Being a Mother

Being a mother was not something I dreamed about while growing up.  In fact, I didn’t even like to babysit, and when I had an infant to babysit, I called my best friend, Shannon, to change “it” if it woke up. I was much more interested in animals than in children. People said I would make a terrible mother because I was so mercurial and forgetful and in the clouds (ADHD, don’t you know).

With my first, Alexandra, I was so thrilled to be pregnant I didn’t even mind being sick every single day, and getting fat, fat, fat.  It wasn’t until I was about 8 months pregnant that reality set in:  we were having a baby. OH. MY.GOD.  I had never even changed a diaper on my own! And I was going to be responsible for a human life?  Oh, shit, what have I done??  After a nightmarish 21 hour labor ordeal, I had a pink, beautiful, screaming baby.  She terrified me.

 

I was much more relaxed with my second baby, a huge, happy baby boy, Wessie boo.  He wanted to eat constantly, and use me as a pacifier, but he was a happy, easy going baby.  Mama’s boy, he never wanted to leave my side, he would burrow into me like a furry little animal.  My brown eyed boy, always up to mischief, and always so happy about it!

I wanted to be a great mother.  I was an involved mom, reading to the kids and dressing in character at school (my daughter was humiliated and wondered why I couldn’t be like the other mothers).  I played with them, taught them to swim, snorkel and scuba dive, read to them, put snakes they found into buckets to look at, and I tried to set a good example.  I went back to college and achieved both a BA and an MS.  I also took in every stray in the neighborhood (they all came to my door) and tried to heal birds and squirrels and any other animal they brought me.  I taught them my reverence for animals and for nature, especially the ocean. We had bunnies and dogs and cats and lizards and tortoises. My house was the house where all the kids wanted to hang out, so the house was always full and noisy.  I loved it.

I love my children, and I have loved being their mother. I still do. I was not a perfect parent (good luck with that), and my daughter actually told me when she was 10 or so that I was not consistent enough.  My son was a charmer who mostly got his way (I always knew what he was up to, but he was just so sweet and adorable!).  I have spent the last 28 years being a mother, and I have learned that once you become a parent, there is no turning back.  It never ends…the love, the worry, the fear, the concern, and the joy.  The attachment is always there, an invisible cord holding us together, forever.

The sad thing about being a mom is that your children don’t remember all that you did for them, or with them.  It forms them, influences them, creates their character, but they don’t remember the days of play and swimming and helping with homework, the time and the love and the sacrifices and the lessons taught. Parenthood is the hardest job, there is no doubt about that.  They remember the things you did wrong, but rarely remember the things you did right.  I remember, though. I have jumped through hoops of fire for my kids, done everything in my power to give them the help they needed, and I can’t say I left anything undone.  I have always been there for them, supporting them if they needed it, cheering them on if they didn’t.  Maybe I didn’t discipline them enough…but it was just so hard to see them cry.  It hurt me to the core of my being.

I do not regret being a parent, I have been fulfilled by it, not only with my own children, but my children by other mothers.  I hope they know that every moment of their lives I have loved them, and done only what I thought was in their best interests.  They are off and living their own lives now, but they are always in my heart.  Always.