Finding Our Way

In the first few months of motherhood, I started a book. It was fated to be the saddest, most depressing book known to man. I'd unequivocally come to the conclusion that what all bookstores were missing from their shelves was a book that detailed the reality of motherhood in the first few months of baby's life.  I didn't want any more What to Expect or Dr. Sears bull. I wanted real life. I wanted to detail every moment of sleeplessness and sexlessness, the breastfeeding woes, the flubby skin, the inconsolable crying, and all the damn blood. I felt called to let all expecting mothers know. I scolded my sisters for keeping it from me and quietly reevaluated who my real friends were. Did I even have any?! I knew I'd never forget any part of it, but I wrote bits and pieces down daily. I stumbled upon a shell of a book a few months ago and laughed at my blurry, sleepless fueled writing. Nobody tells you the dirty details because nobody really remembers. In the moment, they were my every thought, but even just six months later? A blur. Two years later? Forget about it.

By now, of course, we're sleeping, and all of the early woes, fears, and frustrations have disappeared, but we've hit another stage. That almost three-year-old thing. We whine, we rage, we negotiate. About everything. There's a not-so-peaceful person that resides inside of me that sometimes doesn't know if we'll make it through the day when the whining begins. And that short-fuse-kinda-anger that lives in both John and my bloodlines boils over every now and again. As Charlie continuously jabbed me with a stick while I was driving (a stick he shouldn't have had in the car...I'd clearly picked my battles that morning), and I quietly considered my patience level, he hit me right in the armpit, and I laughed - a real, honest, from my toes, you tickled me, kind of laugh. The situation immediately diffused. He was mad I was going to work; he'd been working all morning to push my buttons. I was stressed; getting both of us ready and out the door to drop him off and make it to work on time has that effect on me. But that laugh made everything disappear. He cracked up in return which only made me laugh more which only fueled his giggles. And then we talked about sticks in the car and poking people's bodies with them and decided it wasn't a great idea. Nobody got mad, he put the stick down, and there was a real understanding.

I spent too much time wishing away infancy. I'm now acutely aware this is all in fact a blip. I probably won't remember him raging about raspberries in his pancakes or crying when he didn't get rice for breakfast, and I might forget him combing my hair with a fork while I was trying to have a real conversation with my colleagues at a work lunch. But I think he'll remember my grace. I know he'll learn more from calmly communicated lessons than my frustration. And I hope we always find a way to laugh.