Expecting. What does that word even mean? Expecting what? The obvious answer- when we’re talking about motherhood- is a baby.
And everything we think comes with the baby.
But what we aren’t expecting, what we can’t be expecting, is exactly that- everything that comes with a baby.
We see a picture in our head, of what life might look like with a bouncing little baby. Of what our family might/could/should look like. It’s a dream most of us have. An idealized version of what may or may not become our reality.
Dreams of:
*A baby with her Daddy’s eyes
*Walks to the park
*Baby’s first Christmas
*A marriage, stronger and happier, thanks to the bond forged by the arrival of a new baby.
From that first knowledge of a tiny babe, those initial expectations usually arrive with some fairly exuberant joy. And they should. Babies are breaths of fresh air. Motherhood is beautiful.
Even as I type these words, I see sunshiney days, green grass, kids running and playing, mom with them, or sitting nearby reading a book. I see this in my mind’s eye, even though I have four kids. And I know reality.
I still conjure up that dream world. Because some days are like that, and we want them to all be like that.
But what about what you never expected? What about when, to borrow words from Natalie Grant, the sacred is torn from your life?
What about these times?
*What about the baby that never comes? Either because he doesn’t find his way to your body at all, or because he is taken perilously too soon, from the safety of your womb. Leaving you with nothing at all to hold, nothing to bury. Just…nothing.
*Or the baby who comes too soon, leaving you in a place of limbo, as you wait to see if she will grow and develop and survive outside of the womb, in this big world she entered before she should’ve been ready.
You couldn’t have known how strong she was until you watched her grow outside of your body. Until you took her home, and began a life with her, before she ever should have even been here. And you know that not everyone with her story gets that ending.
*Or the baby you wait for, pray for, fill out stacks and stacks of paperwork for. And you wait and wait, and sometimes that baby comes, sometimes he doesn’t. And you never counted on that. Or maybe you did. But you couldn’t imagine how much the waiting, or the changed plans, could hurt.
*What about the baby you endure medical procedure after medical procedure preparing for? Sometimes those babies come and sometimes they don’t. You know that, you’ve been prepared for it- but you can’t truly prepare yourself for the heartache or joy until it’s right there, already happening.
*What about the baby that shows up completely unexpectedly? When those baby days were supposed to be long behind you? When you start all over again—shocked, but joyful, and feeling completely unprepared, even if you’ve done this before.
*Or the baby who grows safely inside the space God has made for him, to the point he is considered full term, but you know once he enters the world, he won’t survive. You know it, because you learn it while you’re carrying him in that safe space.
And you do the hardest thing you’ve ever done, the hardest thing you’ll ever do, with the strength and grace of a mother. And you love him every single day as he grows in your belly, and you hold him and love him even as you have to let him go.
*Or the baby that finds his way to the womb easily, snuggles in, grows well, and is born healthy and beautiful…but in what seems like a blink later, something is tragically not okay with him.
And your life is turned upside down in a number of possible ways—maybe you find yourself raising a baby, fighting for his little life, from the confines of his hospital room.
Praying for answers and miracles and wondering how long this will last, and not knowing if a long time or a short time is better news. Not knowing if you’ll have a dream future, or any future at all, with him.
*What about the baby that grows and is born and everything is pretty much perfect? But she won’t sleep. Or she won’t eat. Or she cries all the time. Or she can’t travel any distance at all in her car seat without screaming. Nothing you do soothes her.
*Or maybe she is complete bliss, but you just don’t feel like yourself after she arrives. You feel disconnected or lost or like you’re missing something. Or anxious. Or sad. Or you miss your life from before the baby arrived.
Or maybe you feel disconnected from your husband (or he from you) after the birth of the baby and you never could’ve imagined the toll parenthood would take on your marriage.
*What about the baby who will arrive and be greeted by what would be considered a large number of siblings? While you and your family are rejoicing over the pending arrival of a new babe, you’re tired. Physically, yes, but more so emotionally.
You want this baby to be celebrated, but as your family size grows, the excitement from others lessens with each subsequent babe. Even worse, complete strangers say things like “another?” “still trying for a girl?” “are they all yours?” “are you done after this one?” And it’s more than you think your heart can bear some days.
And those ten scenarios…those are just about the babies. Any of us with older children know there are unexpected navigations with every stage of childhood/parenting.
“What to Expect When You’re Expecting” can’t prepare you for any of this– or a host of other situations I’ve not mentioned here. Nevertheless, these things come. They happen. They’ve happened to me. They’ve happened to you. They’ve happened to your sister, friend, daughter, aunt.
