On Motherhood- and Some Other Things.

My son still wants me to hold his hand as he falls asleep.  

He will be three in a week.  

I know what people think about that- so many have offered their opinion.  But at the end of the day- at the end of every long day- there is going to be a time in the not too distant future when he doesn't care if I'm in there, out here, inside-outside-upsidedown. 

So for now, for as long as he wants and lets, I will hold his hand.  

I came out swinging last week, reentering the blogosphere with a lot of information without a lot of context. Go ahead, read that sentence again, I don't blame you.  The fact is, I am in the mood to write tonight and while there is an obvious choice of topic, I am making the easier choice.  

Because it has been a hell of a week and I need a break.

So- let's start with the whole 'had a baby' thing. 

I didn't know, I still don't know to be honest, what kind of mother I would be.  I didn't spend the duration of my pregnancy starry-eyed, holding my belly with mother-earthen anticipation and dreaming of my future child.  We elected to wait to find out the gender until the creature's illustrious arrival so I had no way of knowing who to talk to, or how to talk to it.  (Last night he and I talked at length about the airline seating arrangement of a Heffalump, the Gruffalo, a baby shark (actual - not PinkFong), and a dragon.  How things have changed).  Instead I spent it committing every cardinal sin- eating sushi, doing inversions until my MFM Doc told me to stop, adopting a puppy.  

You know. 

Like you do. 

I don't remember them handing him to me in the hospital, but I will never forget the first time I held my son.  I can't fathom what inspired it, but the first time he smiled is imprinted on my soul- he was only hours old. 

I don't ever recall reading about how the amount of laundry in a postpartum household increases exponentially.  

I have no idea the moment it happened, whether it was in that critical moment of reality, or later- maybe after my first uncontrollable weeping when I could not comfort him and he and I finally came to a sort of understanding- but I love being a mom.  His mom specifically, but a mom.  

Don't get me wrong I have my moments, and he has his.  I don't want to feel shame, but I do, in admitting that they happen more often than I like.  But that is honesty and transparency for you.  Oh- and I have tantrums to rival his own.  Even his own terrible twos.  But he is the brightest star in my universe- as warm as flame and as wild.  He's my feral boy and my cuddle buddy and honestly there are some mornings when he is the only reason I get out of bed.  

He is the reason that food goes in my system every day.  

He keeps me.  

The thing that no one prepares you for- not one book, not one blog, not one class or course or comment, is the depth of feeling that you drown in every day.  As a mama, mommy, mom.  The way it feels when they call for you in happiness, or in sadness, or in pain.  The way they make you.  

How their innate goodness, openness, indiscriminate interest in everything- how their joy makes you want to be so much more than you have ever been.  

How when they open their hand to yours, it is an endless gift.  

An endless, tremendous gift.