Born a Mother

I was trying to remember my first Mother’s Day as a mother last year. Abigail would have been two months old, still young enough to count her age in weeks. Which means I would have been a two-month-old mother, still young enough to feel my weakness and joy like a pulse. I was undoubtedly wearing a milk-stained shirt, because everything I wore for months had to submit itself to the ritual of breastfeeding. I was probably still lining my mesh underwear with maxi-pads the size of a small country, because the wounds of childbirth had not quite turned into scars. The thing I am most sure of is that I was drunk on love and filled with an indescribable joy. 

I never pictured myself as a mother. When friends would talk about their dreams of pushing a little one around in a stroller, finger-painting with toddlers, dressing newborns in impossibly tiny outfits, I would smile friendly enough but remain silent. Those were not dreams in which I could see myself. I thought of children the way I think about climbing Everest or exploring the Arctic: fine for someone else, someone more adventurous, but not really for me. Maybe someday. 

A friend writes, “Giving birth is about more than just birthing a baby - you’re also birthing a mother.” When Abigail was born, I was born as her mother. Suddenly I could see it - the walks, the finger-painting, the impossibly tiny shoes. I could see my place in these dreams, see how I could instantly fall in love with her smell, her eyelashes, her perfect cheeks. I could see myself dancing with her to silly songs, laughing at her jokes, and framing her artwork. She was perfect, this perfect little girl with her own heart and voice and soul. I couldn’t believe she could have possibly come from me. And yet there we were, in the same world, her little body cradled in my weak arms. 

I do the work of motherhood imperfectly - I’ve been overwhelmed and frustrated and impatient, along with a thousand other sins. And yet I feel the Lord drawing nearer to me even in these moments, and it’s his nearness that is my good (Psalm 73.) I feel at home as a mother in a way I’ve never quite felt at home doing anything else in my life. 

There are times I wish I could go back and encourage her. Not the woman I was last year wearing a milk-stained shirt and maxi pad from the still-bleeding wound of childbirth, but the woman I was before ever giving birth to myself as a mother. I would tell her not to be so afraid. I would tell her there is more joy in this season than can even be explained. I would want her to hear the sound of Abigail’s laugh, the shape of her smile, the roundness of her tummy. Even before her first Mother’s Day, she would know she loves mothering.