I sat down to write on my (dusty) computer tonight, feeling inspired to really start up on my blog. I finally feel like I have my footing in this whole being a mom thing and I thought to myself “Okay, time to do something productive”…you know, other than keeping a human alive.
But when I sat down to write, a choir of crickets commenced in my brain and I was at a loss for what to write about.
I’m at place right now where I don’t necessarily feel uninspired, but I just don’t feel like I have any knowledge to offer. Who am I, anyways? I’m a mom of a 16-month-old. I’m a mere baby in comparison to the moms out there who have raised teenagers…who are raising 5 under 5…who have 2 biological children & 3 adopted. I’m no one. I have nothing to offer that’s new, noteworthy. All I have is my experience.
And that’s when it came: I need to write MY experience. I don’t have to offer groundbreaking advice or uncover a life-changing product that will help you x, y, or z. I just need to offer my experience of being “mama” so I can connect on a deeply personal level to the ga-jillions of others out there who are just trying to make things work, trying to figure things out, and trying to not mess my kids up. As my current theme song states by the great Bob Marley, I’ve got to be true to myself.
So here it is. My experience. My day-to-day. My struggles. My victories. Everything.
Truth is, motherhood is wacky. I’ve never been so disoriented in my entire life. And that includes the time I tried to be emo in high school.
Every day I wake up and have this mix of feelings that equates to incomprehensible joy that can’t be explained and a sense of dread. As terrible as that may read, I think the dread comes from the fact that I’m now hyper-aware that I have absolutely no control over my life, whatsoever. And I know now that I never have, but before Rowan, I didn’t have to admit to it. It’s just that when he needs something, I can’t put it on the back burner. I can’t sit for another 10 minutes and then get to it. So I guess I’m just not quite to the point of acceptance of that yet.
When I go into my son’s room every morning though, the joy on his face that says “YAY! It’s another day that I woke up and get to play!” makes all the dread cease in an instant. And I remember that I brought this beautiful babe into the world with beast-mode strength so that I get to see his excitement and zest for life day after day.
I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t look forward to bedtime like I looked forward to making a bead necklace when I was 7 (if you know me, crafts were my jam). But then there are days when I just don’t want to put him down because I already miss him even though he’s sitting right there on my lap. Or when he’s lost in the world of play and I can’t stand to interrupt him discovering a new corner of his brain.
This is the struggle. The constant push and pull. The back and forth. The “I need a break” and “I can’t get enough.”
It’s all just so much.
So much love, so much growth. So much.
This is my motherhood. What’s yours?