Motherhood

“Our children don’t make us who we are; they reveal who we are.”

It’s been a while since I’ve written. Since then, E has continued to grow in chubby wonder. She gnaws on her fists like a lion with a bone. She punches out her belly, tucks in her chin, and grins from ear to ear when we smile at her. She drools like a madwoman, bubbles and rivers of spit joyfully streaming down her chin (and all over my shirt).

She looks at us and makes strange coo-ey sounds while gesticulating wildly, like someone trying desperately hard to say something. She stares with intense concentration at the same dangling toy every day, as if she hadn’t just seen it three seconds ago. Wow! There it is AGAIN!

Being constantly with her at home is wonderful but also incredibly difficult. The world would probably be more impressed by medicine than motherhood—wow, you cut into people? Memorized all that stuff? Took all that call? But I just want to say—this is so much more difficult. How strange we have it all backwards. I don’t think I would have understood it myself were I not here.

She is so demanding. There is no stopping, no half-way. I look at pictures of her and miss her even while she’s sleeping, but then when she’s awake I can’t wait until the next nap. I feel suffocated at times being with her all the time, but dread sending her to daycare. There are moments when I feel like my head will split apart with the ache if I have to hear her cry one more time, or worry about her crying when we go out. When I just want to be able to take a break when I feel like it.

In all this I suppose I learn that there is no such thing as natural unconditional love. I love her for who she is, for who she can’t help being. But I also sometimes resent her, get tired of her, get angry at her. Parenting is too unending, too demanding, for me to keep up any type of act or pretense.

In some ways it’s similar to marriage, the sort of in-your-face relationship that makes you confront the uglier parts of yourself. But she’s not consciously giving me anything back. She’s perhaps less forgiving, certainly less flexible. She’s not telling me anything. It’s me figuring it out myself, walking into the aimless, empty place that’s left after I’ve given all I can will myself to do.

I guess in the end, motherhood is not really about me. It’s not there to make me happy, fulfilled; she’s not some cute accessory, not there to define my worth or fulfill my dreams. She’s here because for some wacky reason God has figured me the best person to carry out this ministry, to serve her in a way that will hopefully change the kingdom and leave some legacy. I don’t do it for her, or myself, or my husband; I have to do it for Him, or I will never see it for the privilege it is. This is what I tell myself, and when I can really believe it, it is terribly freeing.