What Can I Say?

Note: I started this yesterday, but wanted to make sure it was better than just a first draft. It is now finished and of a quality as I feel befits the topic.

“Now the thing about having a baby—and I can't be the first person to have noticed this—is that thereafter you have it.”

—Jean Kerr

I asked a lot of questions after I had my baby, Melody: “Is this pain NORMAL?” “Will waking up at this hour become NORMAL?” “Is it NORMAL for a baby's bellybutton to bleed like this?” “Will my bellybutton ever look NORMAL again?” You know, the normal stuff. And some of the questions were easily answered (“Duh. Having a baby is a painful process,” and “As long as it doesn't get red, puffy, ooze, or smell bad, it's alright to have some bleeding when a baby's umbilical cord comes off.”) Others have taken more time to resolve (“Will we ever have a NORMAL schedule again?” remains to be seen. And really, it was odd how much my stretched outie that used to be an innie resembled Melody's when her umbilical cord came off, but that's far beyond the point I'm trying to make.)

Other people asked me questions, too, but I felt like some of them were trick questions or something. I had no idea how to answer them.

“So are things back to NORMAL, yet?” Umm . . . are things ever NORMAL after you have a kid? Entrapment! I didn't even dare hazard a guess. If I said “no” would they laugh with the knowledge that things were never going to be NORMAL again? And if I said “yes” would they laugh with the knowledge that things were never going to be NORMAL again, but I desperately wanted them to be, so I was lying? Hormones made me overthink everything.

And would you like to compose a Tweet (140 characters or less!) detailing a life-changing event and how you have felt since this experience? You only have 30 seconds to do so, and the people who will read it may or may not actually care about what you have to say. Go on—begin!

This is how I feel when asked what it's like being a mother. There's the short answer, “Good,” that has become my answer of choice, but that doesn't come close to describing what it's actually like.

I could go for humorous, but I don't feel right about being flippant about something so special just because I'm incapable of concisely putting my feelings into words. Even assuming I could, it would take awhile. Have you ever asked a stranger how they're doing, had them respond with a lengthy run-down of all their sorrows, and thought “Whoops! They actually answered the question, 'bless their heart!'”? Because of the nature of the question, I didn't want to go into a detailed answer for someone who was only asking out of habit or courtesy and didn't actually want to hear everything I had to say about being a mother.

Those who casually ask typically accept “Good” and move on. Those who would listen are usually parents themselves, so they smile sympathetically and nod. I think they're well aware of and sypathetic to my conundrum.

I feel my honest, lengthy answer worth recording, though, so here it is (with some of the more personal insights being removed and saved for my own private record).

Things changed when I became a mother. Even though it's only been a little over a month, I see things completely differently. I've been blessed with some wonderful gospel insights in connection with being a mother/parent.

I tend to be a bit critical of myself. Prior to parenthood, I had a rough patch when I was trying to define my worth to my Father in Heaven based on my accomplishments. Did He still love me, even though it had been months since my last good scripture study session? My house was dirty, I frequently missed my prayers, and I sometimes yelled at my husband—did that cut me off from my Father's love? I knew that wasn't how it worked, but it was just after giving birth that I got a bit more understanding about what true love was and how my Heavenly Father might feel about His children—me included.

I had been anxious about loving my baby. What if, somehow, I didn't love her when she was born? After all, I knew nothing about her. I discovered that, despite my concerns, I loved her as soon as she was born. It wasn't because of what she had been, because prior to this, she'd only been a flutter inside of me. And it wasn't because of what she was doing, because she came right out and peed on me. But I didn't care about any of that because I was her mom and I had done so much for her and I had such hopes for who she would be later. So I saw that who I had been and what I was doing currently was not nearly so important as what I would be. And Heavenly Father will always love me because He is my Father and He has great hopes for what I will allow Him to make of me.

Sometimes, when Melody gets too tired before her feedings, she fights me a little when I try to give her the thing that she really needs—and wants, if she weren't too young and tired to realize it. I thought of the scripture “Can a woman forget her suckling child, that she should not have compassion on the son of her womb? yea, they may forget, yet will I not forget thee” (Isaiah 49). I would imagine there are times when I am too inexperienced and tired to know what I need/truly want. As I fight what the Lord is trying to do for me, a situation I find most frustrating when Melody does it to me, He never forsakes me. He may step back to give me time to calm down and realize what I truly want, but He would never get so upset that He would throw up His hands, exclaim “FINE! Starve yourself,” and then leave me forever. He is infinitely patient, and “[H]is arm of mercy is extended towards [us]” (Jacob 6:5)—ready to welcome us home when, like the prodigal son, we calm down and “come to ourselves” (Luke 15:17).

It's been a humbling experience having a baby who completely relies on me for all her needs. For the first few days, she really only cried when she had a need. So I could feed her, burp her, or change her and she would stop crying.

And I thought: I am so good at this.

But then she started crying more often. Just because. And it seemed to me that I could take care of everything for her and she would STILL cry. So I started to feel like a failure. But I realized that was ridiculous. By condemning myself because my baby cried, I was similarly judging every mother whose baby cried to be a failure—which I would never do. Because it's an outrageous criteria for “successful” motherhood. Instead, I had to humble myself and admit that I'm not as cool as I thought. I can't solve every problem for Melody—and even if I could, it wouldn't always be best. Sometimes, as much as I hate to admit it and think about it, she will be sad, regardless of what I do for her. It hurts me to think ahead to worse things that I won't be able to rescue her from, but I know it will be okay. Heavenly Father teaches us and allows us agency to choose; I can try to do the same for my children.

The learning curve for parenthood has been incredibly steep. But the lessons I have already been blessed with have been more than worth it. My understanding of charity has become a bit clearer and I feel I have been able to progress in my efforts to be a little more like my Heavenly Father. They are small steps, but He has let me know that what I am doing is good.

Will I ever be NORMAL again? If NORMAL was my life and spiritual progress prior to Melody, I hope not. I've never really cared for the “Don't change a thing!” expressions. For some people “Don't ever change!” (with 'ever' being underlined three times) was a yearbook favorite. But while reflecting on what people had written, I would find myself thinking “I'm glad you like me the way I am, but don't confine me to being this way forever. I hope I will change, if only for the better.”

So I try not to wish for pre-Melody norms. Because although my bellybutton now seems to resemble its former self, I know that my spirituality has grown in a way that can never be diminished. And those changes dwarf any minor physical changes so as to make them seem irrelevant. “Will my bellybutton ever look normal again?” Psh. Like I care.