THE MOTHERHOOD PARADOX (AND IT'S ACCEPTANCE)
God gave you a baby. And for the record, life was made. Everything that you ever wanted out of love, was here, in the form of a tiny human being whom you have the pleasure of feeding, raising, and smothering with kisses for the rest of your life.
Then after some time, and perhaps some relationship hiccups, and or fertile issues, God gave you another baby. Maybe even two. Holy shit. This is your life and how did you get so lucky?
A year passes and despite the strength you possess because you are a bonafide bad ass, you hit the tidal wave of motherhood. And it’s hard. Seemingly impossible. But you buckle up tight, you do the work, you continue to pray that you can rally and you do.
And then one day, you wake up, have your coffee, have your second coffee, your egg, a smoothie, feed the kids, make the lunches, get the kindergartener off to school, come home, clean up the kitchen, wipe up the oatmeal floors, throw in a load of laundry, make another coffee and sit down with your twin toddlers. Everything is bliss. You’re a boss. Completely satisfied, but moreover, proud of yourself for getting it right and getting it done. You play with the babies while they get along like little angels, you snack and giggle while you catch the luminous blue sky from the corner of your eye and the weather looks like it's finally turning around for the better. The husband sends a text saying “have a great day, I love you.” You are absolutely nailing it. Winning. Then you open the fridge to get some almond milk to froth and you suddenly see a reminder that your daughter is supposed to bring her favorite stuffed animal to school today. And wallah, you’ve completely fucked up.
The motherhood paradox. Confusing, invigorating, enigmatic, It's the thing we never seem to get past. It’s just stuck there for life. Kinda like the freckle stuck on your hip that simply cannot come off. It's strange, it's cute, but it doesn't make sense. It really has no business being on your hip. But it's there, and sometimes you like it, and sometimes you wish you could rub it off with nail polish remover. The paradox of motherhood is kind of the same. You see, there is no perfection in your motherhood game and for some reason it seems like it takes multiple catastrophes to even get on board with the idea that motherhood is just this way. This way. The motherhood way. The endless contradiction. Endless. It was designed intentionally this way. Because mothers were designed to be able to handle the juxtaposition of highs and lows and everything in between all while looking fabulous and strong at the same time. And we do. Boy, do we ever.
If it isn’t one thing with one child, it’s with the other. Or it’s with the schedule. Or your husband’s schedule. Or how dinner is made when you desperately need to do your weekly practice of yoga so you can simply devote some time to you. It’s macaroni and cheese for the win. It’s throw some broccoli in there and call it a day. It’s throw some organic chicken nuggets in the oven, but if your husband microwaves them, it’s still ok, because he’s still feeding them. It’s all ok. The kids are alright. Because in the end, you’re getting it done. And by the grace of God you make it to yoga, you unleash your bad juju and come out cleansed and a bit clear headed. And you cry, because you just gave yourself permission to love yourself. That's right, permission to love yourself.
That’s me. I’m you. And this give and take, this need for perfection and yet common presence of imperfection is hanging from the ceiling on the daily. And what I’m beginning to grasp as I evolve as a woman and a mother, is this. I am ok with how life is. A little blurry at times, often not making perfect sense like I prayed for as a child, but when I see the moment of life as it is at this very moment while my twin toddlers sleep sound in this warm clean house and their lungs are operating correctly, it all makes sense. I have 3 children of my own, whose hearts are beating in rhythm, healthy and calm. My own breath, often rushed with anxiety from not getting right, is silently flowing. It’s grateful. I’m still breathing. Still loving. Still able. And when I get so high from this rush of love, I don’t ever wanna come down. But then life happens, and gravity and reality pull me right back into place where I belong. Where I stay steady, and strong.
I’m not sure there ever will be anything in life quite as mystifying as the motherhood paradox, or as frustrating at times, but I have to wonder, aren’t we the lucky ones to be sitting right here in the middle of it at all?