Season of Should

  Should. It’s such a shitty word. “Should” ignores accomplishments in favor of a towering to-do list of impossible tasks and unforgiving criticism. I should spend more time playing with the children. I should stop playing and get that proposal completed. I should shave my legs. I should call my mom. I should work on math with Nathan. I should read more books with Ellie. I should be able to pee alone. I should cook dinner. I should be a better wife.

I didn’t used to be such a should-er. There was a time, B.K. (before kids), when I moved confidently. I worked, I wifed and I friended, without giving much thought to the paths I wasn’t taking. Even when Jon and I made the decision to get pregnant, there wasn’t any waffling. But one quick (and fun!) month and a positive pregnancy test later, the season of should began.

Should I be worried about those three, okay four, beers I had at the cookout last Saturday before I knew I was pregnant? Should I scale back at work? Should we increase our life insurance policies? The first time I walked into Babies R Us, the shoulds hit me with such force that I nearly hyperventilated. When week 36 rolled around and we found out that Nathan had stopped growing, requiring a c-section for his safety and mine, the shoulds were shouting.

I should’ve been more careful. I should’ve drunk less coffee. I shouldn’t have eaten that piece of sushi.

Five pounds of dark-headed perfection couldn’t shake the should monster. He was fine; I was fine – and yet the shoulds still haunted me. It’s as though I failed at my first task of being a mother, at bringing him safely into the world. He made it, but it should’ve been better.

Here I sit, five years and another child later, and the shoulds still linger. But on a good day, I can feel the tease of a shift in seasons close by.

It started 15 months ago, when I was down to my last few days of maternity leave following the birth of our daughter. Instead of going back to work, I quit a job I didn’t enjoy, the one I dreaded returning to. This also meant that we cut our income nearly in half. I fully expected panic and self-doubt to set in, but the shoulds were surprisingly silent. We scrimped and penny-pinched and ate way more spaghetti than I cared for, but within months I’d lined up a part-time job that let me work from home as much (or as little) as I could manage.

The dynamic in our marriage shifted dramatically; no longer were we equals in the workforce and on the home front. Suddenly, Jon was the breadwinner, and I was doing the lion’s share of the cooking, cleaning, laundry and childrearing. For someone as fiercely independent as me, that should have chafed. It should’ve led to arguments and resentments, but instead it just felt … right. While it’s not always an easy choice and some days are downright awful, there’s still an overriding peace that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be at this moment of my life.

In this role, I’m realizing my own strength battling the shoulds when it comes to my children. Take my daughter, Ellie, for example. She should be able to fall asleep on her own every night. We probably ought to bite the bullet and cry it out or ferberize or babywise or some such. But when I hold her close and rock her gently, she falls asleep within minutes. The whirlwind toddler is gone and my baby is back in my arms for a few brief moments. For once, I’m not telling her no and redirecting; I’m giving her exactly what she wants, and gladly. On the heels of the hard days, she and I both need those minutes to fall in love with each other again.

As for Nathan, I learned the other day that he should be able to draw a recognizable stick figure – head, body, limbs, facial features. What he draws most closely resembles a potato with toothpicks jutting out of it (he’s mostly his daddy, but I’m afraid I’ll have to take credit for his art skills, or lack thereof). While he may be lousy at drawing them though, he sees people more clearly than anyone I know. Our conversations at bedtime frequently turn to who was alone on the playground that day at school and why and always end with Nathan’s resolve to invite that child to be his friend the next day. His gentle heart can’t bear another’s loneliness. Being empathetic and kind is effortless to him, and my heart comes near to bursting when I see how well he loves others. A perfectly-rendered stick man could never bring that joy.

That’s the thing about children, though– milestones and shoulds and checklists don’t mean much to them. They revel in what is, without a thought to what could be. They’re perfectly content with who they are. For all that I’m trying to teach them, about letters, numbers and how to treat others, my children are handing out lessons of their own in the school of motherhood.

