Timing

I have been thinking a lot lately about timing. If I had had my way, I would have become a mother somewhere around age 25 or 26. Instead, I was 31 when I had my son. That was 5-6 years of aching, crying, praying; 5-6 years of mixed anger, hurt, frustration, bitterness; 5-6 years of having a longing and an ache so deep that my heart, which had always loved children, could scarcely bear to witness a new mother's joy. Five to six years that I often, in my deepest despair, thought would become the norm for the rest of my life - always on the outside, never blessed to know the joy and ache of motherhood.

Now that I am on the other side of that, now that my longing to be a mother has been fulfilled, I realize that, for Elijah's sake, it is better that I did not get my way and become a mother by 26. I am a much different mom now than I would have been then. Before, I lived in a very black-and-white world, where there was only one right way to do things. I was rigid. I was judgmental. If I'd been a parent then, I think I would have been more authoritarian. During those years of bitterness and longing to have a child, I was also in the throes of blended family hell - something that is all too common today, to no one's benefit and everyone's detriment. Not a good time to welcome a child into the world.

Somewhere in the time between when I wanted to be a mom and when I became one, I (thankfully) grew up a bit. I became softer, less rigid, less black-and-white, more gray. I looked around me and I learned from seeing other parents in action, both good and bad. I learned that it's okay for parents not to be right all the time; that children respect parents who listen to them. I discovered that there is a balance between letting your child rule the household and being a parent who rules with an iron fist. I discovered that I am okay with learning from my son and that trusting my instincts is fine. There is a balance between knowing what is developmentally normal among groups of children and knowing what your own individual child needs. That structure and routine is good, but that rigid, defined, arbitrary scheduling makes no sense if it ends up totally negating what you're trying to accomplish with having a schedule in the first place (providing a predictable environment so that your child feels secure.) How can a child feel secure if his voice isn't being heard? I have learned from my son that touch, comfort, is just as important as eating and sleeping. If my child is afraid at night, or upset, or doesn't feel good, I have learned that I am completely okay with letting him sleep with us. His hands reach out in his sleep, searching for our warmth. When he feels us, he calms. I don't think I would have done that 6 years ago. I wouldn't have trusted my instincts; I would have trusted the books.

I am not perfect. I fail every day. But I do believe I am a much better mother to my son today than I would have been if I'd gotten my heart's desire earlier. My longing, my despair, my pain molded me into someone both softer and stronger, more confident and willing to trust myself while at the same time more willing to admit that I don't have all the answers. Above all, I think those years of waiting caused me to treasure my son more than I would have otherwise. It is human nature that my son will probably never appreciate this, because, God willing, he will never know any differently. But that's okay. It's enough that I know and can see some of the reasons that I had to wait. He was more than worth it.

Weary

Today was one of those days that I just wanted to pull the blankets over my head and stay in bed all day, or maybe run away to the beach and just lay in the sun, pretending that I could actually do that without getting burned to a crisp in the first 10 minutes. Instead I feel myself going through familiar motions, counting down the hours until Jack is done with work and can take over the parenting duties, giving me a half hour or so to myself before bedtime.

I am TIRED. So very, very tired. I hate being so tired; I become impatient, short-tempered, irritable. I don't respond to my son the way I should, don't interact with him the way that I want to. I'm not able to be the mother that I feel he deserves. I fail to see things from his perspective and instead see only that things are loud, messy, and making me even more exhausted. How sad this is to me, because in the midst of the daily noise and mess, there are such beautiful moments that I am guilty of overlooking or missing entirely when I am so bone-weary.

Last night was a rough night. Jack is sick and slept on the couch so that his coughing wouldn't keep me awake. (I offered to sleep on the couch, but he said no.) Instead of getting a restful night's sleep in bed by myself, though, Elijah woke up around 11 crying. Since I was about to go to sleep, I just got him and brought him to bed with me. He was restless, crying out a lot. He kicked me in the face repeatedly, and cried when I rolled over so he could kick my back instead. His restlessness disturbed the dog who sleeps in our bed, and he whined to be let out of the bedroom around 1. I let him out and left the door open in case he wanted to come back in at some point. One of the cats wandered in instead around 2:30 or 3 and began meowing loudly. I kicked her out and shut the door. Elijah kicked me in the face some more, and cried again when I rolled over so he could kick my back instead. At around 6:45 Elijah was up for the day, climbing over me to get off the bed. Today was a typical day in the life of a stay-at-home mom and a busy toddler. Elijah was constantly bouncing from one activity to another, unable to sit still, climbing onto the tables, pulling objects off of shelves, dropping Play-Dough onto the floor, spilling pretzels all over the floor, throwing his lunch to the dogs, ripping up paper, coloring on the table, chewing on my phone, etc., etc., etc.

Around 3:00, I was done. I was tired of sweeping up messes, tired of picking up stuff off the floor. I was in the mode of "let him do whatever and just clean it all up later," sitting on the couch with my iPad, desperate for 5:00 so Jack could take over for a bit. Elijah was in his room playing and I was clinging to the tiny bit of relative peace I had. I heard Elijah's tiny little footsteps moving from his room into the living room and I groaned inwardly, my island of quiet not having lasted nearly long enough. I looked up to see him walking toward me with a very pleased, proud expression on his face. He was holding a plate from his toy kitchen set. He'd put one single pretzel on the plate and was holding the plate very carefully, walking very, very slowly so as not to drop the pretzel. When our eyes met, his face broke into a huge grin and he held the plate out very carefully to me, showing me what he'd done. So proud.

Finally my sluggish brain caught up and I saw... my baby, growing up right in front of my bleary eyes. Showing me his latest accomplishment, seeking approval and recognition of what a super amazing cool thing he'd just done.

As he rushed off before I could even snap a non-blurry picture of his proud face, I wondered... what else did I miss today? And I remembered... last night, yes, he kicked and cried. But there were times that he cried out and I put my arms around him and whispered, "Ssh, it's okay, baby. Mommy's here. I'm right here." And he calmed instantly. What a gift, to soothe a teething child back to sleep with so little effort. What a gift even to have a child. This morning, when I coughed and he said, "Bwess you, Mommy." When I went to let the other dogs out of their kennels and he chased after me, yelling, "Help you, Mommy!" When he gave me each piece of silverware out of the dishwasher so I could put them away. The mischievous grin when he climbed into my lap and put his finger on my lips, saying, "Touch your mouth!" When he slipped behind me, wrapping his arms around my neck; then, "Shoulders!", asking me to put him up on my shoulders so he could be "tall" like Mommy. (Alas.) Hearing him practice the words to so many of his songs, realizing that his brain is processing nonstop.

So many more... So many more moments not seen, not appreciated, because of the fog of mom-tired I find myself in lately. How sad that the tiny little miracles in every day of motherhood can be missed entirely because of something as mundane as lack of sleep. And yet this exhaustion is something every mother knows all too well. It's almost THE defining feature of parenthood, the cliché every expectant mother and father hears... "You'll never sleep again!" It's true... we are so tired.

How do we fix it? Will we ever be able to embrace it as the price to pay for seeing miracles of our own flesh and blood every day? For watching these small versions of us - almost like us, yet so very different - learn and grow and become, feeling our hearts expand with each new accomplishment? How can I train myself to see the ups of motherhood daily, hourly, instead of getting lost in the downs? I don't know. I just hope that I can learn to adapt to the tiredness, so that I can love my son the way he deserves, so that I can recognize at least some of the wonder every day in his all too brief childhood.