When I was pregnant with Max, I
experienced some of the most joyous moments in my life. Something magical
happened in my group of friends during the summer and fall months of 2015, and
I was one among seven women expecting a new baby. A special intimacy
exists between pregnant women-- a camraderie of support through the feelings and
changes and fears and celebrations. Our tight knit group was full of
love, frequent bathroom trips and all the hormones. We celebrated and
prepared, attending showers and blessing-ways so often that, despite promises of
playmates and cake, my then three-year-old son told me, "I do NOT want to
go to another baby shower, Mom,". We relentlessly dished out and
reluctantly accepted unsolicited advice. We sent frantic texts that usually started
with, "Is it normal..." We wore red yarn bracelets to remind us
of each other, and we lit candles to say prayers for the current mom in
labor. One after another, we met our new tiny humans, and they became woven
into the tapestry of our lives as naturally as if they had always been
here. Our "non-pregnant" friends should be declared saints--
the topics of conversation were all uterii and birth plans and heart rates and
milestones measured in weeks... for over a year. Their patience with our pregnancies pales in
comparison to the fate of having so many friends with small children. Now they endure the subsequent topics of weird
postpartum body things and teething and rashes and sleep regressions and more milestones
(still measured in weeks).
After the 2016 babes were born, we
all kept doing life. But just like a
flock of birds all headed towards the same destination, our once collective
journey began to fork and evolve with individuality. Between birth-days and first birthday parties,
we maintained some semblance of companionship that was a lifeline during our
pregnancies. We spent hours obsessing about breastfeeding and formula
feeding… about disappointments and unmet expectations. We expressed our
gratitude for partner support and our frustration with partner
complacency. We didn't know it would be this hard. We didn't know
we would love them this much. We became
softer—more compassionate and empathetic to the women who made this journey
before us. We never expected that one of
the byproducts of having children would be the necessity to reexamine our own childhoods
through new lenses.
From the moment we met them, our
babies continued to change each day, not unlike our lives. The milestones
recorded in our baby books and the pictures shared on our social media pages
only subtly reflected the magnitude in which we were evolving as mothers… as
humans. When our new babies learned to roll over, so did some of our
relationships. When the first little tooth made its appearance, so did a
new job or caretaker or partner. When our littles started crawling, we
could, in turn, see where we had finally started to adjust to all the
adjusting. And when they had to let go of their bottles, binkies and
cribs, we found ourselves forced to let go of relationships and roles we had
outgrown.
From the moment we met them, our
babies continued to change each day, not unlike our lives. The milestones
recorded in our baby books and the pictures shared on our social media pages
only subtly reflected the magnitude in which we were evolving as mothers… as
humans. When our new babies learned to roll over, so did some of our
relationships. When the first little tooth made its appearance, so did a
new job or caretaker or partner. When our littles started crawling, we
could, in turn, see where we had finally started to adjust to all the
adjusting. And when they had to let go of their bottles, binkies and
cribs, we found ourselves forced to let go of relationships and roles we had
outgrown.
I consider myself an
expert in the practice of naivete that accompanies believing this moment and this feeling will
last forever. When I am happy and free and fulfilled, I'm certain I have
"arrived," and I bask in the assumption I will never experience pain
again. When I feel sad and lonely and lost and scared, I dramatically
resign, “this is just who I am as a person now.” Feelings are never
permanent. Today, I can embrace this as beautiful and redeeming. Just like this horrendous transition between
winter and spring belonging to Ohio’s month of March, eventually the flowers
will appear and the mud will dry.
I am grateful for
those women and how they helped shape me as a mother—how they continue to help
shape me as a woman. Most were there to
celebrate Maxwell yesterday, along with their toddling, talking two-year
olds. We are not as close as we once
were, but I will certainly always hold on to the bond that we so preciously
built during the shared vulnerability of being pregnant. Looking across my decorated kitchen, I know I
was a little quieter than I once was when playing hostess. I looked at each woman there to support my
little Max, and I thought about how different life is for all of us. Change usually terrifies me—but when I have
faith, I can see where most change leads to where I am supposed to be on the
other side. Recently, I heard someone
say, “you have to learn to ride the feelings—not try to change them.” We are different than we were two years
ago. Our lives have changed, our babies
have grown—but we all share the memories that we created during that precious
time in our lives.
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| Mother's Day 2017 |
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