Posted on | September 29, 2011 | 2 Comments
Sometimes, I think of those days leading up to the birth of Sullivan. And again, the birth of Arlo.
Two of the most defining moments in my life. Aside from the day I married my husband, these are the moments that have made me. Me.
I was terrified. Both times, really, though more so with Sullivan. Not a mothering instinct in my body, so I thought. I am the kind of woman who says, ?Suck it up. Find the solution. Get over it.? These sorts of mottos run through my mind every day, when really, I feel I should be more nurturing and kind. How could I mother? Would my children grow up to be callous and to feel unloved? Unadored?
No. I couldn?t let that happen. Something would have to give.
And it did. The moment I held Sullivan in my arms for the first time, I realized?.Oh. This is what is all about.
It?s not about new clothes and nights out and that college degree. Those things are nice. But they are nothing. They are nothing compared to seeing my husband in my son?s eyes. They are nothing compared to a stolen kiss in the middle of night as I smell my newborn?s head for the millionth time. Nothing.
I wish I could tell my old self that life was going to be better, more beautiful, more fulfilling than I ever could imagine. That I would love my husband more in those moments of new life than I did on the day we stood in front of God and all of creation to proclaim forever. We didn?t know forever yet. This is forever. I wish I could say to that scared girl that I was that, ?Things really will be okay.? That I would cry. That I would rock and rock and rock a baby until I wanted to scream. That sometimes? It wouldn?t be fun. But in the end?things are more than okay. I wish I could tell myself, as I faced the fear of two under two, that the love in my sons? eyes for each other would bring me to my knees. I wish I could tell myself that even though intimacy may change to make room for late night feedings and diaper changes, that nothing would be sexier than watching my husband love our boys.
I wish I could tell my scared self that breastfeeding can be beautiful. That it can be rocky and tiring and frustrating, but beautiful all the same.
I wish I could tell myself that it?s okay to want a clean home, a well-fed family, and to fit back in those pre-pregnancy jeans already, damnit. But I also wish I could tell myself to be kind. To have patience. And to know that, ?This too shall pass,? and I need to soak up every newborn minute.
I wish I could tell myself to pray more, but make your prayers worth it. I pray for the health, happiness, and safety of my family, now. I figure, if we have these three things, what else do we need? I don?t ask God to give us happiness in a certain way?just however he sees fit. I know some happiness has to come from ourselves, and I work to be the best Mother for my children, the best Wife for my husband, and the best ME for myself.
I pray for all the women in the world who want children. I pray that someday, they find the fulfilment motherhood has to offer. Anyone who is ready to stand up and meet this challenge deserves this beautiful joy. I pray for the women I know are struggling to conceive?but also the women who are struggling in private. I pray that they are granted the gift of motherhood. My heart aches for them.
Today, Arlo is ten-weeks-old and Sully is twenty-two-months old. These ten weeks have been a blur (and in some way, these almost two years have flown by), and sometimes I feel like I haven?t absorbed every minute the way I wish I had. Sometimes, I find myself dreaming of the days when my children are slightly older?slightly more self-sufficient. I think of being able to run to the store without mapping out three hours of my life. And I imagine nights that aren?t sleepless and dark. But then, I realize, this time is so short. It only is happening once, and then it vanishes into the air, and I?m left with dim memories of these hazy days. So I bring myself back to this moment. To my now.
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Source: http://exploitsofamilitarymama.com/2011/09/if-i-could-go-back/
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