The Days are long, but the years are short
We are six months in to raising our son, and time will not slow down. As a natural planner and thinker, when he turned six months old, I turned to my husband and said, “We are one thirty-sixth through with the time we have to raise him.” Though it is my hope that our son will continue to engage in a relationship with us after he turns eighteen, I have always been of the philosophy that for the first eighteen years, we set the tone for the relationship, and after that, he will set the tone for the relationship. It is my prayer that we do a “good enough” job, that he chooses to continue to engage with us for his whole life.
As I sit to reflect upon the blessing it is to be his mom, I am also reminded of what an isolating task it is to be a new mother in 21st century America. May these thoughts and brief stories resonate with you, and make you feel a little less alone on the beautiful journey of motherhood. Some of my thoughts are related to my faith. But not all of them—so if you find yourself believing differently than me, keep reading! Hopefully there is something here for everyone.
The first big shift I experienced was the evening of the day he was born. I was holding him and taking him in. I caressed his head, full of jet-black hair, noted his cheeks, yet to fill out because of his premature birth. I noted his tiny fingers and toes, and was overwhelmed with the sense that he was ours. For the first time, I emotionally connected with the sacrifice God made in sending us Jesus. I felt the whole world move. Academically, I had the concept mastered that God made a sacrifice in sending his son, but it wasn’t until I was holding my baby that I understood a glimpse of what it felt like. My immediate reaction was, “Nope!” And in that moment, I grew a lot more grateful for God’s loving and sacrificial nature.
The amount of anxiety that has overwhelmed my thinking was something I was completely unprepared for. I have never described myself before as an anxious person. There have been times in the past when I get stuck on something for a few hours at a time, but generally, in the past, anxiety has not played a big role in my life. As a new mom, though, the opposite is true. Now, there are a few hours per day in which I am not anxious, but the rest of the time, I am consistently worrying about something. First it was his weight, then it was his eating, then it was, “Why won’t he stop crying?”
The crying. The crying I experienced was a particularly difficult battle to traverse. I think a more accurate name for it would be screaming. My baby scream-cried for hours on a daily basis until January 17th. And yes, I do know the exact date it stopped. And yes, I did take him the pediatrician to see if anything was “wrong”. I was completely unable to console him. Whether we were in the car, bassinet, mom’s arms, dad’s arms, crib, swing, floor, stroller, etc…you name it, we tried it. It was devastating to know that something was not right for him, and I was unable to figure out what it was. One of the especially traumatic moments during this season of life was on Christmas Eve. We were flying to California to visit my family, and were caught in the Southwest Airlines delay debacle. Going into the trip, I was very anxious about how he would do on the plane. I was worried about being trapped, with no where to go, while he was crying. Hoping I could get him to sleep on the plane, I booked the tickets. After a three-hour delay, we boarded the plane. No sooner did I find my seat than he start screaming. And I do mean screaming. We were still at the gate and I pondered aloud if I should get off the plane, and several kind people spoke up—“You waited this long, it’ll be fine.” The kindness continued. A lady, Ruth by name, asked to switch seats with someone else to come sit next to me and take turns holding and rocking my screaming baby. Several men and women both offered kind words and encouragement, which was no small feat considering it lasted over an hour without stopping. Though I landed in California with an exhausted and overstimulated baby, sweat and breast milk staining my shirt, and plenty of trauma memories to explore in therapy, we made it.
The lessons I learned here were both humbling and liberating. My baby woke up the next morning like nothing ever happened. The realization that the travel drama did not even phase him was eye-opening. What I would call the most traumatic travel experiences I have had to date was not even enough to disturb his sleep that night. That gives me perspective. I am humbled to be reminded that I am not in control. I am confident it is a lesson I will need to relearn over and over during my parenting journey. I am not in control. He is his own person, and my job is to guide him to become the best version of himself possible. The liberating lesson is at the end of the day, what he needs is me. He needs to know I am there. He needs to know I will comfort him, even if he won’t stop crying. He needs to know that he will reliably be fed, changed, spoken to with love, engaged with, and that is enough.
So, if you are overthinking every developmental milestone (like me), wondering how you are supposed to know how many ounces your baby is getting from breast feeding (Why is that even a question on the intake forms, doctor?), second guessing that trip to Target because your baby didn’t get “enough” tummy time that day, or counting down the minutes until your partner gets home to break through the crushing weight of loneliness, just know you aren’t alone. And together is a good place to be.
