Defining Word: Motherhood

moth·er·hood—the state of being a mother

1. It’s New Year’s Eve, and I anxiously take a pregnancy test. My period is two days late. Rich is working in the shop, and I pace between the bathroom and our bedroom, waiting until enough time passes before looking at the just peed-on stick. I double-check the box to make sure I did it right. The word ‘pregnant’ stares back at me. Instinctively, I place my hand on my belly. I grab our new wedding present, a ‘big-girl’ camera, and snap a selfie in the mirror with the proof of our baby’s existence—a positive pregnancy test. I keep the news to myself all day, wanting to tell Rich before we go to dinner—just the two of us. I spend the day bouncing from pure excitement to terror. A baby? Do I know how to be a mother? The few hours between taking the test and Rich finishing work is more than enough time to dream and imagine if the baby will be a boy or a girl. I download a pregnancy app and calculate my due date. My due date!! My mind tumbles with a new wonderful, scary, and amazing future. Hours later, I sit the camera on a tripod and casually say, “Let’s take a picture before we go out!” We pose, arms around each other’s waists. He suspects nothing as he smiles—his hand covers my belly. I pull the pregnancy test from my jeans pocket, announcing, “I’m pregnant!” Click click click. The camera snaps ten photos, capturing his shock and excitement.

   

2. Lately, Nora only wants to be with me. Each afternoon when I lie her down for a nap, she asks, “You pick me up from my nap?” She says this because I’ve left a handful of times during her nap, and she’s woken up to her dad/grandma/aunt in my place. The other day, Rich off-handedly mentions going on a last-minute road trip to Canada to look at a combine. Nora overhears this conversation and says matter of factly: “Mom stays home. With me.”
   

3. I walk through a parking lot with Allie on my hip, who is one. Rhett, who is three years old, asks to be carried too. I try convincing him he’s “too big,” and I can’t hold them both. But he isn’t feeling well, so I drop his hand and lean down to hoist him onto my other hip. I jostle them both into place and start walking again, my breath a little heavier. I say, “You guys are heavy!” Rhett replies, “You’re doing great, Mom!” He pauses, then says, “Go a little faster.”
   

4. It’s the middle of harvest, and Rhett, who is almost four years old, slams his hand into the door of a tractor. His grandparents and I are pretty sure he needs stitches in his finger. (Even though less than 24 hours earlier, I took him to Urgent Care because he sliced open his chin on a metal watering can in the front yard.) We arrive at Urgent Care, and I smile and hope no one thinks he’s abused—just a busy farm kid. Once we get checked in, Rhett sits on my lap in the exam room, and I squeeze him tight while the PA stitches his tiny finger with dirt under the nails. During the second of three stitches, I black out. I wake up on the cold tile floor while my preschooler stands over me—fear washing over his face. Rhett puts on a brave face for his third and final stitch while I lay on the table, waiting for my blood pressure to return. We come home, and he goes straight back to the field with his dad. At bedtime, he tells me, “Thanks for taking me to the doctor.”
   

5. “I can’t do this!” I cry, clamping my eyes shut. Pain radiates through my body. My midwife grips my hand, “Yes, you can, Stacy. You have to.” I take a deep breath, then bare down, pushing and grunting. Minutes later, I reach down, pulling a squishy, vernix-covered baby onto my chest. Her skin melts into mine. My shoulders relax, and I close my eyes, relief flooding my body.

   

   

6. “Daddy’s home!” the kids yell, their feet pounding down the hardwood floor toward the door. I sigh. What would it be like to be missed so much? Do they love him more than me? Years later, I put Allie on the bus for her first day of kindergarten. I wave goodbye, standing on the side of the gravel road as the yellow bus backs away from me. I wipe a single tear that slides down my cheek. That afternoon, I park at the mailbox, waiting for the bus to come down the hill. The brakes hiss as it slows to a halt in front of me. The doors open, and the kids come down the steps one at a time. My heart beats faster until I see Allie’s flower dress and pink shoes step onto the road. She runs to me, slamming her body into mine, and wraps her arms around my waist. “Mama, I missed you!”  
   

7. Nora gazes at me through my reflection in the mirror. Her eyes catch mine, “Mama, you go town?” I lower the mascara wand, dropping my eyes from the mirror to her round face, chubby cheeks, and light-colored eyes. “Yes, Daddy and I are going to dinner!” Her lower lip sticks out, “I go too?” I shake my head. I spend the next hour changing outfits and imagining drinks and dinner—dinner I won’t be cooking or cleaning up—and a night off from the usual bedtime routine. Hours later, I take my last sip of beer and tell Rich, “I miss the kids. Should we go?”
   

8. The kids spend the morning fighting over markers, LEGOs, and any other item they can find. It feels like a tug-of-war of “I had it first!” “No, I had it first!” I intervene several times, but finally, I retreat to the kitchen, letting them figure it out on their own. Minutes later, I close the dishwasher after loading the last plate. The house is quiet. I walk down the hall to the kids’ bedroom, which is empty. I turn the corner, and Allie sits on a stool in the bathroom, and Rhett is brushing her hair with a big grin on his face. “Allie’s a princess!” he says.
   

9. The baby monitor lights up, and Allie’s cries crackle through the speaker. I fumble around the nightstand for my glasses, unable to see the time. Sliding the glasses onto my face, I pick up my phone: 2:30 a.m. I grumble as I walk down the hall; her door clicks as I push it open. “Mama?” she asks from her crib, standing up. “It’s me,” I whisper. She reaches her arms toward me, and I pick her up, and we move toward the glider. “Why do you keep waking up? I’m tired.” She yawns in response, snuggling into my shoulder. We start rocking, our shadow dancing on the wall behind the nightlight. When I think she’s asleep, she reaches up with both hands, places them on my cheeks, and kisses me.
   

10. “Mom, can I have a snack?” On repeat.

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*This post is a part of the blog tour for The Beauty of Motherhood: Grace-Filled Devotions for the Early Years. With scripture, stories, prayers, and practices, The Beauty of Motherhood provides mothers with refreshment and the reminder that they are not alone as they mother. Order your copy at Amazon, Target, or Bookshop. The Beauty of Motherhood released on March 21st! 

*This post was inspired by Textbook by Amy Krause Rosenthal.

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