I write often on this blog about my identity as a teacher, but not nearly as frequently about my identity as a mother. My everyday experience of motherhood aligns with all the images cranked out by commercials and sitcoms and women's magazines. It's about early mornings, breakfasts being served, seatbelts getting bucked. It's about giving a million reminders, answering a million questions, making a million decisions. It's about showing love in a million little ways. The lunch box notes, the hugs and kisses, the stories read at bedtime. It's blissful normalcy (well, the normalcy I'd pictured for myself, anyway) and my heart fills with gratitude every day for it.
But it hasn't always been like this. And as I reflect on Mother's Day tomorrow, I want to share that story in the hopes that it will somehow find its way to a person who needs it.
I wasn't even sure I wanted to be a mom until I met my husband. Up to that point, I'd chosen a pretty nomadic lifestyle. All of my earthly possessions could fit into a suitcase that often got packed in the trunk of my tiny Toyota Echo before another long stretch of highway. But something changed when I met him at that particular point in my life. I saw the beauty in staying put long enough to really connect with others . I saw the potential in a life filled with consistency and trust. I was pregnant for the first time a few years after we got married, and I was thrilled. But it didn't last long. At eight weeks, I found myself in my ob's office, silent tears pooling in my ears as the tech maneuvered the ultrasound. "Do you want to see it?" she asked gently. It felt like my entire being hinged on my response.
"No," I finally said. I was scared of what seeing might do to me.
It would be the first of three miscarriages for me over the course of five years. The second turned out to be my younger daughter's surprise twin. I didn't even know I was carrying twins until the first trimeter screening, when it fell to another kind healthcare provider to break the news. "I'm so sorry, but it looks like one of the fetuses isn't viable." Wait, one of them? At that point, I'd had two earlier ultrasounds with my ob. Only one had ever been visible. I held it together until I was unlocking my car. Another patient looking for a hard-to-find parking spot saw me and called out of her window, "Are you leaving?" "Yes," I replied, "But I'm going to need a few minutes." And there, standing with a complete stranger in a parking lot, I completely fell apart. I wondered for a long time whether it was better for me to know that there had been a loss; it was a vanishing twin, so I wouldn't have been the wiser. I'm still not sure. But I do know it's a part of my story.
The third, and final, miscarriage was a few years after my youngest was born. I was very clear on the path forward: If this pregnancy didn't work out, there would be no more. I consider myself a strong, resilient woman, but I simply couldn't bear to grieve another. This time, it was my best friend with me as the ultrasound confirmed what I'd suspected. I'd planned on going alone; getting someone besides my husband to watch our children would have meant explaining the appointment (or at least raised questions about it), and I had the sinking feeling that it wasn't going to be good news. She knew what I needed and gave it, even when I didn't know it myself. "You have two beautiful girls," she told me as she hugged me tightly in that same parking lot. "And now I can take you out for a drink!"
But it hasn't always been like this. And as I reflect on Mother's Day tomorrow, I want to share that story in the hopes that it will somehow find its way to a person who needs it.
I wasn't even sure I wanted to be a mom until I met my husband. Up to that point, I'd chosen a pretty nomadic lifestyle. All of my earthly possessions could fit into a suitcase that often got packed in the trunk of my tiny Toyota Echo before another long stretch of highway. But something changed when I met him at that particular point in my life. I saw the beauty in staying put long enough to really connect with others . I saw the potential in a life filled with consistency and trust. I was pregnant for the first time a few years after we got married, and I was thrilled. But it didn't last long. At eight weeks, I found myself in my ob's office, silent tears pooling in my ears as the tech maneuvered the ultrasound. "Do you want to see it?" she asked gently. It felt like my entire being hinged on my response.
"No," I finally said. I was scared of what seeing might do to me.
It would be the first of three miscarriages for me over the course of five years. The second turned out to be my younger daughter's surprise twin. I didn't even know I was carrying twins until the first trimeter screening, when it fell to another kind healthcare provider to break the news. "I'm so sorry, but it looks like one of the fetuses isn't viable." Wait, one of them? At that point, I'd had two earlier ultrasounds with my ob. Only one had ever been visible. I held it together until I was unlocking my car. Another patient looking for a hard-to-find parking spot saw me and called out of her window, "Are you leaving?" "Yes," I replied, "But I'm going to need a few minutes." And there, standing with a complete stranger in a parking lot, I completely fell apart. I wondered for a long time whether it was better for me to know that there had been a loss; it was a vanishing twin, so I wouldn't have been the wiser. I'm still not sure. But I do know it's a part of my story.
The third, and final, miscarriage was a few years after my youngest was born. I was very clear on the path forward: If this pregnancy didn't work out, there would be no more. I consider myself a strong, resilient woman, but I simply couldn't bear to grieve another. This time, it was my best friend with me as the ultrasound confirmed what I'd suspected. I'd planned on going alone; getting someone besides my husband to watch our children would have meant explaining the appointment (or at least raised questions about it), and I had the sinking feeling that it wasn't going to be good news. She knew what I needed and gave it, even when I didn't know it myself. "You have two beautiful girls," she told me as she hugged me tightly in that same parking lot. "And now I can take you out for a drink!"
I received a lot of advice from other women when I was pregnant with my daughters, and much of it was exactly what I expected. But one comment that came from a women I really respect and admire made me stop in my tracks. We were making the usual chit-chat (how are you feeling? when is the due date again? what names are you thinking about?), when she ever-so-cheerfully chirped, "Well, once that baby comes, say goodbye to you!" I was horrified. What did she mean? It sounded so sinister and ominous, and I was angry that she felt the need to say it.
Seven years into this mothering gig, and now I feel grateful that she had the courage to tell me what I think so many others feel but don't say. Motherhood changes you forever. There are incredible gifts that come with that change, but there is some loss, too. Acknowledging that loss does not make one a bad mother. It's something I really grappled with during my own struggle with post-partum depression. I'd had these awful pregnancy losses, how could I ever feel overwhelmed or angry in my role as a mother? I was not only experiencing the depression, I was also feeling guilt about it. It's a slowly-dawning revelation that I continue to learn, mostly from women who dare to be honest: You can be grateful for your identity as a mother while also honoring how hard it is.
Seven years into this mothering gig, and now I feel grateful that she had the courage to tell me what I think so many others feel but don't say. Motherhood changes you forever. There are incredible gifts that come with that change, but there is some loss, too. Acknowledging that loss does not make one a bad mother. It's something I really grappled with during my own struggle with post-partum depression. I'd had these awful pregnancy losses, how could I ever feel overwhelmed or angry in my role as a mother? I was not only experiencing the depression, I was also feeling guilt about it. It's a slowly-dawning revelation that I continue to learn, mostly from women who dare to be honest: You can be grateful for your identity as a mother while also honoring how hard it is.
This Mother's Day, I lift up the truth-tellers and the story-sharers.
I lift up the best friends.
I lift up the villages supporting moms and their children.
But mostly, I lift up the mom who is grieving. Who is trying. Who is struggling.
I see you. I celebrate you. And when you're ready to share it, I'd love to hear your story.
I lift up the best friends.
I lift up the villages supporting moms and their children.
But mostly, I lift up the mom who is grieving. Who is trying. Who is struggling.
I see you. I celebrate you. And when you're ready to share it, I'd love to hear your story.
