Mother's Day - May 12th 2019

This year I was spoiled, once again, by my awesome kiddos.  I got cards, food and lots of strawberries.

Jason even gave me a Gwinnett Police bracelet...Just in case.  Actually, he liked it because it was red, just like a heart.

Motherhood.

I thought I was ready to be a mother by the time my luck finally turned, and Ethan entered our life.  I thought I was prepared to shape the life of that little, blank canvas that I was gifted.  Man, was I in for a steep learning curve.

Ethan was a bit of a whirlwind the moment we got him.  He didn't act the way I thought my baby would.  He didn't snuggle, or want his mama.  He had extreme reactions to things like sound, touch and strangers.  He had only two emotions: giddy, hyper, manic happiness or red-faced, arched-back screaming.  

Still, I believed it was just a matter of effort and patience to help him become the boy I imagined him to be.  

When the twinnies were born a year later, I thought that my hardest struggles of motherhood were behind me. From the years of fertility treatments, surgeries and procedures; through my ectopic pregnancy that burst my tube and ended my first twin pregnancy, and then my high-risk pregnancy with my second set of twins and their premature birth - I felt the rest would be, well...easier.  

What I really didn't understand was that getting these sweet souls into my life, was actually the easiest part of Motherhood.  And, although I have given all the patience, love and time that I possessed, in the end, these little spirits came pre-made, and pre-packaged with a unique set of struggles, talents, challenges and personalities that had very little to do with me.  I'm not saying that they didn't need me or that their lives would have been the same in any family, but I am saying that, even after all that I can do, these individuals will forge their own path through this journey of a life.

Today I find that I am two types of parent.  For my sweet little boys, I am the comforter, cheerleader, advocate and teacher.  I still have some sway in the refining of their character.  I can teach them to be polite and caring.  I can give them chores and help them learn gratitude.  I can introduce faith to them (or, more likely, be taught about faith from them.)  But no matter how I parent them, or what reactions I give to their behavior, Jason is a giant emotional ball of love and empathy; giving unrestrained love to all he meets and never meeting a stranger.   And Emmett is a sharp whippersnapper of a kid that is driven with the linear thinking of an engineer.  He notices everything and processes the things I do or don't do with equal scrutiny.  Emotion is eked out in small but very sweet doses. 

 These things I would never want to change, but couldn't even if I tried. 

Still, with these two, I'm still in the mothering phase, and I cherish the moments I have left of being the mama who can pick them up and kiss their tears away.  (One clinging to my neck like his life depends on it, and the other pushing me away as much as he is pulling me in.)

With the older three, Motherhood has become a different kind of animal all together.  After all these years of holding so tightly onto my sweet babies, I've had to feel the terrible growing pains of realizing that these teenagers only have a few more years in my care.  My job has morphed from being the 'fixer' and the 'finder' to allowing them the space to grow into their own independence.   

Nothing I do now will change their personalities.  Nothing I say or do will stop the onslaught of personal challenges or consequences for their choices from crashing down on top of them.  I have to love them, fiercely and unconditionally, from a few steps behind.  I still am the bearer of structure and rules, but in order for them to fly, I know I need to strip those rules back, one by one, until these kids are standing on their own.  

It sounds like such a noble plan.  It sound so self-aware.  But I have to admit, watching them fall and fail is by far the hardest thing I have ever done.  Watching them pull away, sometimes with an apologetic smile and sometimes with hateful, searing words, takes my breath straight out of my lungs.  The emotions I feel now rival that of any pubescent teenager.  I feel proud, sad, angry, anguished, love, happiness and sorrow.  Sometimes all in the same day.  Sometimes all in the same hour.

No.  Motherhood is not what I expected, but it is what I wanted.  And it is what I want, still.

I have cherished the moments looking at the perfection of my babies' faces, alone in the dark, in the early hours of the morning.  I have laughed and wondered with the tottering, chubby-fisted, toddlers as they explored the world in utter fascination.  I have been filled with pride and admiration as these kids have faced their fears and challenges.   From stepping on to a school bus for the first time to learning how to read.  I have cried with them when they have hurt themselves and when they been hurt by others.  I have watched them be brave, weak, funny, smart, stupid, strong, curious, broken and stubborn.  I have seen them brush themselves off and get back up and I've seen them give up and curl into a ball; desperate for someone to help them back to their feet.

They are both babies and adults smashed into these teenage bodies.  They fight the inner battle of wanting to be saved and needing to make their own mistakes.  I hate toeing the line, having to hold myself back from running out on the field when they fall.  Not knowing if this time I need to break all the rules and run in to save them or if my help will only hold them back from learning the things they need to know to win their own game.

It's a terrifying, and beautiful opportunity...this motherhood gig.  It's the biggest risk I think I'll ever get to make.  What if they don't make it.  What if they do?  What if, what if, what if....

It's amazing how elastic the heart can be.  And how tender.

It's no wonder no one tells you what motherhood is really like.  How could you fully express it to someone who hasn't experienced it already?  How could you explain to them the blessing and burden that they will carry.  The monotony and exhilaration. 

Once when Jason caught me crying, he wrapped his small arm around my neck and sweetly asked, "Are they tears of joy or tears of sorrow?"

They are both, my son.  They are both.