Perhaps that’s the reason for my newfound confidence, for my release of how things should be and my embrace of how things are. When you spend your days with two little people who are constantly saying new words and learning new skills, you realize how quickly it’s all slipping by. There’s not enough time to both celebrate what is and mourn what isn’t. You’re forced to make a choice … although there was really never a choice at all.

These days are too brief and filled with too much joy, too much love and far too much grace to be held captive to the shoulds. I’ll embrace today and pray for tomorrow, but as for yesterday – I’ll hold tight to the good and let the rest fall away.

When your heart is filled with the light of what is, there’s no room for the darkness of should.

Motherhood is More

This wasn't what I expected. I expected to feel tired. Really, really tired. But only for the first few months until the baby started sleeping through the night (bless me). I did not anticipate the bone deep exhaustion capable of stretching on for years and a sleep deficit so great I fear I'll never truly feel rested again. I didn't know about sleep regressions or consider all the lost nights to teething, sickness, big boy bed transitions, trips away from home and things that go bump in the night. Multiplied by each additional child.

I expected my body to change. I braced myself for softer, lower, stretched. And all of that came, plus eczema and new moles and different hair texture. I wasn't expecting to feel strong, but hefting babies then toddlers then preschoolers does have that small perk. On a related note, I wasn't expecting the back pain.

I expected to know what I was doing after the first child. I forgot that babies are people, each with a personality and likes, dislikes and preferences. I didn't remember that most siblings share very little in common, aside from a gene pool. I wasn't expecting having a second child to be so hard. I wasn't prepared for my tried-and-true soothing methods to fall flat, for my schedule to be useless. I forgot that we would still need to introduce ourselves to one another and find our own rhythm together. I didn't know how hard it would be to learn how to weave those two relationships - the one I had already established with my son and this fresh new one with my daughter - together.

I expected to have good days and bad ones. I had no idea that the good ones would be so good. Little pieces of brightness and heaven beyond anything I knew possible. I had no way of anticipating the darkness of the bad days. The wracking sobs of a mother who feels like she's failing. The bubbling anger and resentment when the patience runs out and the exhaustion overwhelms. The fear when your baby is sick or hurt.

I expected camaraderie. I wasn't the first in my group of friends to have a baby, nor the last. I thought it would be a lovefest of swapped advice and playdates. I didn't expect to feel lonely. Despite a husband who is my partner in every sense of the word and a network of supportive family and friends, motherhood feels like an island sometimes.

I expected the love, although the depth, breadth and ferocity of it still takes my breath away. But it's the drive to protect them, a compulsion stronger even than the love, that I wasn't prepared for. It's the piece of motherhood that terrifies me the most, to be honest. Loosening my grip and letting go a little bit at a time, so they get to live their own lives instead of in the shadows of mine. Understanding that they'll push against my love and protection every step of the way, carving out their own paths. Anticipating how much that will hurt me, to have them bristle at my touch and roll their eyes at my loving words. Knowing that I'll spend the rest of my life hovering on the sidelines, stopping myself from intervening every time I see a risk they don't.

I expected the love, I just didn't know how much it could hurt or what it would cost me. It is brutal, exquisite and bankrupting, this mother's love.

This isn't what I expected. It's more difficult, more exhausting, more beautiful. Simply put, motherhood is more.

Take Your Time

Jon knows that sometimes I struggle a little in my transition to being a (mostly) stay at home mom. I think he knows this because occasionally I text him things like "OMG WHEN ARE YOU COMING HOME; I'M ABOUT TO LOSE MY MIND" at 2 p.m. on a workday. I'm subtle that way. But he encourages me to take time for myself regularly, whether that's to meet friends for dinner or just to escape for a walk alone. And every time I go, he gives me a gift - he tells me, take your time. I love him so much for giving me those three words. And he means them, too. Never once have I gotten a "will you be home soon?" text from him. If I call or text him while I'm out (just to check in, of course), all he will say is that things are fine and for me to take my time.

