ON MOTHERING, OR NOT.

As my years and experiences in this life add up, I feel a heaviness surrounding the celebration of Mother's Day. I wrestle with how I can best lend an ear or a shoulder to those I know who struggle with the role that motherhood has played in their lives. I shed tears with the couples close to me that must accept the frustrating and heartbreaking news of a negative pregnancy test each month. I lament with the friends and family who have had to say goodbye to their babies before even a look was exchanged. I pray that no one I know should have to face the devastating news that it is time to say goodbye to their infant or child.

Today, my dear friends, I think of you. I struggle, deeply, with the guilt of knowing that I have been blessed with something that you long for. I ask your forgiveness for the times in which I have taken my role of motherhood for granted, especially in your presence, and thank you for how gracious you have been in the midst of my shortsightedness and selfishness. I am so very grateful for the ways that you have mothered me and my own children -- we need you. Whether you are a mother, or you desperately long to someday be one, or have chosen another vocation entirely, I lend my support as you discern your identity and purpose both in and outside of motherhood. 

MY PILLAR OF MOTHERHOOD.

"The most difficult part of birth is the first year afterwards. It is the year of travail - when the soul of a woman must birth the mother inside her. The emotional labour pains of becoming a mother are far greater than the physical pangs of birth; these are the growing surges of your heart as it pushes out selfishness and fear and makes room for sacrifice and love. It is a private and silent birth of the soul, but it is no less holy than the event of childbirth, perhaps it is even more sacred." - Joy Kusek

Being a mama is hard. Being a mama is frightening. I love my son so much and so many of my moments with him are immeasurably precious. But I have always valued self care -- my time alone. I value my time with my husband. I value time with friends. But it seems that there aren't enough minutes -- seconds even -- in the day to honor each one of these very important parts of my life.

People told me before Finnegan was born that motherhood was a path to holiness. It's not that I didn't believe them, it's that it wasn't until the moment he was born I completely got it. From the moment he slid from womb to world, he has consumed my thoughts and prayers, often in spite of my best efforts. In this way, every minute of my day has become a test -- him or me, him or my husband, him or anything else I can fill my mind with.

Continuously putting someone before myself is painful. I often wonder what of it is instinctual and what is rooted in cold, shivering fear. I wonder what threads woven through my cloth make me mama material (sometimes I wonder if there are any) and in what ways I will never be the mama that I want for my son because I will never unbury myself from underneath one hang up or another. I have opted to make Finnegan my decision. He is my answer. If I am not sure what is right, I ere on the side of serving my son. I can't not put Finnegan before all things -- myself, and yes, even my husband -- because I'm so afraid of failing at this very important task. I think that this fear stems mostly from a terribly painful love, but it puts me in a precarious situation where I feel as though everything else but this single pillar, the pillar of motherhood, will be completely destroyed and come crashing down around me and it is all I will have left.

HELP. HELP! HELP?

The other day I was sitting around a table with a group of women and Finny was having an especially hard time staying calm.  When I fed him, he squirmed, yelped, latched, unlatched, latched, and unlatched.  When he finally finished eating, he didn't get his usual full-tummy smile or glazed over look, but continued to wriggle in his discomfort.  In other situations I might have felt slightly embarrassed by creating a distraction, but all of these women were also mothers and didn't seem to be phased by Finn's whimpers.   I rocked him and kept him moving but tried to focus my attention on the conversation around me.  (I will continue to be a conversational adult!  I will interact with other people and look them in the eye!)  After a while (and much to my surprise) a woman sitting close by asked me if I'd like her to try to calm him down.  I didn't know what the right answer was.  If I said no, was I being rude to let Finn continue to distract from the conversation?  If I said yes, was I admitting that I was in over my head and didn't know how to care for my baby?  But I wanted to say yes and I didn't know how to say no.  And so into her arms he went.  Finn calmed down fairly quickly, meanwhile I tried to put off relaxed, totally engaged vibes, when instead I was running a million miles an hour in my head and looking at him out of the corner of my eye:  How bad does it make me look that I don't want to "be there" for my baby right now?  How incompetent am I that she, this stranger to my baby, was able to calm him so quickly?  At what point am I taking advantage of this help and should offer to take him back?  Does anyone else think this hard about everything?

SWING GUILT.

Finny really doesn't fuss a ton.  He has his sad, gassy moments where he wriggles and squirms. Sometimes he keeps himself up crying even though he's just crying about how tired he is.  His sweet, mellow little face somehow contorts into this beet red little square that makes him completely unrecognizable.  Praise the good Lord that I'm blessed with a pretty content, forgiving baby, because whenever he cries I am completely overtaken with anxiety.  My body tenses and I drop whatever I'm doing to shuffle through the different soothing techniques that I'm familiar with:  bouncing, swinging, swaying, put him on is back, put him on his belly, rock him on his side, pat his butt, try to burp him, bicycle kicks, offer him the opportunity to nurse, check his diaper, move to another room, add clothes, take clothes off, put him in his car seat.  Eventually he calms and I think I feel much more relief than he does.  I survived another one.  I made it through.  I did it.  I did it.  I did it. These successes haven't yet begun to build my confidence as a mother.  I still feel like I'm in the survival mode that set in the moment the three of us were loaded into the car and sent on our way from the hospital.