My life as a mother is just right. It's baby bear's porridge, with extra sugar and cream and a temperature that warms your tummy, but leaves your tastebuds intact. My life makes sense. I have a purpose. My lungs breathe for him. My heart swells and breaks and mends itself a thousand times a day. It is simultaneously the hardest and greatest thing I have ever done.
I'm half of a whole, yes. But while my husband's away each week, I become the whole. I try too hard to be the mother and the father. I encourage independence, yet I cling to my son. I play rough and tumble, then lament over our bruised knees and carpet burns. I butt in on their sacred bath time, then read books about a mama's love in soft whispers. I weep at the drop of a hat, only to quickly dry my son's tears and catapult into distractions.
So you see? Jekyll and Hyde. One moment I'm filled with joy, and the next? Despair and, yes, loneliness. I miss my partner, my lover, my friend. Not only do I miss my husband, but I miss our family as a unit. Our mundane rhythm. The daily moments that seem so routine and boring, until they're disrupted. I mourn the fact that he has missed, and will miss, G's most transformative time.
I was completely overcome this weekend when my baby crawled for the very first time! I could see him gearing up for it all week. Tummy time transformed into popping up onto all fours and rocking and rolling towards an unknown destination. By midweek he had begun to look down and check out his knees while he lunged forward, desperately grasping for the glowing remote.
For that one moment, I forgot everything and felt content. Felt whole.
The Hot Mama