This Journey of Motherhood
For ten years, I have been a mother; in another ten years, my eldest will be twenty. I am not quite sure where the time has gone. Although, if I look back at the woman I was when I first gave birth and the woman I am now, I can see a difference, and not just in physical ways.
We are rarely prepared for our journey before we begin taking steps. Only now, at thirty-five, do I feel equipped to be a good mother, and yet I have only acquired those skills by raising my three daughters. They have taught me far more in ten years of day-to-day motherhood than I would have otherwise been able to learn.
And yet as my daughters grow older (they all sleep through the night, bathe themselves, feed themselves, buckle themselves into the minivan, and generally keep their shared room clean), I find that each step toward their independence brings with it a certain level of grief.
I ran into a friend the other day who I hadn’t seen in years. She had a precious baby girl with her who looked about six months old but was only six weeks. Since we’re both doulas, she began to share her birth story with me. At one point, I cried, “I get back labor, too!”
But then I thought, I used to get back labor. Used to. That season of birth is behind me.
The irony of this grief is that I was once terrified to become a mother. With my firstborn, I didn’t want to relinquish my independence. With my second born, I was afraid because I had miscarried three months before and was told to be careful during the first trimester. With my third daughter, I knew my husband would more than likely need brain surgery again, and it felt almost foolish to bring another child into the world when I feared becoming a single mother.
Yet now that I am a mother, I cannot imagine my life without my children. The late nights and early mornings and sicknesses and frustrations may have diminished my energy, but they have also increased my capacity for love. I am sure I would say the same thing for each child I would have, which, of course, only makes me want to have more.
The crazy part about this grief is that the newborn season isn’t even my favorite. I loved my children from the moment I knew of their conception, but I only began to enjoy them once they were around the six-month mark. Toddlers are my sweet spot, and whenever I see a dimpled, rosy-cheeked toddler clomping around in such a proud way, you know they have recently started walking, I want to have three more babies.
But I do realize that those toddlers will grow into girls, those girls into young women, and then those young women (I assume I would have more girls because that’s what we make), will eventually leave our home, and I will be experiencing the grief I am experiencing now.
I don’t want to lose sight of this precious season while yearning for a season we have already left. Though we can no longer all cuddle on the rocking chair while reading board books, we are reading chapter books that evoke far more excitement and discussion. Though I no longer have a baby in my tattered Ergo carrier, I am walking alongside my daughters as they become young women. Though I no longer have to spoon feed my children, they are learning to help me in the kitchen so that one day they can feed themselves and their own families.
Their independence—their ability to thrive without me—is my foremost goal, even if each step toward that independence brings with it a certain level of grief, and so I will let go of them, release them, each bittersweet step along the way.
Do you find yourself holding on tighter or prayerfully letting go as your children prepare for their independence?
