Six years ago, I sat down to eat a fancy dinner with Luke at Olive Garden.
It would be the last dinner we would have “just the two of us.” Sure, we have been out on dates without the kids since then, but upon the birth of our first child, we realized it would never truly be “just the two of us” again. Not in mind. Not in heart. Not in conversation.
We were young. We were inexperienced. We were scared. We were excited. We were thrilled to have enough money in our bank account to eat at Olive Garden, given our incomes as 3rd year elementary teacher and 3rd year medical student.
I remember what I wore. I remember what I ate. I remember that my nose had swollen to cover nearly 1/3 of my face. Pregnancy nose is real.
I remember waking up after a night of very little sleep like a kid on Christmas morning. We had an induction scheduled at 38 weeks, 2 days, because even back then, my cervix was shitty. I had just watched the episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians where Kourtney Kardashian literally pulled her own child from her womb in the delivery room, and I was both thoroughly grossed out and secretly motivated to do the same.
My expectations were a little skewed, to say the least.
I think I have mentioned this before, but I remember having a very lengthy internal dilemma about whether or not I should remove my underwear when they gave me my hospital gown to change into.
Silly, New Mama Me. Now a days, I prefer to just go flying onto the labor and delivery floor fully clothed until the last possible second and then POOF. The baby is out. Like magic.
It takes years to work up to this level of skill, so be patient young grasshoppers.
Alright, what was I talking about? Oh, yeah. Six years ago, I didn’t know anything about childbirth, taking care of a baby (outside of the robot baby I took care of for one night in high school), or raising a baby to be an awesome human being. I still don’t know much, but I am a little more experienced and a lot more comfortable with it all.
With each pregnancy, with each child’s birthday, with each passing day, I come a little closer to letting go of perfect idea of motherhood I once put inside my soul and a little closer to accepting the “what is.”
There are days when I am amazed by my patience and my flexibility. And then there are days when I am pretty sure my head spun around not once but twice mid-argument with a tiny human or two or three.
There are days when I am proud of my productivity, time management, and organization of our calendars, bills, events, and papers (I didn’t say many days, but there are some days), and then there are days where I watch an undisclosed amount of shows that involve teen moms and housewives and little people.
It’s called balance.
Over the past six years, I have learned that there are days and then there are days.
Whether good or bad, they pass by in a hurry.
You’ll be shocked you survived day one.
And then, before you know it, you’ll be standing there on day 2,191, tears rolling down your cheeks because, well…
because.
Make the days count.