They are the gut wrenching, bring you to your knees, plead with the Lord kind of difficulties. They are shake your faith, shape your faith trials. They burn away the dross, because when sacred things are stripped from you, you are made acutely aware of what definitely does not matter in life.
Motherhood. It’s a real mixed bag.
It’s so, so tragically beautiful.
Stretchmarks- on our bodies, or our hearts, or both.
Leaky bodies- I mean, anyone can leak sweat or tears, but it takes a mother to leak milk or pee.
Tired trumping all other kinds of tired. Not even a sleepy kind of tired– a tired to your bones some days.
Tears- over not being good enough, or not BEING enough. Over your own childhood for any number of reasons. Over wanting to give your kids more—not more stuff, just more LIFE.
And tears of joy- those come too. When you see them make their first three pointer or when they hug you with their chubby little arms and say “You’re my best friend.”
Skinned knees, sunburns, stitches.
Spilled milk, sharpied walls, sass.
Diapers, drama, door slams.
Breakfasts, Lunches, and Suppers.
Lots of snacks.
Muddy hands and feet, sweaty heads that smell like nothing else on earth.
Hugs, Kisses, Flowers.
Books, Movies, Games.
Mistakes. Theirs, but also yours. You carry yours like a load on your back.
Words said in anger. Apologies after.
Prayers. Prayers for so so many things. Protection, growth, salvation, redeemed years that have been hard, hurts endured by friends, broken hearts, physical healing.
And that’s if the baby comes. For the babies who never arrive, the ones who leave too early…
Questions lie in wait. Questions like,
What would you look like today? What would our family be like if you were here in it?
Tears. Grief. Loss.
Wishing I could hold you one more time. Or wishing I could’ve ever held you at all.
Mothers. They can look so very different from one another. A tapestry, beautiful; but not built without heartache, hard work, grief.
I have a mother. I am a mother. I am not the mother my mother was, but I am the mother I am today in part because of the mother God gave me. Because she shaped me- she taught me, sometimes intentionally, and sometimes I learned things she didn’t even know I was observing.
Things I learned from my mother (this list is most assuredly not exhaustive):
*Dinner at the table, together, every night, is a gift (and one I have to fight for at my house. I don’t know how my mom did it).
*Reading the Bible every day leaves an impression on your observers. My mom never told me to read my Bible, but I try to do so every day because I saw her do that every morning. It is a picture imprinted in my minds eye for all of life.
*Don’t throw a fit while holding scissors. Your mom won’t take you to get stitches, even if you roll over on the scissors and pull them out of your knee with a nice line of blood all over them. (I have the scar to prove this. I was also double digits old and knew better than to act like such a punk.)
*Clean the house all at one time on Saturday. Just kidding. I did learn this from my mother but then I went and had four kids and now we just live in our dirt.
*Love reading- and writing. Appreciate the way people express themselves, the way they tell a story. Things don’t have to look a certain way or be written a certain way to be worthy of your time. You can diversify your bookshelves. And some books, even if everyone says they’re great, might just be terrible when you read them. That’s okay too.
My favorite thing I have learned from my mother is maybe that when motherhood ages, it is most beautiful when displayed as encouragement and support, as opposed to continued parenting and offering unsolicited advice.
Not that parenting and advice (solicited or not) aren’t allowed from parents to their adult children, but they are no longer really a requirement of the job. And encouragement and support go farther, and build stronger friendships.
And my mother, who has been my teacher, advocate, encourager, disciplinarian, punisher, chauffeur, chef, provider, is my friend.
Her being my friend now wasn’t dependent upon whether I saw her as my friend growing up- because growing up, I did need to be parented, disciplined, and given unsolicited advice. I was a child. That was (part of) my mother’s job.
Motherhood. It’s grit. It’s grace. It’s tough. It’s tears. It’s humbling. It’s hilarious.
It’s definitely a place the Lord does sanctifying work if we will let Him.
It stretches you. Sometimes to the point you think you will break…or you do. It strengthens you. Sometimes to the point you will go to any lengths to save your child, and you do. It exhausts you. Sometimes to the point all you can do is …nothing that day.
Motherhood fills your heart…and sometimes it breaks your heart.
Whatever way motherhood has found you, you are an integral part of beauty.
Your story, your tragedy, your triumph, your pain, your loss, your victory, your survival…every joy, tear, sorrow, prayer, is a beautiful strand woven within the tapestry we are all a part of making.
Love you. Praying for you. Rejoicing with you, hurting with you. Thank you for being a part of motherhood’s epic story.
©Alisha H. Cary 2020
