First comes love.
Mother’s Day.
They don’t deserve an annual celebratory holiday. They deserve one per week.
Oprah has always said she thinks the job of a Mother is the hardest, hands down, in all careers across the board. I couldn’t agree more. It doesn’t provide a paycheck. It often receives little gratitude. The workday never ends.
But I imagine the intangible benefits far outweigh the sacrifices such as sleep, headaches, and financial burdens.
I imagine creating a human being together with someone you love & having it grow inside you must be the most amazing, surreal experience. I imagine observing your very own Mini-Me take their first breath, first step, and crack their first smile must literally take your own breath away. I imagine hearing their first words, their first giggle, and feeling their first reciprocated embrace must make you melt inside.
At the cusp of turning 31, I can finally imagine being a Mother.
Today I swallowed a pretty pivotal moment in passing — one of those that you don’t expect which makes it all the more memorable. You’re just going about your day, doing something as mundane as sitting at a stoplight behind the wheel one block away from home, when you look to your left and suddenly feel like you’re peeking through a peep hole of someone else’s life. Something so extraordinarily special that you can’t help but smile.
Just a few buildings down from my apartment building is an ice cream shop. Now that the weather is warmer, the activity generated through their doors has recently skyrocketed. The sunlight shined on a woman who calmly sat on a park bench facing the city street while clutching a baby on her lap and a toddler immediately to her right. She was spoon-feeding the munchkin ice cream out of a cup while the other was self-sufficient licking his own scoops of frozen sugar. I gazed in fascination at her ability to keep the two safe & happy. There are precious moments happening all around me on a regular basis but for some reason this one pulled on my heart strings.
The light turned green and I continued another 50 feet to park and unload my groceries [bagged from the clerk who innocently wished me a happy Mother’s Day]. Suddenly I began to lose my breath a bit. Oh no- Oh no - Oh no – here it comes. CRASH. Single Sunday Blues.
Something I used to love doing with Mr. Ex was co-shopping for weekly groceries at the local food market. Mostly because we somehow seemed to make the normally uneventful task into a mobile comedy show by acting like complete goof balls, but I suppose because it also gave me a taste of family. Our disjointed lives were so completely independent on a day to day basis, but this one particular chore that we commonly shared provided a very rare sense of true companionship.
So I lug about 8 heavy bags full of fresh produce and poultry stacked up both forearms, overwhelmed by the beautiful moment of motherhood while time seemed to stand still, and tried to ignore the bitter taste in my mouth because I hate hate hate carrying groceries. For some reason I identify – no wait. I know exactly why. My Dad used to always help my Mom transfer them inside once she pulled in the garage. She didn’t ask him for help, but he showed up outside every single time to handle the manual labor. I guess it was his way of showing he appreciated her weekly aisle walking followed by making family meals, that he wanted to pitch in with some muscle power. So I suppose not having any help of extra hands, literally, is a double-whammy reminder of the man missing in my life.
What occurred to me though, on this Mother’s Day, isn’t just a case of the Sunday Blues due to being sans partnerhood, but also from being sans parenthood. I was ready to be a wife several years ago — that missing piece from my life is developing mold around it. But now, now I think the cliché biological tic toc is starting to catch-up & the old nursery rhyme had it right all along ~ First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby in a baby carriage.
I’ve been perfectly content not having the responsibility for a little person’s life. In fact, even the thought scared me. But…it’s not just about me anymore. Life has to be more than going to and from work, going to the gym, cooking and eating dinner, watching TV, and falling asleep. And doing them all alone.
Finally I have outgrown my selfishness, and fear, of what reproduction entails. Not only do I want to share my life with an equal, but I want to create a life too.
