I SAW HER, WITH THAT BIG OLE BELLY, smile at me and I could tell she had two hundred questions. She was thumbing through Baby’s First Year, pausing occasionally to study certain sections.
We both stood in the parenting section of the local bookstore, each seeking our own answers. She with her pregnant belly and me with my grouchy toddler. I smiled back at her and returned my book to the shelf.
I ran my finger over a few more titles before deciding that there was no author on the planet with enough expertise to take on my family’s brand of dysfunction. I had to succumb to the reality that we would be sleepless forever, and that was that. I huffed, reached down to pick up my kiddo, and headed for the door.
Grouchy Nugget wasn’t having that, because I guess he had just in that second decided he was having fun, so he went full on limp noodle. I wasn’t prepared for this maneuver, and his weight just about sent me reeling into the book shelf. I gave him my grittiest “try that again and you’re gonna regret it” whisper, and as I grasped his arm to pull him toward the door, I just about walked straight into the belly of mama-to-be.
“So, what’s it like?” she asked, warmly. Her expression was tentative and jubilant.
I had wondered that same question not so long ago when my belly and heart were stretched to the brink with life and potential.
But in that moment, when she asked, neither one of us was at our best. I was sleep deprived, and no amount of caffeine was clearing my brain fog. I had busted a button on my favorite pair of jeans that morning, and pretty sure Nugget had an ear infection. Which meant no nap for either of us. He was hungry and he was teething. The Orajel wasn’t helping much. We were quite the pair, to be honest.
What is it like? Eep. I tried to divert.
“Huh? You mean . . . ?”
“Being a mom.” She closed her book and set it back on the shelf, looking at me expectantly.
Surely she isn’t looking to me for that answer.
Me, with the frazzled hair. With the wrinkled sweatshirt and baggy-butt jeans. With a kid wearing mismatched socks and—oh, no—is that cheese in his hair? Yep. Definitely cheese.
And we haven’t even eaten cheese today. So . . .
She stood there waiting for a response, patient as can be. And I stood there, frantic, my mind racing away from me.
What’s it like?
It’s like . . . sore breasts and crusty eyes and not enough coffee in the world to clear the fog settling on your brain.
It’s like the first night, when all the family helpers have left and you’re finally home alone with your newborn. All those sleepless hours that you didn’t think you’d make it through, but then the sun comes up, and you realize that somehow, by the grace of God, you did. A tiny seed of confidence is planted, and you think that maybe you can make it another night. Just maybe.
It’s like baby’s first boo-boo and you can’t believe how much you panicked over one drop of blood. Your husband laughs because you cried more than the baby and now he’s in trouble with you because it wasn’t funny. It wasn’t funny at all, and now you’re punching your husband and crying even harder. What the heck has taken over your brain?
It’s like a holy terror inside of you that harm could ever befall them. And a fierce warrior within you that would destroy anyone who dared try.
It’s like the longest day ever and you’ve yawned four thousand times and can’t wait for the kids to go to freaking bed. But then they melt in your arms, asleep in the rocking chair . . . and you just can’t put them down. So you stare. And stare. And . . . yawn . . . stare.
It’s little feet and little meals and huge messes.
It’s dreams of college and careers and weddings that you pray to be alive to witness . . . and the untold sacrifices you will happily make to secure those futures for your children.
It’s too many feelings and not enough words to express them. From the very beginning, language falls short. That’s what it’s like. From day one.
Words fail.
Suddenly my heart was full. “You know,” I said, “it’s like nothing you can imagine or even prepare for. But you’ll be ready.”
It wasn’t the best answer I had to give. But as she smiled at me and left, I hoped it was enough.
All I knew was she didn’t need warnings. She didn’t want my personal story.
What she needed was the assurance that she was ready.
And I could tell by the joy on her face and the way she nervously clutched her stack of parenting how-tos that she was.
One hundred percent.