I had no idea so much freedom could be found in such a short phrase. I wish I had claimed those words sooner. So, in the spirit of paying it forward, I offer the same words to you: take your time, mama.

I hope every mom will embrace it, but especially you new mamas. To the ones home fresh from the hospital with your first tiny little one, take your time. You don't have to know everything about babies right now ... or ever, really. You just have to know yours. So, slow down and get to know her. Memorize the way she smells and how perfectly she fits, nestled against your chest. Watch what she responds to, what soothes her and what agitates her. Don't miss it when yours is the only voice that she'll open her eyes and turn her head for. Marvel over her and take a minute to be downright proud that you made a person.

Get to know yourself as a mom, and your husband as a dad. Be patient - with baby, each other and yourself. Worry not about sleep training, self soothing or getting on a schedule. All of that can come later. In these moments, what matters is that you're becoming a mom. I say "becoming," because I don't think it's something that happens the moment your baby arrives; it's a process. It's a process that can be, simultaneously, the most wondrous and most frustrating thing you've ever experienced. You'll feel more than once like you're losing your mind ... you're not. You're losing your pride, your selfishness, your self-centeredness. You're going to emerge from this refinement a completely different person, stronger, fiercer, more loving and more capable than you ever knew. But going through that - whew. So take your time.

Understand that the moments of frustration and feeling overwhelmed are just that - moments. Though they don't feel like it, they are just as fleeting as the moments of bliss. Babyhood is the land of phases; nothing (good or bad) lasts forever. So take your time, and keep putting one tired foot in front of the other. You will leave the house again, you will sleep again, you will be a real, live human again. I promise.

And don't forget, in all of this, to take YOUR time, too. Listen to yourself carefully, and your body will tell you what it needs: a walk in the fresh air, a mindless wander through Target, a trip through the Starbucks drive thru, a shower, a nap. Take it, and don't feel guilty for it. Even just an hour on your own can bring you back rejuvenated and ready to mom again.

Remember that rushing through the day does not hasten its end. We can't will time to move forward, nor can we call it back again once it's gone. So, take your time. It's only yours to take once.

Opting Out

This week was supposed to be my first week back at work from maternity leave. Instead, I quit last Thursday and, for the moment anyway, am living the life of a stay at home mom. For the record, this was never my plan. I liked the sense of accomplishment and independence that came with holding down a job and earning a paycheck. I liked having something tangible to reflect my hard work.

But things change. I changed. You see, I have a 12 week old daughter who likes to take her naps lying on my chest.  And I have a 3 year old son who likes to make up stories so that I can write them down and help draw the pictures to go with it. And to be honest, I’m tired of missing these things. Not just during the hours at work, but because I wasn’t my best when I came home from work either. Other people were getting the best of my attention, my creativity, my patience. My husband and my kids got what was left. And maybe that’s on me, for not balancing things better. For not having anything left in my tank when I came home at night. But in the end, something had to give, and it ended up being my career.

It’s not an easy choice, mind you. And it's not just the immediate challenges of learning to live on one income and changing my mindset, either. I've read all the articles and studies about the damage that “off-ramping” does to your career and long-term earning potential. I’ve heard the calls to “lean in” and how important it is for women to pursue leadership roles in the workplace. I understand that I may be torpedoing my career with my choice. That’s a tough pill to swallow sometimes, when it’s just me and my thoughts.

But then my son asks, “Mom, can we snuggle?” Or my daughter looks right in my eyes and gives me the biggest grin. And I know that it’s this that I want to lean into. Memorizing the smell of the top of my daughter’s head. The weight of my son’s hand as it clasps mine. It’s not big stuff around here. Some days, it’s mind-numbingly little stuff.  But it’s fleeting, ephemeral - the good and the bad stuff. And for me, in this season of life, I just want to be here for the stuff.