The first time around I found the motherhood deal fairly ‘easy’. My son Eli was a happy, cheerful baby who ate with gusto, slept when put down in his bed and was laid back enough to be toted around.
When other mothers around me were struggling, pulling their hair out in desperation willing their kids to sleep or stop relentlessly crying, I responded with inner puzzlement.
Dave and I decided that adding another member to the family would be a good idea. ‘Surely it can’t be that hard?’ We foolishly thought.
And then Hudson came along.
From silent reflux and a scream that sounded like a tortured animal, to hip dysplasia and a groin hernia that went undiagnosed for far too long- he constantly battled sleep, found toys to be boring and would sometimes howl for hours whether we were holding him or not.
It undid me. My expectations and ideals in a shattered heap. My identity unknowingly tied up in being the capable, coping mother underwent serious destruction.
And yet. Falling upwards would never have been possible if I didn’t visit the depths and death of my constructed worth. Empathy, compassion, understanding would have been silent judgement, pious condemnation and lack of connection instead.
I guess, although I’m loathe to admit it, ‘easy’ can be overrated.
This post is a part of a link up for Five Minute Friday, a community of fellow writers who write for 5 minutes every Friday together on a prompt.
