From as far back as I can remember, I always wanted to have kids.
I even wrote a letter to my future daughter when I was 16. I still have it, sealed away in a decorated envelope full of teenage doodles and angst on the outside. I’m dying to know what I wrote inside.
I don’t know what I pictured having kids would be like. Likely some picture perfect vision with sounds of laughter and little feet running around while I read them books, tried to avoid stepping on Lego, and drove them to basketball games.Â
I suppose I got some of it right.Â
I’d like to say that I wasn’t wearing rose coloured glasses, but that would be lying. Truthfully, I don’t think I ever really thought about what it would actually be like to have kids. And if I did, those visions definitely did not include very young kids. I definitely did not think about parenting, just having kids.
I just always knew that I wanted to have kids.
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But I didn’t know what it actually meant to have kids, to be a mom.
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I didn’t know how intense, and yet how mundane, some of the every day moments would be.
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I didn’t know how I could be so incredibly frustrated with someone one second and then be completely overwhelmed with love the next.
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I didn’t know how ridiculous some of the things I would say would sound. “I know you’re a newborn, but you can’t possibly want to nurse again. Can’t you feed yourself yet?” “The toilet is not for licking.” “Your sister is not a horse.” “If you keep doing that, I’m not making you lunch ever again.” “Do not pick your sister up by her head.” “Your toothbrush does not go in your diaper.”
I didn’t know how often a new baby would breastfeed. And poop. And spit up all over my clothes.
I didn’t know how many times I would tell them to pick up their coats. Or put their dirty underwear in the laundry (seriously!? Gross!).
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I didn’t know how many loads of laundry I would do in a day, never mind a week. Or how many times I would go to sit down to go to the bathroom and be met with a cold, clammy, and wet toilet seat.
I didn’t know how I would collapse at the end of the day and not realize how it went by so slowly and yet so quickly at the same time.
I didn’t know the saying “the days are long but the years are short.” Whoever spoke that gem first, spoke the complete truth.
I didn’t know that half of my days would be spent thinking and talking about food and what the next meal or snack is going to be. I didn’t know that there would be days where even with all this talk about food, I would realize that the only meal I ate was supper.
I didn’t know that I would talk about other people’s poop in such detail. I didn’t know that I would cheer for other people when they poop.
I didn’t know that I would literally feel my skin crawling after a day of being climbed on and clung to, and yet, when bedtime came I would be sad to have empty arms.
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I didn’t know that I would scream out of frustration and wonder what my life would be like had I made different choices. I didn’t know that I would often lay awake wondering about that “other life” and conclude that I took the right path.
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I didn’t know that I could dislike someone so much and yet still love them unconditionally.
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I didn’t know how much guilt I would feel (oh the guilt! Always the guilt).
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I didn’t know that my heart would ache for these tiny beings and at the realization that there will be so many things that I cannot protect them from.
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I didn’t know how intensely I would love my kids. An intensity that fuels my soul and my spirit. An intensity that only grows as my children grow. An intensity that I thought I knew, but I really had no idea.
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I didn’t know how my heart would not be split in four parts for each child, but that it would grow in size each time our family grew.
I didn’t know that I would spend many hours crying over what I had or had not done, over what I could or could not do, over the fear that I just wasn’t good enough.
I just didn’t know.
I knew it would be hard. I didn’t know how hard.
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But I also knew it would be good. I just didn’t know how good.
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