(Remember earlier when I said I would only rarely get heavy? Now is one of those times.)
Yesterday while running (see: walking very quickly) I thought fondly back to the decision making process before getting pregnant with #2 (Let's call her N). I remember a few years back, before having the "Is it time?" conversation with my husband regarding a second baby, I took one of those "Are you ready?" internet quizzes...because, you know, I like to base all my major life decisions off the results of internet quizzes. It threw a question at me that I sincerely had to think about, and for quite a long time. I'm still considering that question today.
Why did I want to be a mom?
At the time, my answer was much different than it would be today, and I probably didn't even have an answer with #1 (We'll call her A). The answer varied from year to year, depending on the very unique time in my life that each of my very unique daughters came. In fact, they weren't all the best times, and if you asked me BEFORE the two lines popped up on that little stick (20 times, just to be sure) I might've even said I wasn't convinced I DID want to do it again.
Let's start with A. It was 2005, I was 18 and I knew everything as most 18 year olds do. I was neither financially secure nor emotionally secure. To put it bluntly I was a bad person. It is what it is. I wasn't ready for a child despite constantly trying to convince those around me that I was. Alas, I did fall pregnant, and due to some poor choices ended up single and dependent on my father.
Why on Earth did I want to be a mom?
It didn't matter. She came, healthy and lovely on one snowy December day. Something snapped in my head, all the problems, all the mistakes I'd made, every person I disappointed, it all faded away the moment she cried that first time. Her tiny presence in the room felt enormous to me, and when they placed her little 7 lb 2 oz person atop my chest, she took my breath away.
The question changes, you see. It isn't why do I want to be A mom.
Why do I want to be HER mom?
I didn't deserve that perfection, all wrapped in pink with a bow glued on her head. I cried for days and days. Nevertheless, she became my anchor to the world, my purpose, my "You can do better than that."
Fast forward several years later. I met my husband when A was 6 months old. She loved him just as much as I did and we married when she was two, he adopted her at age three. When she turned four, we knew it was time. Afterall, the internet quiz had deemed it so, remember? We had jobs, security in our relationship, we were happy. We had a house and a nice car. We could afford a pricey car seat. I had a job where I could bring my children along, so I had plenty of time to spend on a new baby. We were ready. So for the first time, we actively tried to get pregnant. As it turns out, "trying" for us was as easy as a suggestive glance in the same room.
The test came back on a snowy December day, two lines.
I so badly wanted to be THAT baby's mom.
Losing that life was a lead weight atop my chest where he should've been laying; it took my breath away.
What did I do to deserve this? Everyone around me were getting their positive tests, and we had to lose our first together. We were ready, the internet said so. I was a better person, I had become better for A. Why wasn't I good enough for V?
I cried for days and days. I still do.
So it happened that a few months later, after a firm decision to cease and desist with the baby making, that N's two lines popped up. I knew early and I knew without a question. Peeing on a stick was merely a formality. A rocky pregnancy coupled with the understandable fears of a mother who had just recently been forced to say goodbye left me exhausted and emotionally drained every night. Each day I asked myself, how could I possibly love another baby? And every morning I prayed to whoever would listen to let me keep my baby for just one more day.
Why did I want to be a mom?
It didn't matter. She came on a snowy day in December, two weeks late. The moment she was born into her father's hands, scowling and already unimpressed with the world, I felt a weight come off my chest. Every day for nine months, she had taken my breath away.
Why did I want to be HER mom?
Because of her, I learned patience, hope, faith. I learned to let go of things outside of my control. She taught me that you don't lose space in your heart for more children with each one that is bestowed upon you, there is no limit to how much love you have for your babies and that only grows tenfold with each one that comes.
Even though she cried for days and days (and she still does most of the time), I cherish every single minute I spend with her raging little self.
Much too shortly after the hurricane N arrived, I had a funny feeling. I couldn't be sure, but I crossed my fingers for the opposite to be true. You see, recently two people I loved had lost their first babies. One of them only a few weeks prior had announced, very cautiously, another pregnancy. The two lines came up on a chilly morning in May. My life was already filled to the brim; work outside the home at a new job, school three days a week, two other children who demanded my attention whenever I had the time to devote it to them.
Why would I want to be a mom, again?
There were others more deserving. Others with more time than me, more resources, someone who hadn't yet been allowed to experience the soul shaking love that is your very first child. This was not my time. Could not be my time. I cried for days and days before finally breaking the news.
A picture perfect and predictable pregnancy yielded us precious W. She came on just the right day, cold and dark, in January. There was very little work involved in her entrance to the world, and as I held her peaceful countenance against my chest, she took my breath away. (Quite literally. I had some seriously uncomfortable issues with trying to breathe.) She never cried until she left my arms when I needed to stand and move to the bed. Her breaths were deep, her skin pink and flawless.
Why did I want to be HER mom?
Over the short time she has been with us, she has shown me just how strong and resilient I can be. As with the others, once she was here the question was no longer if I wanted to be a mom or why. The question became, could I possibly live without any single one of them? They complete me, but not in that "there's a void in my life that I hope a cute little baby can fix" kind of way but in the kind of way that when two whole people come together in love they become something immeasurable, something greater together than they were apart. Each of my children has driven the potential of what was a simple life higher and higher, because in love anything is possible. To have someone I'd give my life to protect has been so powerful, and when I allow myself to be consumed by the emotional vastness of it all, it's almost too much to handle.
No matter what the answer is at this or that point in my life (or any other mother's, I imagine), the simple fact stands:
It's not that I want to be A mother.
I want to be THEIR mother.
I was meant to be their mother.
And that takes my breath away.
Absolutely beautiful.
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