To all the mothers I’ve been before

Dear waiting mama,

I see you there - in the bathroom for the fortieth time this morning - wondering if today will be the day. I know how your eyes hurt from straining, how your heart hurts from hoping. I feel the weight of the empty space, the white where there should be pink, the one line where there should be two. It’s okay that you shoved the tests to the bottom of the trash can before taking them out again, just to check “one more time.” And it’s okay that you don’t believe your friends and family when they say “it will happen, just be patient.” Maybe you’ll believe me - it will happen. It really will. But being patient won’t take away the ache you feel in your heart - I’m sorry.

Dear heartbroken mama,

I see you there, sitting in the hospital bed, praying that the blood in your underwear isn’t what you think it is. I feel the heat of the tears on your cheeks, burning your eyes as the pregnant

nurse takes your blood pressure. (Ah, yes, the pregnant nurse. I’m so sorry for that.) The doctor is nice, I remember. But I know what you’re thinking - what man can understand the feeling of a crying womb? Of life pouring out of you? I know your pain is unbearable, even though “it was so early.” Take that phrase out of your vocabulary. Your excitement was real. Your child was real. You are allowed to mourn what you have lost. It will never go away, but I promise you the pain will dull someday. A kind doctor will tell you that the empty room in your heart will one day become a place of quiet contemplation - a meditation room, if you will. I know you liked that metaphor - hold on to it. And thank that doctor one more time for treating your loss as more than a medical diagnosis.

Dear pregnant mama,

See - I told you it would happen. I know you think it’s too early for celebration, but congratulations! You are filled with the creative genius of God- you house a miracle in the making! I know you’re afraid to “get too attached,” and I know you’ll wake anxiously each day until your belly swells unmistakably with life (and even then you’ll still be anxious). I know you’re feeling a lot of things that you didn’t expect: fear, worry, even a bit of regret - are you *really* ready to be a mom? Don’t berate yourself for feeling these feelings. “But this is what I wanted for so long! Why do I feel so horrible?” Hormones, sweet mama. It will pass. Eventually. In just a few months you’ll feel the first flutters of your baby’s kicks, and you’ll wonder why you were ever so anxious. You’ll eagerly await each appointment when you can hear the echoing sound of your baby’s heartbeat, strong and fast. You’re doing a great job, mama. Now go to the bathroom, again. Don’t worry - you won’t always have to pee every twenty minutes.

Dear laboring mama,

In and out. Just breathe. It seems strange that something so simple helps the most, but it does. Feel each breath expanding in your lungs - feel the power that is bursting from the seams of your body. You are so strong, mama. You created a new life from scratch! (Your husband will jokingly remind you that he contributed too - but we both know your part was more impressive.) When you get to the hospital, take it all in. The room you are in is where you’ll meet your firstborn child. When the pain starts to scare you, get in the shower. Feel the hot water on your stomach and look in the mirror one last time - you might not see it, but you are so beautiful - you are literally bursting with life. You’ll actually miss the feeling of your swollen belly - how you cradled it as you whispered sweet nothings to your baby - so touch it one last time. When your labor stalls and your contractions become more intense than you could have imagined, get the epidural. It’s okay. You’re not a failure. Your labor is different than your mother’s or your friends’. Listen to me again - you’re not a failure. Oh, and thank that dear nurse for holding your naked, vulnerable body as you waited for the anesthesiologist. You’ll remember the feeling of her shoulder on your forehead more than you’ll remember the pain.

Dear postpartum mama,

Wow. She’s beautiful, isn’t she? So small, so perfectly wrinkly. So yours! Hold her closer and breathe in her earthy scent. You made her. Watch your husband fall in love. Smile through the tears - I know there are a lot of them. Don’t worry, she’ll be right back. They just have to weigh her. No, she won’t get lost in the hallways or switched by accident. (You’ll know your own flesh and blood anyways, even though you’ve only seen her for thirty seconds!) Marvel at your placenta when the OB brings it to your bedside - the magical organ you grew that sustained your daughter’s life! It’s okay to feel a bit sad when they whisk it away like waste. Look down at your deflated stomach and laugh at its new squishiness - don’t worry, by the time you leave it won’t be quite so floppy. Wear the floppiness with pride. It’s your badge of honor. When the nurses come to help you breastfeed, ask lots of questions. Be annoyingly persistent in your pursuit of help. Refuse to believe that it’s “supposed to hurt,” because it shouldn’t. Take extra diapers. Ask for swaddling advice. Use the call button at least fifteen times a day. Most importantly, laugh at the absurdity of it all. You have no idea what you’re doing. That’s okay! You and your husband are a team. You’ll figure it out.

Dear new mama,

You’re doing a great job. I know that breastfeeding is hard, harder than anything you’ve ever done (except maybe labor!) I know you’re tired - bone weary, in fact. I see the frantic look in your eyes as your baby latches and unlatches, crying as she struggles to feed. I know there are dark thoughts creeping into your sleep-deprived mind, threatening to take over. Oh, mama. This mothering thing is so, so hard, isn’t it? Don’t worry, your milk will come in on day five. In fact, it will pour from you like a faucet. You’ll have so much of it you could feed two babies. Be thankful for that, even though it’s uncomfortable. You’re sustaining your daughter - yet again! You are amazing, mama. Before it’s time for the next nursing session, go take a hot shower. Reclaim a sense of normalcy and wash your face, just like you always do. Your baby is in good hands with your mom, the woman who inspired all your motherhood dreams. She’s a grandmother now. How crazy is that? Soak up all her wisdom - your mother-in-law’s wisdom too - with six babies between them they have lots to teach you. Realize the immensity of what your mom did for you as you nurse and care for your own baby. This is the circle of life. Embrace it. Cry. Cry some more. It’s all so hard. It will get easier. I promise.

Dear seasoned mama,

Wow. She’s still so beautiful, isn’t she? Growing so fast, getting so strong! She nurses in 10 minutes flat now - yup, I said it - she nurses in ten minutes flat! Remember when you thought it would never get easier? When you worried you’d have to give up breastfeeding because it just wasn’t working? I’m glad you persisted. You’re so amazing. Your body is providing everything that your baby needs. It’s not easy, though - I know. I see you in the middle of the night, your eyes groggy, your hands clumsy, as you fumble to open your nursing bra again. For the fifth time that night. Or was it six? You lost count again. It’s okay that sometimes (okay, most of the time) you just don’t feel like getting up to feed your baby again. It’s okay that middle-of-the-night mothering is not your favorite. In fact, it’s okay that there are lots of parts of motherhood that aren’t your favorite. (Who enjoys diaper blowouts?) Try to remember that this too shall pass. Just when you feel like something will never get easier, it will. You’ll sleep through the night eventually. (Right, future me? Right....?) Keep taking lots of pictures. Laugh at the funny faces she makes, the way she grunts when she has to poop, how her eyes light up when she sees your face. Soak in the good parts, and let the bad parts fade away. You won’t remember the night time wake ups in ten years. You will remember the way it felt to hold her body against yours, marveling at how perfectly she fits into your chest. Hold onto those sacred moments when you know in your heart that motherhood is truly, beautifully, undeniably worth it. You’ve got this, mama! Now go feed that hungry baby.

Love,

Me