Twenty-three years ago, on a warm September evening, I entered a hospital two weeks past my due date. I was swimming in unfamiliar waters, pregnant with my first child, completely unaware of what was to come despite having read countless books, articles, and journals on what to expect, what could go wrong, or how to. My body had created this little alien inside of me, grew her, protected her, nourished her, and seemed to be doing everything according to plan until the end, one of the most important steps, what we've waited for all these long anticipated ten months, the labor and delivery of our daughter into this world, into our arms.
I imagined my labor a hundred different ways when it would start, where it started, and how I would respond; I had my labor bag all packed and carefully thought out, we made sure the cars always had a full tank of gas, we lived on a farm a ways from the nearest hospital at the time. I had my baby's first outfit picked out, a new journal, a deck of cards packed, and some lavender oil to help me stay relaxed. I was ready; it could happen at anytime now, 38 weeks, we were getting closer, 39 weeks, this had to be it, the week we would meet her, 40 weeks. My birthday was the same week, would we share the same day? It appeared not. Forty-one weeks, perhaps she would be born on Labor Day; that seemed appropriate; I was so ready now, but she was not. My doctor informed me we would schedule an induced delivery for the following week; they did not allow pregnancies beyond 42 weeks. That last week I hoped and prayed my body would comply and naturally slip into labor; I so wanted a natural delivery for myself and my daughter. That was not going to happen. Upon check-in to the hospital, I expressed my wishes to my doctors and presented my carefully thought-out birth plan. Having only dilated to 2cm in the last week, my doctor gave me cervidil to help soften the cervix; if labor did not happen by morning, we would proceed with pitocen. Nothing about all this sounded natural or like I imagined my delivery of this child would be. It was going to be a long night.
The night proceeded with very little progress; we played some card games, read a bit, and tried to stay positive; I finally resigned to try and get some rest; it was getting close to 2 am.
By now, I'm sure you know where this is going; the minute we resign and let go, things happen; the most intense pain I have ever felt began; after 10 minutes, I woke my husband and asked him to find a nurse, now. She finally meanders in 10 minutes later and casually puts on her gloves, expecting me to have little to no progress; instead, my cervix was almost completely dilated. I had gone from 2cm to fully dilated in about 40 minutes; I do not recommend this; although it was a fast labor, it was unbelievably intense and painful. At this point, it was game on; lights were lowered from the ceiling, nurses were prepping trays, blood was being drawn from my arm between contractions, and a lot was going on; the doctor came in, and within another twenty minutes, I had my daughter in my arms, and a mother was born.
Motherhood is as varied as each of the individuals that become a parent. I have loved being the mother of four daughters. I have grown immensely over the years in feeling the depths of empathy and compassion, in observation and listening skills, in guiding but not controlling, and almost daily, from that first delivery to this day, I am learning not to hold my expectations on anyone or anything beyond myself. Life lessons, love lessons, an ever-evolving experience.
However, I have also learned that Motherhood is not a one-way experience; it is a symbiotic relationship; whether it is a mutually healthy, thriving relationship for both parties or a more negatively harmful experience and various degrees in between depends on many factors and variables. It evolves over the years and may constantly revolve in and out of these waves.
Beyond everyday emotional wellness and physical well-being, mental health is a new experience brought to my awareness. It was a genuine struggle to understand until I remembered to drop my expectations and experiences and began to educate myself and get to a place of acceptance and grief. Grief may seem like an out-of-place word here, but it is not. Grieving comes into anyone's life dealing with loved ones and mental illness. You still have the person(s) in your life, but not as you imagined, hoped, or desired. You grieve the way things could have been, the fantastic dreams held for them, the bonding and sharing that could have been; you grieve that sweet baby you held and nurtured and protected all these years, knowing you could no longer be the shield for them in their life. And you grieve the mother you so wanted to be to them in the future, the friend, the wisdom keeper, the teacher, the source of unconditional love and understanding.
Stepping back into myself, finding myself after decades of being a mom to four almost adult children, has once again placed me charting unknown waters, adding into the mix a new compassion and understanding on a personal level of dealing with mental health and wellness. I am always going to be the mother of my four daughters. I will always love my children unconditionally and hold a place in my heart for them; now, I check into my heart and respond in all my interactions with them from that space. I am learning to mother from a new perspective. I am grateful for the opportunity to continue to grow in grace and love with them as we go forward together through life in a new healthier symbiotic relationship that may not be a happier ever-after tale. Still, it's our tale, an ever-evolving journey as varied as we are. Life can be a story we tell ourselves in our mind, a series of thoughts, worries, and regrets, or it is experienced by being present, finding awareness and understanding, listening, seeing, and being love. In the end, it all comes down to the deep love and forgiveness we hold for ourselves and all those we encounter; that's it, that's Motherhood, that's life, that's peace. From that center of acceptance and empathy, it doesn't matter where we are or who we're with, or what we do; if it centers from the heart you can breathe a little deeper, see a little clearer, hear what isn't said, and respond with a love so deep it brings healing to those around you at some level.
Motherhood has been and continues to be an ever-unfolding gift of lessons, growth, evolution, and transformation. Not unlike that first labor and delivery, I don't believe I could have chosen to learn the same lessons of love as quickly and deeply as I have any other way. I am grateful daily for my life and all those in it; that is enough, that is love, and that brings me peace and acceptance. I am here to experience life in all its messiness, ugliness, and imperfections; life is to be lived. I hold gratitude and love in my heart for my mother and all my grandmothers before me who made it possible for me to be here experiencing my story, my children, and my journey. Life would not exist without mothers; it is through our mothers we enter from the spiritual realm to this reality; beyond that portal, how we choose to experience that gift is our journey to walk; where's your next step going to be? Close your eyes, take a deep breath, place your hands on your heart, and internally thank your mother for this opportunity to have experienced life. The rest is up to you, move forward from this place of gratitude, and you will move forward in peace and love.
Namaste
