Being A Mom

Family picture March 2013


No one told me how hard it is to be a mom.  I am guessing that’s because it’s totally worth it–so moms just ignore the fact that time has gone out the window.  They put on the same smelly clothes (baby doesn’t mind), and slap on more lanolin.

Or they climb on a plane and spend spring break consoling their grown daughter on her ability to produce milk…

I’ve barely been on the computer–much less on my blog updating everyone on life.  I guess that’s what happens when you’re learning how to live.  I have quoted my Mamaw before, “You haven’t lived until you have children.”  And I reckon she’s right.  Although my mom and husband have pulled out the stops to keep me breathing–short of hooking me up to a liquids line.

I guess she said that, because it’s  hard to  describe how it really feels to have children.

I feel like upon bonding with my little girl, part of me became incomplete.  Now, she has to be there for me to feel whole.  It scares the heck out of me, to be honest.  I lay beside her, and stare at her sleeping–close to tears, waiting for her to need me.  When I finally sleep, the slightest movement or whimper wakes me up in a state of panic.  The best night of sleep I had was last night–in my mom’s bed.  I think I must have slept harder knowing she was there to take care of Alexandria.  Her sad/upset face breaks my heart in two, and when she smiles, I feel like I’ve won the lottery.

There’s nothing like nursing her (even when it’s hurting).  She stares up at me with big brown eyes.  As she drifts off to sleep, her eyes open and close quickly as she attempts to figure out sleepy-time.  Her little hands have become more controlled in two short weeks, and she curls one up on my chest.  The other is tucked away.  Sometimes she holds my fingers as I guide her to her source of life and happiness.  Her body relaxes, and there she goes again: stealing my heart away.

I try to share her with her Papi and her Grandmama.  Daddy comes to get her for diaper time without a word from me.  He stands by as I give her bath, singing to her describing my actions, unconsciously mimicking my mama.  Papi likes to carry her around too–and I refrain from warning him to watch her head, hold her tighter, or comfort her whimpers.  I have selfishly watched him feed her from a bottle for a week, as I had to pump my right pecho to allow it to recover.  Today we took back feedings–and I proudly listen to her swallow loudly, gulping as much leche as she could.

I watched my Mama leave us today at the airport, and I cried.  I cried because of my own needs, but also with a strange new awareness for what she’s warned me of:  a mama’s love for her baby.  A piece of her heart gone from her body–keeping her from feeling completely complete.
Mom and Me

A photo from convention 2010

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