Motherhood: Apply within.

As a 44 year old mother of a kindergartner, I think it’s safe to say I waited until I was READY to have a child.  My strategy was simple. I thought if I waited, raising a child would be easier.  I would be mature and prepared and therefore NEVER be caught off guard without a wet wipe and forced to use my own spit on a paper napkin to clean the leftover Oreo that had travelled from the corner of my toddlers mouth to the entire lower half of his face. No I would NEVER be one of THOSE moms. I had it together. I had waited, which, in society,  somehow translates into wisdom that protects us from having the dreaded children our parents hexed upon us with that old saying: “I hope you have 5 of them JUST LIKE YOU!”  6 years later I’ve realized it doesn’t really matter when you decide to have children, how prepared you think you are or even how great your kids are-Bottom line: being a parent is hard work.

I remember when my son Marco was born-the cord hadn’t even been cut yet when my maternal mind began its perpetual spiral into the world of worry that had me convinced my child wouldn’t live to see the 3 month mark.  As the nurses began to wheel my wet wonder into the nursery where they would bathe the remnants of “the beauty of childbirth” off, I adamantly insisted they allow my husband to accompany them so as to ensure no one would sneak in and steal my perfect little bundle of goo covered joy. Forget there were 30 other goo covered joys to choose from, the villain would want mine-for he was perfect and the only way to foil this evil scheme would be diligent, round the clock protection by a compliant albeit embarrassed biological guard. I’d blame it on the epidural but have been told its effects are localized. 

Once home, I went from being able to sleep through anything short of the Armageddon itself, to being able to hone in on my baby’s breath while nearly unconscious from exhaustion two bedrooms down. One, one and a half, two;  if he was so much as a fraction of a second late with that next breath I would spring up out of my slumber wiping the drool from my mouth and sprint down the hall prepared to perform my lifesaving CPR techniques.  While each and every time it turned out to be either a sigh or a yawn, no one can ever fault me for not being ready.

Like many first time mothers, I spent hundreds of dollars on “mental stimulation” toys to ensure the “genius “chromosome I was certain my offspring carried would surface. I knew he had this gene in him by the way his eyes followed the moving turtles and seahorses on the mobile above his crib and by how he smiled before his age appropriate time.  Turns out, mobiles are made to make babies look at them and that smile-well that was just gas.

Outings with a baby made the international trips to Europe I took in my youth look like a mere jaunt to the corner convenience store.  For most of you who remember the days of raising your own young kids, you can attest to the sheer complexity leaving the house with a small child entails.  Packed up with enough food, wipes and baby paraphernalia to spend a week on the moon, outings to the local grocery store became projects that required planning with more precision than the construction of the Sears tower.

As I poured all my energy into this little being whose demands grew as quickly as his ever changing body, I also looked for ways to live my life more efficiently and to try to recoup some of the precious moments I had lavished on myself before my promotion to motherhood. I justified pacifiers by buying the Orthodontic “approved” kind and stocked my house with 42 of them each strategically placed where it could be retrieved promptly in times of need.  I had it down to a science and could stop the sound of a whimper within 12 seconds flat.  Before you knew it I was suckered into every gadget ever aired on HSN or QVC that promised to make a mom’s life easier.  I boycotted anything that ate up my precious time right down to shampoo that suggested I lather rinse then repeat.  Who were these people? I was lucky enough to get that first lather in let alone repeat it.   I bought laundry detergent with the fabric softener already built in and Peanut Butter and Jelly conveniently intertwined together in one jar.   While I was once famous for my outlandish beauty regimen I scaled it back to the basics:  Cleanse, tone, moisturize then pray to the anti-aging powers that be for a good outcome.

Yes, motherhood is a hard job.  But in spite of the hard work and grueling hours, from the boiling of bottles to chaperoning little league, you find yourself saying a daily prayer-“please, please don’t let them grow up so fast”.   All the work, all the sleep deprivation, all the downsizing of yourself to build up this little being does not go unrewarded.  One day, you get a smile. Another day a kiss and a few years down the road your six year old, beaming, will proclaim to the world that you rank right up there with Superman or Cinderella.  These are the moments that make your heart swell and make the job seem simple.

My cousin called me the other day to chat about the new niece her brother and his wife bestowed upon their family.  While Marco sat quietly nearby at the counter enjoying his afternoon snack, we gushed about the newest addition to her family and about the excitement being a new parent brings.

She told me about the proud new parents and how they have prophesied the coming of the next “genius” in their bloodline.  Apparently, this 3 day old child turns her head in the direction of her parents when she hears their voice, a sure telltale sign of a prodigy if ever there was one.

As we laughed at what seemed to be a rerun of our own early motherhood memories and before I could catch myself, I spit on a paper napkin and wiped the cookie from Marco’s chin.

Happy Mother’s Day. Please share this with the mothers you know.