My life changed radically twelve and a half years ago when I became a mother for the first time. People will tell you it’s a life altering experience, but it comes with no handbook. There is no preparation for the insane turnaround the selfish existence you have been previously been living is about to jerk immediately to a close.
Backstory. I always knew I wanted to have children. It took multiple years, and the story of how babies of made now asked by my children is answered honestly…but always ends with, “except that’s not how you were made. Mom and Dad weren’t even in the same building.” While it was gut-wrenching at the time, as it is for most couples facing fertility issues, it’s pretty entertaining to look back and realize how many years you spend avoiding trying NOT to get pregnant. And then when it finally counts, zilch. But I digress. The important thing is, after two premature births, I now have two incredible, healthy daughters. I am blessed.
I was nearly seven weeks early with my first. I was still on the monthly visit rotation with my doctor. There were no signs of any concern, except I was beginning to swell a lot. I was beginning to feel and look miserable. I had avoided needing maternity clothes until my fifth month, and when I finally needed something with a little more “give”, I headed like a 55 year old woman on sale day to Chico’s and bought a bunch of stretchy skirts and clothes that would be work appropriate. Paired them with clogs, as my feet wouldn’t fit in anything. On the weekends, I could be found in overalls. Sooo hot. I can find one picture of me over the course of both pregnancies. There is a reason for this.
We were apple picking with friends when Chiara decided to appear. When my water broke, I was getting out of our friends’ car, and because I was so early, I assumed I had wet my pants. I was livid. First swelling, now I am incontinent, I thought. E calmed me down and told me to call my doctor who of course was away for the weekend. The on-call doctor told me calmly that I should come to the hospital to get “checked out.”
It never occurred to me that my “accident,” paired with the cramps I was now feeling were now related. I just thought I had walked around too much at the orchard. So I started doing some laundry, and other chores. E finally said, “umm, Chris, I think we should probably get over there.”
It took us 10 minutes to get there. By the time we arrived, my “cramps” were starting to hurt, and I realized they were happening at very close intervals. Hmm. Interesting. Then all hell broke loose. They took my blood pressure in the admitting area and next thing I knew I was in an operating room and Erik was wearing a haz-mat suit. A few minutes later I had a daughter being hoisted up in front of me that I couldn’t touch because I was strapped down on the table. I remember that being the worst part of the whole experience.
Chiara was four pounds and change, and had broken hips because she had been breech. I had the emergency c-section because by the time I entered the hospital my blood pressure was so elevated that they feared for my life and hers. It was determined I had pre-eclampsia, and the only way to make it go away was to get her out fast.
She had to hang out at the intensive care unit for two weeks, but I was grateful. She was ultimately healthy, and I knew she was coming home. Each day I spent in there, we connected more deeply, as I sent silent positive wishes to the other new mothers who held - or heartbreakingly couldn’t hold - their newborns who were so much frailer than my own.
That two week transition got me slightly mentally closer to parenthood, but the day we brought her home, we literally walked in the front door to our Back Bay condo, kid in bucket car seat completely asleep, and looked at each other for guidance. We shrugged, put her on top of the kitchen table in her seat so the dog wouldn’t touch her, and tried to act “normal” for the next two hours. And life post-kid was pretty normal for the next four months.
We took her to dinner. We put her in a stroller and walked down to our favorite bagel place. She wasn’t cramping our style at all. Until we took her to the movies. She had been so good, we decided one rainy afternoon we’d put her in the Baby Bjorn and bring her to see a movie. ”Traffic” was playing. There’s a lot a gunfire in that movie. It woke her up. Or maybe she’s just not a Catherine Zeta-Jones fan. But she cried, and kept crying. And I walked home with her. And then my real job as a mother began.
Since that day, I’ve embraced all the selfless acts that come with being a mom. I’ve stayed up countless nights when they couldn’t fall asleep or were sick. I’ve seen the Jonas Brothers in concert. Twice. I’ve hosted slumber parties with screaming girls. I teach them to think through life situations and make their own choices. I break up arguments about ridiculous topics.
I have learned that there is no way to be a perfect mother, but a million ways to be a great one. And we all do it differently. I don’t judge. My friends and I all have different styles, and what works for their family won’t always work for mine - and vice versa. But I know at the core, we share similar values and look out for each other’s kids. You can’t buy that kind of support or friendship.
To all the mothers out there, single and married - or those trying hard to become one - Happy Mother’s Day. I think we share the inside knowledge it’s the hardest job on the planet. And I wouldn’t trade that hideous pregnancy wardrobe or Jo Bros tickets for a second…it’s all part of the ride.
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