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A few months before I got pregnant with Ava, Jamie and I took a roadtrip south to the Central Coast, staying in San Luis Obispo and surfing a few mornings at nearby Pismo Beach. I’d barely been surfing in ages and both times we paddled out I felt weak, reluctant, already fantasizing about how warm and cozy I would feel afterward in my hoodie, digging into a breakfast burrito at the Honeymoon Cafe. Both times we surfed the break right by the pier, and we were almost completely alone out there, save for one other determined soul in black neoprene. Having a well known break almost all to yourself is never a good sign for the conditions.
The water and the sky were matching shades of slate grey, the waves small and messy, difficult to catch, and not much worth riding even if you did. My arms were like lead in the over-tight sleeves of my wetsuit, and I paddled with a lukewarm effort, staying in the water half out of a stubborn refusal to paddle back to the beach without even catching anything, and half because I knew that sitting on the sand, wet and shivering in the fog, while I waited for Jamie to be done, would be no more enjoyable than this. I was cold, tired, and utterly defeated. It wasn’t even a particularly hard session, no poundings by monster waves, no agonizing hold downs, just a long drawn out defeat with no glimpses of the glory that makes all of the effort worthwhile. This must be what motherhood feels like, I thought gloomily. The relentlessness of the waves coming and never ceasing, with zero regard for my exhaustion, the fatigue in my shoulders and in my heart as I pointed my board toward the horizon again and again, trying to get to a place where I could rest and reset, but instead being hit by waves from seemingly every direction, getting dragged back into the whitewater to start all over again.
A dear friend had bought me a book of poetry, Kate Baer’s What Kind of Woman shortly before that trip, in those painfully confusing few months when I was really wresting with the decision of whether or not I wanted to be a mother. I’d come to the end of many years worth of testing and detox protocols and intense diets, and was finally feeling healthy and energetic and (mostly) pain-free for the first time since my 20s. And now, at 37, it was kind of a now or never situation on this whole kid thing. I was paralyzed by the weight of the decision, terrified to move forward into something so unknown, with nothing but blind faith to balance out the reality that I would be sacrificing a huge part of myself, indefinitely, putting someone or maybe even two little someones ahead of myself forever after. One of my favourite poems from that collection “For my daughter on a bad day”, begins with the line “Life will rough you up. Throw you to the shore like a wave crashing - sand in your hair, blood in your teeth.” I thought of it then, in the foggy gloom and ashy waves. Yes, motherhood will feel like this at times, perhaps much of the time.
Talking to my therapist the following week, I told her about how I’d felt out there in the waves, utterly exhausted and defeated, and that I imagined motherhood must feel that way. “I feel like it will take me to my edge…” I told her, my voice suddenly breaking and my eyes stinging with tears as I came to the heart of it. I don’t remember what she asked me after that, or where the conversation went from there, but I’ve always remembered those two sessions, both the surf and the therapy afterward, and the knowing I felt, that if I chose to take this on, I would be taken to my edge again and again, sometimes with barely a moment to breathe before being pulled under again, fighting with all of my strength just to stay afloat.
I find myself now in a moment of coming up to take a breath, looking around to find the sky blue, the waves rhythmic and predictable, finding my strength a match for the conditions, rather than being overwhelmed by them. I’m noticing more ease in my days lately. I’m sleeping well (enough), having sweet days with Ava, marveling at how smart and perceptive she is, laughing out loud at her antics multiple times each day, and often having enough motivation and energy to tackle a few to dos during nap time, rather than simply collapsing into the couch with a book the second I’m “off duty”. It’s nice. It’s more than nice, actually. It feels wonderful. A respite from the teething tantrums and inexplicable not eating or not sleeping, or the endless series of colds that swept through our home for the last god knows how long. I’m taking her in, my beautiful, bright, affectionate and brave little daughter, drinking in the sound of her laughter, stamping on my heart and swearing to never forget the way she says “wado bado” or “rav-e-o-di” or “bu-babies”, or the way her eyes sparkle when she smiles, the exact blue of deep water on a cloudless day.
I know what this means, of course. This moment of coming up for air, or better yet, this moment of complete grace, catching a perfect wave beneath me, gliding to my feet, and enjoying the ride for as long as it will take me. I know that what comes next is another hammering. Toilet training, food aversions, the end of nursing and god knows what that will do to bedtime around here. That’s all on the horizon, headed straight for me, and knowing that fills me with dread that this golden moment will come to an end. Soon. But I’m making a point of really savoring and being grateful for this time now, precisely because I know it won’t last.
I had a dream the other night, vivid and real as anything. I was driving our car, I was pregnant with a second child, and I was suddenly overwhelmed by the enormity of what was to come. I realized how easy things actually are with just one kid. Jamie and I still get to trade off here and there. He still gets his bike rides and I still get my workouts and time with friends. I have so much freedom, my dream self realized with astonishment. How have I not been appreciating this until now? That feeling stayed with me after I woke up. It got me looking at my daily life with much more appreciation. There really is a lot of ease right now. I have little pockets of space to myself, an increasing sense of freedom and possibility.
I’ve spent a lot of time in the last two years reflecting on how much time I wasted before I had Ava, how I had absolutely no clue how much time and space and freedom I actually had, and how I failed to make the most of those things, not knowing how much I would ache for them once they were gone. And I know, for an absolute fact, that if we do decide to have a second child, and are lucky enough to have that happen, that I will look back on my daily life now and think you had no idea how good you had it. That’s just life, I guess, a constant taking for granted of what we have, until something comes along and makes us realize how lucky we had been.
So, with all this in mind and in my heart, I am soaking in the goodness of this moment. And without even realizing it until now, this post will go out on Mother’s Day. There’s something about that that feels really appropriate to me. Being a mother is all of this. It’s the glorious golden moments when my heart feels so full of gratitude it starts leaking out of my eyes, and it’s the greyer than grey days of utter defeat, feeling like I’m just not strong enough for the task at hand. Throughout it all, the golden days and the grey ones, it is, without question, the most meaningful thing I’ve ever done. That’s the thing about being taken to my edge. It’s uncomfortable. Unbearable at times. And then, just like that, I’ve expanded.
This brought me to tears. You perfectly captured what it feels like to be a Mom of a (almost) two year old. Keep riding the waves 🏄
I love that breakfast burrito at Honeymoon Cafe! I’m glad to read that the seas are calm right now and you’re soaking up the beauty of the small things. Happy Mother’s Day, my friend.