I'm not one of those moms who felt the natural embrace of motherhood as soon as the midwife placed RB in my arms at the hospital. Looking back, I'm fairly certain I was in shock.
My labor was long and hard, at least in my opinion, and I was exhausted. I do this thing where, when I am in a state of crisis, like actively in the midst of crisis, I shut down emotionally. I keep my thoughts above the muck and I keep my brain pretty neutral. For example, our entire experience with Hurricane Irma, I did not cry or really panic one time while we were on island, and we were all thinking we were going to literally die during the hurricane itself, but when we landed in Austin after the storm, I cried for 72 hours straight. That's just how I've always functioned. With my labor, I took a pretty similar approach. I didn't want to be scared because I didn't really see the point. They'd told us before going into L&D that four hours was the push limit, and if I were to push up until that point without getting him out, we'd need to have a conversation about a C-section. I'm fairly certain that conversation would've gone something like: "Grace, you are having a C-section. Right now." I pushed for something like three hours and fifty minutes - right to the edge (typical me, honestly). Needless to say, by the time things were all said and done, I was a shell of my former self. They handed him to me and all I felt was relief. Relief that I'd gotten him out and that he was okay, and that I seemed okay. I didn't feel this overwhelming and all encompassing love like I had been told women do. I just felt so tired, and hungry, and kind of like shit for not feeling how I'd expected. Was something wrong with me? I didn't know. Don't get me wrong, I really was so happy he was finally here. I was just not overtaken by adoration like I thought I would be in that moment. I was instead terrified, because he was easier for me to take care of when he was in my belly. We spent the next two days being poked and prodded and woken up every fifteen minutes. I don't think the shock really wore off for another week, and maybe longer than that.
Then came newborn life; a bootcamp of sorts. I was more than exhausted. I was mentally and physically spread so thin, and I felt like I was just not good at being a mom. I have always loved my son, but at this point in time, I felt consumed by him rather than consumed by my love for him. I actually felt like I was doing a shit job at being a person in general. Some people are naturally good moms and I really thought I didn't get that gene. I was trying and felt like I was failing. I didn't understand how to read him and if he was able to tell me he loved me and that I was doing a good job. Everything I felt I failed at, like I overfed him or I'd give him a bath and he'd screech afterward because I couldn't get him dressed fast enough, it all sat on me like a growing ball of lead on my chest. I wasn't able to enjoy those weeks because I was so entrenched in stress and anxiety that there was very little room for joy. I was wholeheartedly unprepared for my immersion into motherhood.
Now, the fog has lifted. I recognize it in random moments. Now, I feel that feral, unconditional love. I watch movies and see a kid get bullied, and I think, "Absolutely fucking not, not on my watch." He smiles at me and I think about how I would do anything to preserve that smile. I see news articles about the horrible things that happen to kids in this world, and I say to myself "I hope no one makes the mistake to do that to my son. Because Mommy will absolutely and unapologetically catch a charge." I will be a 'fuck around and find out' mother when it comes to keeping my baby safe in this insane world. I feel this power of knowing I would go scorched earth for this boy. It grows by the minute. I think about the babies in the world that don't have this and it makes me physically sick.
My whole adult life, believe it or not, I've always been more willing to eat whatever shit came my way rather than cause a confrontation. I was bolder as a kid, but I've definitely softened with age. I would rather deal with (or more ignore) my own bad feelings than draw up a boundary and cause someone else to feel bad. I can actually feel that part of me withering away. RB is the spark, and I am the kindling. Within me grows this animalistic need to protect and nurture my son, to act as his human shield and absorb as many blows as I can before the world reaches him.
I really worried intially this feeling wouldn't come for me. I can be aloof when I'm overwhelmed (may be an understatement) and I feared this tendency would keep me from getting to truly experience feeling the love a mother has for her son. I'm so grateful for the ways he's changed me and for the new depth my heart has just from having loved him these last few months. How deep can my love go in the years to come?
I was rocking him tonight and it hit me. I do feel like a mom. I've been waiting to really feel it, and now that I do, it feels good. It feels natural. It feels like home. I'm a mom, y'all. Holy hell. And I am so fucking grateful for every moment: the moments he's crying, the moments I'm crying, the moments he's smiling, the moments I'm smiling, and all the shit in between. Even when it's hard (and it can be damn hard) I am so thankful to be this kid's mom.
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I'm rereading this a day later. I wanted to pop in and explain my song choice. This song is all about not taking anyone's shit. It's about not caring about other people's opinions; telling them that if they make a wrong move, there will be consequences. It's honestly how I feel when I think about who I might morph into when it comes to protecting this child. There is potential for me to become the true embodiment of "yee yee, woop woop, I ain't playing around" should push come to shove and my son be at risk.
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