Amber puts things so beautifully...
When you’re pregnant your baby is part of you in a very real and physical way. Your little one shares your food and the very air that you breathe. You feel each other move, you can tell when the baby is awake or asleep or has the hiccups. You give up your own personal real estate as your abdominal cavity is gradually taken over by a whole other being entirely. You are one person and two people all at the same time.
The funny thing is that it doesn’t really change after the baby’s born. Sure, you can tie your own shoes and fit through doorways again. These are very good things. But all the same that baby depends on you for everything. This little one’s very life hinges on you. It’s almost like this newborn person is still part of you, sharing your space and your being.
Sometimes I’m lying in bed nursing 10-month-old Jacob, and 4-year-old Hannah is on my other side vying for her space. She clings to me, she kneads my belly and grabs my arms. She pushes her face into my neck as if I am her life’s breath. She wants me to do things for her. She wants me to be with her every minute. She wants to claim the real estate of my body for herself.
In these moments I am struck by how these children view me almost as a habitat. I am not really a person in their eyes. I am more like a physical presence sustaining them, a guardian in whose arms they will always be safe. I am their mother, and they are still small enough that this is a potent thing. I am their divine authority and their greatest truth.
Sometimes it grates on me, the way these children clamber and climb and cling. The way I can’t get 3 seconds of peace, visit the bathroom by myself, sleep in on a lazy Saturday morning. I am Needed. It is a mortal offense if I close the door behind myself after I enter a room. It is an outrageous affront if I attempt to have some time alone for any reason.
At these times, when I am on my last nerve and I do not want two children using me as a jungle gym I become angry. I glare at my husband who does his best, but at the mere sight of him the children shriek and cry for Mama and cling ever harder. I sometimes try to hide, but I am always found or drawn out by the despair of little voices. I know that my temper tantrums are fruitless, and in the end I will only have to return and placate the feelings I’ve hurt.
So I try to keep my focus. I remind myself that it won’t always be like this. My children will grow up, as surely as all children do. I will not always be some sort of mother goddess in their eyes. Too quickly they will want nothing to do with me. They will see my feet of clay. I will have all the bathroom privacy a person could ask for.
When that day comes, when I can sleep in or spend the day reading a book, I might even miss the clinginess. Those moments when I was at the centre of my children’s universe. When they hung on to me for dear life. I try to appreciate the good parts while they last. The many upsides of being the first and best home for these amazing little people.
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