Motherhood is an evolution, an endless reinvention. I look back on my decade of mothering and see a bouquet of selves. A new version of me with each year, each birth. Each kitchen, each hurdle, each surprise a boat I have sailed. A shared smile, a light breeze, an olive branch. Torrents that don’t wait for me to decide: sink or swim.
It is both a constant, and never the same.
It is growth.
There is no other way for me.
I do not write to preach or pronounce, advise or advertise. These writings are simply my ship’s log. I was here. This happened.
I write not to teach, but to learn. To navigate. To hope.
Oh yes. And to remember.
I remember giving birth the first time. The fear, the joy, blinding light and utter darkness. The first of so many paradoxes. The hallmark of motherhood. Never are you so scared and so sure at the same time, than as a parent.
Each victory is an embrace: part greeting, part goodbye. And it never lasts for long.
I used to see birth and death as momentous events—bookends of our chronological experience on this earth. But I’m starting to believe they are cup-of-sugar next-door neighbors, quirky and familiar, whose homes I walk past or walk in, depending.
Still, I usually wait for an invitation.