who I am- successes, failures, truths, passions, and intensity- as I've always been.  I just have a new piece to work in- Mom. 

It took me 6 years to learn that "Mom" is part of me, but not at the expense of any of the other parts of me.

I have never been a person who is fulfilled by one thing.  Or even a couple of things.  I've never been satisfied with just one group of friends, just one variety of ice cream, just one lone thought in my head.   I am a chameleon, a high-energy, Type A personality. I move easily between three or four conversations at once; sitting on the couch for more than 10 minutes bores me, and there are few tasks that require enough of my brain to actually keep me focused on just one thing for any length of time (Playing the piano?  Cooking?  That's about it).

It's not much of a surprise to learn that I also can't define my life's purpose by any one particular role.  I have many identities that fill my soul, and although I suppose there is a hierarchy, they are all terribly important to me.  Friend, wife, mom, professional, student, chef, athlete, outdoor enthusiast, writer, runner, teacher...  I need to maintain them all.  When people ask (as they frequently do) "Can you even imagine your life without these two beautiful humans?" my answer is always yes.  Yes, of course I can.  I have parts of my life (as small as they may be sometimes) that do not include my children or my identity as "mother."  If I think about it hard enough, I can imagine myself as a happy 39 year old woman who doesn't have kids.  Recently, I went on a 5-day vacation alone.  Someone asked me if I missed Mini and Pumpkin, and I immediately replied "they are having fun and are well-taken care of while I'm away, and so am I."

Three peas in a pod, November 2012

What I've learned is this: my kids are not and will never be all I am.  My kids are in my heart, but they are not my whole heart.  I will be devastated by my children's pain and suffering, and I will be exultant at their successes and joys, but I will not define myself by those successes and failures.  There are pieces of me that I love that my children may never see, and that is okay.  I will fight hard for them, but I will fight harder to teach them how to fight for themselves.  I will seek ways to nurture the parts of me that do not include my children, and they'll not only know that I do, but they will know why.  They will love not only who I am, but they'll love who they become because my world is bigger than they are, and my goal is for their world to be bigger than me.

I spent six years seeking the zing I expected on the day my son was born, and just like the rest of motherhood, it wasn't at all what I expected.  Instead, it is what I needed it to be.  And I'm grateful.