the hard part

I've only had one dream in my life that has never changed. From the time I was a baby, I wanted to be a mommy. I wanted something to care for and love and to watch grow and to nurture. When I was three, I lined my baby carriage with my mom's hosta leaves so my doll would have a soft place to lay her head. When I was six, I wrote a letter to the Birmingham Zoo asking how I could adopt one of their monkeys. I wanted to feed it a bottle and change its diaper and carry it around my neck. Being a mother is the one thing that I have always wanted, the one control in all of my variables. How did I not know it would be this hard?

I read an article this week that compared the first year of a child's life to the death of a partner, divorce and unemployment. From those surveyed, the consensus was the first year of a child's life is worse for your happiness than any of the other three. Worse than death. Why has nobody said that to me before? A follow up article from NPR suggests it may be so we don't scare all the potential parents so bad that the human race becomes extinct. More likely, it suggests that the first year, in comparison with all the joys that follow, is so small that it just doesn't matter much. It's minuscule and fleeting. I believe that. 

But there is an in-between time of absolute insanity, and I think we have to talk about it more. Maybe it's a little postpartum depression and a little sleep deprivation and a little total loss of identity as we become the life source of something far more precious than ourself. I can write those things, and I can know those things, and I can explain those things to my friends that don't have babies. But there are still moments when scary thoughts creep into my mind. Weird things. Sad things. Mean things. Thoughts that I know are not born out of my heart. 

Having a baby is hard. I need to tell you that. Because you can't see it on my instagram and my "Jack is six month's old today!" facebook posts. Because I didn't tell you in the grocery store and because yes, he does smile a lot. Having a baby is hard because you come home from work and want to change into something comfortable and take a deep breath, but your baby isn't ready to be put down yet (is he ever?). Having a baby is hard because no matter how many times someone tells you, "It's ok to let him cry it out a little so you can take a shower," you'll still jump out of the shower with shampoo in your hair and one leg shaved to pick him up out of his bouncer so he never has to think you won't be there. Having a baby is hard because you can't watch E! News anymore. Because your baby is crawling on your face and he needs to be picked up and put down and he wants his paci and wants the dog to lick it and you to clean it and to cry because you're at the sink and he can't pull your hair. Having a baby is hard because there is no moment when you aren't needed, no moment when the needs of someone else don't come before your own. Having a baby is hard because you will want so badly for your baby to go to sleep so you can sit on the back porch and have a glass of wine with your friends and talk about things that don't matter, and he just won't sleep. Having a baby is hard because you will have feelings of absolute joy when you walk out the door for work on Monday morning, and then wonder what kind of mother could feel that way about leaving her child. And having a baby is hard because you'll discover that it's possible to disagree with your husband about things you didn't even know you had an opinion on, and your mind will make up ways that his innocent comment was actually him telling you that you're not a good mother.

But one afternoon you'll sit on the floor with your baby, and he'll crawl to your lap and pull himself up by your hair. And he'll look into your eyes and behind his paci you'll see a smile start to spread across his face. Because he's looking at the one person who he knows will always pick him up when he cries, and rock him to sleep until he's 5 if he wants, and plan his meals just right so his tummy doesn't hurt and hold him a little tighter when he can't quite figure out how to relax his tiny body and drift to sleep. And in that fleeting moment you'll think that there is a chance that what you're doing might be worth everything you're giving up. 

And one night you'll stay up past your bedtime to lay in bed with your husband and watch old movies and laugh about life again. And right before you close your eyes for the night, you'll think, "I can do all of this again tomorrow."

This one is for the people in my life that encourage me to tell it like it is.