A Mother's Work Is Never Done

I am laughing (almost crying) at the thought of me marching into my doctors’ office 7 years ago for a physical with my big announcement, “I’m ready to have a baby.” I guess I was as ready as one can be, but I had no idea what I was signing up for when I excitedly quit taking those tiny pastel pills. It doesn’t get easier, it gets more complicated – I’m not just nurturing little bodies prone to owies, I’m nurturing little psyches prone to worry and I’m without a manual or guidebook (one that I like anyway).

I am drained. I have been convincing these kids to be brave now for days – Kindergarten, the bus, preschool, Sunday school, a just-for-fun, non-separating gymnastics class. Today Libby’s entire morning was ruined when I mentioned going to school after lunch where I left her sobbing and choking out a miserable goodbye. I may break out in hives every Labor Day for the rest of my life.

I just have those kids, the same kind I was, kids who fret when anything starts looking, feeling or sounding out of the ordinary. And I feel like the only one kneeling down wiping away tears and fighting back my own. Of course I may be missing any other kids having a hard time adjusting because I’m doing all this reassuring in the bathroom with a crying Libby and her nervous bowels.

And I’m laughing (almost crying) when I’m reminded that this doesn’t end when they are 18 or even 35. I emailed my mom who had been out of town for a few days to update her on how the kids (and I) have been doing with so many changes and calls for courage and she wrote right back because she is still a mother too and her heart aches a little when she knows that I am struggling.