Motherhood Musings

I thought I had it all figured out. How many kids we wanted, when we would have them, how we would parent, the type of stay-at-home mom I would be, what our home life would look like, the kinds of meals I would make, the types of real foods my kids would eat, how we would have a family night on the same night each week to bring some consistency to this hectic life we live.

Ten years ago, I thought I knew. Spoiler alert: I didn’t.

Nine years ago, I miscarried our first and second babies. They were gutting experiences; I was traumatized after the first, then I was numb and empty and bitter after the second. I knew then that our family wouldn’t look the way I had imagined.

Seven years ago, we took a leap of faith and moved abroad to Birmingham, UK. We were changed forever by our experiences and by the people God placed in our path. I knew then that our ideals for our family, our home, and our community had changed.

Six years ago, we moved back to Oklahoma amidst the death of Patrick’s mom. This was closely followed by multiple traumatic, life-altering familial experiences that left me feeling unsettled and wary of our family’s future.

Almost five years ago, I became pregnant. It seems like an entire lifetime ago. I held my breath for months as I just waited for the other shoe to drop. How would this miracle be snatched from me? Because surely I wouldn’t be allowed to have this. I walked through the entire pregnancy holding joy at bay, anticipating the sure tragedy that would await me.

Four years ago, our blessing named Benjamin arrived and changed us forever. Our family of three had truly begun. I didn’t know that we would have literal months of darkness and despair ahead of us, but we made it through. Those first few months of his life were incredibly difficult, and I was alone for so much of it, through no fault of anyone but life’s circumstances.

For that first year, I battled against the darkness, determined to come out of it alive - and I don’t make that statement lightly. The threat of tears burns in the back of my nose as I type this, because the horrible truth is that I fought against suicidal ideation for that entire first year of my son’s life, and it would return to taunt me for months at a time. I dreamed of being able let go and finally breathe. I wanted relief. The only reason I didn’t give in was because I’ve seen my family literally torn apart and forever altered by the grief that comes with a family member’s death, and I couldn’t knowingly put them through picking up the pieces after my own elected departure.

The pandemic started when our boy was 1.5 years old. I was thrilled to be stuck at home with my guys for months, but being a teacher during the pandemic wrecked my mental and physical well-being - the health that I had worked so hard to reclaim since becoming a mother was put through the wringer.

This year has been horrendous in terms of my personal physical health. I started the year with multiple ER visits, hives, tongue swelling, gobs of medicine, so many things. It’s nearly November and I’m not much better off. I’ve made strides in certain areas, but I’m in no way what one could consider healthy. I’ve had more doctor’s visits than I have in my entire life (pregnancy not included), and I don’t have any answers yet - only more questions and appointments and unknowns. I have a feeling that stress plays a huge role in my episodes, but I can’t do a whole lot about some of that right now.

I started the school year feeling pretty well established in keeping up and also keeping boundaries, but after catching the horrible C-word for a third time in the beginning of September, I feel like I haven’t been able to catch my breath. And while the school year keeps on rolling when your life is falling apart, real life doesn’t stop either. The laundry needs done and the kid needs fed and the things pile up and up and up until I feel like there is no way to escape and find the light again.

Parenting isn’t easy by any means, either. As a high school English teacher, I have a unique viewpoint; I see how incredibly powerful the role of parent can be and how these choices that are made impact these children who will one day be adults. The absent parents, the working parents, the helicopter parents, the manipulative parents, the emotionally immature parents, the bold and caring and self-sacrificing parents - they all are shaping these young people. I see the way that they don’t trust anyone, the way they just shuffle along and wait to be told what to do next, the way they are so desperate for connection and acceptance. I don’t know all of their stories, but I know some of them. I see the walls they build to keep people out and protect their hearts. 

And then I go home to my boy, get on my knees, apologize to him, and tell him that I love him so so much. I worry daily about how I’m screwing up my kid. How can I possibly be able to set him up to be a resilient yet tender heart amongst the cruelties of this world? I can only rest in the grace that I have been offered and continue to offer to my son. But man, it isn’t easy.

Sitting and playing with him this morning, going on a walk just the two of us, these are the things whirling through my mind. But I am content. Maybe this is the way it’s supposed to be - just the three of us. Our road has been incredibly long and fraught with obstacles to overcome. My guys deserve to have a healthy, happy version of me around. Hell, I deserve to be healthy and happy. I still don’t have any of the answers, but we’re making it day by day. We just need to keep showing up. Every day. Together.