*What motherhood means to Carmela, mother of 14-month-old Raphael*
I was worried that motherhood would become something so all encompassing that I would be stripped of my former identity; my sense of humor would vanish, and I would be reduced to a haggard spit up-soaked slave to my child. My career would no longer be important, and conversations with me would be reduced to insipid pureed mush. Fortunately, motherhood has been none of these things.
Nonetheless, motherhood has made me realize that you cannot always be an overachiever. I now willingly accept “good enough.” Life has been stripped down to the essential; decision making is a constant battle between “necessary” and “nice to have.”
I realize that brunch can be served with just waffles and fruit salad, with eggs, bagels, lox, and the fragrant aroma of homemade cinnamon rolls existing only in my nostalgic memory of pre-child Sunday mornings. I forgive myself for not cleaning the bathroom before houseguests arrive, and I accept that, until Raphael is old enough to stir a pot or grab a bucket and a sponge, a heavy dose of pragmatism will be required.
Motherhood is, however, holding a small piece of perfection. For an ephemeral moment, I can look at my son and love everything about him. For a blissful moment, there are no character flaws or complexes. My entire being smiles as he shrieks with glee when the wind tosses his hair in all directions or when he sticks his hand out to feel the rain. I laugh when he teases me by popping his thumb in his grinning mouth, just to have me take it out again and again.
For the past 14 months, each day has been better than the previous one. Each day I wonder what new discovery Raphael will make. When I’m away from him, I daydream about something he might like to see or do. I imagine him smiling his gummy grin, with just the slightest hint of self-satisfaction. I picture him turning his head and looking back at me, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, as he heads at breakneck speed for some forbidden corner of the apartment.
I see his personality evolving, and I see parts of myself and my husband. As a mother, I want to protect him from the inevitable things that come with growing up: hurt feelings, disappointment, frustration, and anger. I can’t stop myself from imaging him as a little boy or young man and wishing that I could protect him forever. If only, somehow, I could make him a little less shy, maybe a bit less critical, and perhaps a touch more patient than his parents.
Most of all, though, I hope my little child stays perfect for just one more day.
*Carmela* *October 6, 2010* *450 words*
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