Motherhood

Certain Native American tribes believed that one should worship the first thing they saw when they woke up in the morning.

Every morning, I wake up to the same sound. It's not the drone of an alarm clock or an infomercial selling ab machines on tv. After it's interrupted my dream right around the ungodly hour of 6:30am but before I open my eyes, I hear the strange sound of a little human calling for her mom. Sometimes it's said with patience, more often than not it's said with adamant determination, and it's usually followed by a "PLEASE! WAKE UUUUUUP! OPEN YA EYES!"

Without fail, every morning it takes me a few seconds to realize what my unconsciousness has allowed me to forget. And for whatever reason (and by "whatever reason" I mean I know the exact reason but shame consumes me), I'm amazed that I wake up every morning with the same epiphany: I brought this child into the world, and it's me she's calling for. It's me who gets her out of her pajamas, into clothes that are barely color-coordinated, fed, (insert laundry list of tasks here that requires the safe, healthy, happy upbringing of a child), etc etc.

And it's somewhere in between those instances that I briefly stop and wonder whether to myself or obnoxiously aloud: "How in the FUCK did I get here?"

I know that at first glance that might sound relatively negative and childish. I probably should have prefaced with this, but let me just say that in no way would I ever change any decision I have ever made, and the intentional conception of my daughter and her arrival will never be one of them. The number of decisions I've made that I soon-after regretted is innumerable. The number of seemingly-trivial decisions that have affected my life drastically is even greater. But every one of them I have to find appreciation for, because they led me to where I am today and all of that great glass-is-half-full and you're-exactly-where-you're-meant-to-be quasi-philosophical bullshit. But I've been feeling a little confused as to where the time has gone in between smoking a ton of weed/listening to Sargent Pepper all day/living off Ramen Noodles in our beautiful KOP apartment and getting pregnant and not wanting to even breathe near shellfish, cigarettes, or microwaves out of fear that I might fuck up my kid. I hope I've illustrated the extremes of this spectrum clearly enough so that you might get exactly why I'm questioning how the fuck I am where I am today.

When the nurse wheeled me out of the hospital holding Stella in her carseat, I looked in the nurse's eyes with absolute astonishment that she was sending me - ME - home with a 3-day old human infant and at best she expected me to keep that kid alive. Enter my year-long, postpartum-induced neurosis...

They say to try and explain the Tao is impossible, because it is everything and nothing. Much like the Tao, explaining motherhood to a man, or a teenage girl who you're trying to traumatize out of having pre-marital sex, is equally impossible. There are no words that do it proper justice because it is unlike any relationship, love, responsibility, or feeling in the world.

Human babies are the only primates who are completely helpless at birth. Other primates, if orphaned at birth, have an unlikely yet possible shot at survival. To feed, clothe, and house a child is to take care of their very basic necessities and what you aren't fucking told at the fucking "child-rearing" classes that the fucking hospital hosts is that you should spend exactly 9 months preparing to give every ounce of everything you have to make sure that child is the healthiest, happiest they can be and it's done with every sacrifice you can make. Because the second you hear that cry and see your kid for the first time, very suddenly you realize that there is something aside from you, your dreams, your wants & needs. There is someone who is totally and completely reliant on you, and not just the food/clothing/housing part. You are responsible for every perspective they have of the world (up until the day comes that they realize they're way fucking smarter than you. If I remember correctly, that day came when I turned 13 and thought for the first time that my parents were nuts. At 25, I'm still right.)

Sometimes I feel crazy for feeling so responsible because my every move is governed by how it will affect Stella. But albeit neurotic, I still consider it far better than not putting enough thought into what might affect her well-being.

I don't know. I guess I just hope that one day she can look back at my decisions and not thank me, but just know that I did everything I did with the best of intentions. I might be one of a handful of moms who will openly and publicly admit that I don't have the first clue as to what the fuck I'm doing. I'm winging it 24 hours a day and each day I gain a little bit more experience and knowledge. But for the most part, I'm winging it. My mission is to keep her off two things: the pole and a therapist's couch.

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