It’s the anniversary of the day I had my son 5 years ago.
This post is about me. He will get his own 💕
The labor 5 years ago was the easy part 🤣
I am taking a minute for myself to honor my motherhood being 5 years and 9 months old.
Nothing has been so transformative. Nothing has been so intense. Nothing has been so joyous.
It all sounds like a cliche. Because there are actually no words. The daily miracles of raising children get lost in the meal preps and the meltdowns and the bedtime routines gone on too long. (Anyone else’s child always have 39 extra things to do before he’ll sleep? No? Just us? 🤦🏻♀️)
We need to do better at honoring the miracles amidst the grind. But it’s hard. There’s no pause button and these little people need so much (and my little person is undoubtedly Extra). And boundaries for the basics are sometimes all we can muster.
I rarely see a mother honoring herself and celebrating this entity of its own: Her Motherhood. It’s not the child. It’s not the woman (she was there before and is still there somewhere), but the identity of motherhood. It is more than a profession, it is inescapable, it is everpresent and we want it to both go away and never leave. We have taken on another layer of ourselves that also entangles into every other layer of ourselves. There is nothing comparable.
So, my Motherhood is 5 years and 9 months old. I have to admit I haven’t been a very good friend to my mother-self. I want to apologize to her. She’s still pretty new at this and it’s been a hard run for her trying to figure out what is normal (which really doesn’t freaking matter anyway) and after all, what is OUR normal. She’s grown from insecurities and comparison. She’s found her path and is working on a stride, but that doesn’t make it easy or straight or tireless. She’s proud of how she’s tuned into her inner voice and the wisdom of generations of doing this mothering thing. She’s afraid and unafraid. She’s exhausted and energized. She’s defeated and hopeful. The dichotomies of motherhood are endless.
This mama is a beautiful masterpiece of probably 5000+ breastfeeding hours and 700+ gallons of breastmilk (we’re done in case you’re rolling your eyes — which you shouldn’t be — but it’s still worth commemorating because that’s insane.) 1700 baths, at least 1500 meals, not even talking about snacks 🙄, 5700 outfit changes (the majority of which is police attire 👮🏼), probably 1200 meltdowns & kissed boo-boos.
If you can sort of count all of that stuff imagine allll of the other things that you just can’t even begin to quantify. It’s mind blowing. Like how many times have I given comfort just by being present? How many times have I sat on the floor to play? How many times have I heard the name Mama? How many times have I been awakened in the night? 🤯.
I’m also taking credit for my son’s vast vocabulary and all of the explaining I have to do in extreme detail about every thing that he observes and asks about. 🤣
So, mama-self, I salute you. I applaud you. I honor you. I support you. I see you. Keep at it, lady, you’re amazing 💖
I'm Lisa Yau