My Life, Take It

Last week a woman in the supermarket approached me and gushed over how beautiful you looked -- with your big brown eyes and little ringlets starting to take shape and frame your precious face. She asked me what motherhood was like and expressed so much excitement about being a mom herself someday.

I told her what I tell most future expecting moms -- something like, "It's amazing, but be prepared for your life to be over. You can't do anything you used to do." I even told one of my coworkers, "Imagine you get home tonight, and instead of going out to dinner with your wife or out to a movie, you have to begin a very detailed routine that involves making dinner, making your baby's dinner, feeding him or her, giving a bath, making and cleaning bottles, and rocking for 3+ hours until the baby and you pass out from exhaustion, usually much later than your usual bedtime and with a possible 2am feeding looming. Then start the process all over again the next night." He stared at me blankly, with terror, I think, and I quickly rushed into, "Oh, but it's still wonderful!!!" in an attempt to grasp and preserve all of his sweet, sparkly dreams of fatherhood as they fell to the floor with a loud, awkward crash.

[The truth is that it is wonderful, and most of the time, a day filled with baby giggles and first words makes a difficult night much more bearable.]

Unfortunately, last night was more of a "my life is over" night than a "this is just a tough evening" night. After 3 straight hours of rocking you at Nana's and Grandpa's, I burst into tears and took my aggression out with a swift punch to the mattress. I finally handed you off to your dad who eventually got you to sleep, and we all passed out at about 3am.

I woke up twice after to check on you. Just as I was settling into a deep sleep, at about 6am, you began to cry. Your dad leaned over to me and said, "Hey, she's up." According to our alternating schedule, it was my turn to be up with you in the morning.

I scooped you up in my arms, got you some breakfast, and proceeded to get angry about how the night and morning had unfolded, while you happily ate a banana and some Cheerios.

My life as I knew it was over. I used to go to Nana's and Grandpa's and watch movies, play games and, at the end of a long day, crawl into Nana's cozily-made-up guest bed, and sleep for 10+ hours.

That last thought was most appealing. I suddenly became very determined to get some more sleep and thought a car ride may help you doze off. So I bundled you up at 7am and hit the road. I drove to the neighboring town for a drive-thru cup of coffee. Halfway there, you started crying. I quickly turned on the radio. The Christmas station was playing an old-fashioned version of I'll Be Home for Christmas. The melody was gentle and calming.

You stopped to watch the world go by. I did the same, then noticed you had drifted off.

When I got back to the house and saw you still sleeping in the back seat, I passed the house and drove the entire route again while you slept.

I relaxed. I breathed and let go of my anger. I also allowed myself to let go of how I was defining what my life is, what it should be.

In doing so, it could, instead (in a moment), be cold air on my face, a warm car, a crying baby.

My life wasn't over. It just wasn't sleeping in on a Saturday morning or seeing the Eiffel Tower.

I found my life to be, rather unexpectedly, rather blissfully, a warm cup of coffee, a dirt road, Christmas music, and you.