Light Revelations
about motherhood
There won’t be a Mother-Lighthouse on your journey. All those pre-mom markers? They fade away, one by one. A million things would have to align for you to step into someone else's mom shoes: family dynamics, work, calling or lack thereof, bank account, hormones, your partner, and the geographic coordinates of your mom adventure. It's a solo ride, every decision yours to make. The ultimate freedom.
Those postpartum intrusive thoughts? They'll pass. Feeling like you and your tiny human are one? That'll fade too. Postpartum insomnia? Brace yourself for a solid two years and a month of it. Somewhere in that timeframe, you'll be side-eyeing the creature you birthed, wondering, "Who are you, really?" But the curveball you didn't see coming? Figuring out who you are now that you're not a postpartum goddess or a child-free queen.
Don’t buy that nursing pillow.
Your dog is shedding all those made-up stories you projected onto her. Greta was once your imaginary sidekick; now, she's her own doggy, here for herself, not to fill your voids or return any favors.
The nanny will always get that comforting smile of yours.
Your body? Oh, it's on the move, adapting to the times. Who's to say the old version was the peak? Sure, things have shifted physically, but your outlook on that bod of yours will also evolve.
As you grapple with the wild idea that your hips are too wide, the world will drop the wisdom bomb that they're prime real estate for birthing. Surprise, surprise—your baby's grand entrance is via the belly, turning those hips into a comfy throne for your little one, queen-style.
Hold off on Laura Gutman's book if you're still rocking a baby bump. Her thoughts might leave you with a guilt hangover when reality doesn't sync up with her vision.
The man you love will ask your little one, "Who taught you those killer dance moves?" Cue your girl proudly saying, "Mom." Dancing, once a battleground with your body, becomes the secret weapon to quell a tantrum or flip the script on a challenging day with your pint-sized patient. Now, dancing is conversing with your tiny human.
Ever wondered if there's anything else in the world that can bring so much love while making you second-guess a repeat performance? And at the same time, pondered if anything else is as challenging, yet you'd willingly sign up for an encore? Those musings aren't contradictory; they're the dance of lucidity.
From the mind-numbing plane cries to the heart-melting moments of witnessing a new life unfold, you're in for the full spectrum.
One day, your little points to a flower in a book, utters "flower" and throws in a "mom." Cue the waterworks. She shoots you a look, astonished by the magical connection her innocent mind just weaved for you.
Your brain tosses the first postpartum year into the trauma abyss, following its standard protocol for such experiences: amnesia.
New logic infiltrates your daily reflections: If you were clueless about motherhood before diving in, what other undiscovered realms exist just centimeters away? The true meaning of aging, the rawness of abandonment, the depths of hell, the real deal on enduring unconditional love throughout a lifetime—all these mysteries remain unnamed. At least now you know you don't know.
On a city-lit mountain, car swaying to help her sleep, the thought hits you, "This is your life now." And it is. But sooner than expected, a new reality strides in. Just as you adjust, another twist awaits. Your daughter's needs morph, and the definition of motherhood reshapes each year, sometimes monthly. Just when you think she's outgrown your constant presence, a bout of bronchitis pulls her back, needing you as intensely as her newborn days. Mother-daughter dynamics, an accordion dance of opening and closing through life.
What does it truly mean to be a mother, then? What gets left behind, and what endures?
You really have no clue.