Some Thoughts on Motherhood

For a couple of days, Mac called himself “Map.” I asked him his name all of the time, just wanting to hear him say it, “Map, Map, Map.” Then, just like that, he was saying Mac. I rocked him tonight and asked again, just to be sure we’d really moved on from Map. And there is was, plain as day: Mac.

I try to be grateful for every change in him, knowing how lucky we are to have a healthy boy, who is growing and learning and changing. But for some reason, hearing him abandon Map so quickly made my heart break a little bit. I rocked him a few minutes longer, feeling nostalgic for the present. For who he is on this very day in March.

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I sometimes wonder if every mom loves her kids as much as I love Mac. And then, of course, it feels obvious. Of course they do. Then it hits me: all of these women are walking around, feeling this way all of the time? Like their heart is just walking on the sidewalk, carrying monster trucks and pretzels, waving at the neighbors?

It’s a vulnerable life, if you think about it.

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Mac recently started throwing tantrums. It felt like they came out of nowhere, though Toddler Wise tells me otherwise. So we’re learning a whole slew of things about what frustrates him, what he wishes he had the words to say.

Sometimes the tantrums make sense (see yesterday when he was exhausted from swim lessons and starving). Sometimes they make no sense at all (see last week when he was rested and had toys and snacks galore).

It’s the first season, since he was a newborn, that I sometimes feel in over my head. Am I disciplining him right? Does he respect us enough? Am I being stern enough? Too stern? Am I developing him into a gentle, kind, authority-respecting, but creative, positive, hard-working and energetic member of society!?

You can make yourself crazy.

I’ve recently tried to take the approach that if you care enough to make yourself crazy with questions, you’re probably doing an OK job.

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Mac helps me fold the laundry a lot. And by fold, I mean unfold. His favorite is to dive into the warm basket and announce each hot item. “Hot sleep sack!” “Hot lambie!” “Hot pants!” There’s really nothing like hearing a one-year-old say hot pants.

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Mac loves having his forearm rubbed. He asks me to do the left, then the right, then both at the same time. His tiny forearms almost make me tear up when I look at them. They’re so little, with no hair. I can’t believe someday they will look like a man’s arms.

We took him to a preschool on Tuesday, to decide if he should enroll in a twos class twice a week. He jumped right into the group, playing alongside the mostly 3-year-olds. He barely looked back at us the entire time we were there.

When we left, Chris said, “Well, I’m sold!” I looked at him, my mouth probably wide open. “You are!?” I asked with equal parts shock and awe. I was holding back tears the entire time, fighting the homesick feeling for my baby. How are both of the men in my life so ready for this when I’m not? I just kept thinking about his tiny forearms. They aren’t going to be tiny that much longer. What if he comes home from school one day and he doesn’t want me to rub them before nap time?

Everything changes so fast. Time is a thief. Babies don’t keep. Long days, short years. Ah! All of the cliches are just so true in motherhood.

On Letting Go of Our Babies

One year ago tonight, I went into labor. My water broke and, a whirlwind nine hours later, we held our sweet son, McCoy. The minute I saw him, I felt like I already knew him. I wrapped my arms around his tiny 7-pound body and, suddenly years of worrying that my arms weren’t toned enough or my hands weren’t feminine melted away. I felt like my limbs were made for this very moment, this very purpose.

I held him on my chest for hours, which felt like seconds. When the nurse suggested I give Chris the opportunity for a little skin-to-skin contact, I thought: but he’ll be so far away from me.

And that’s how I’ve felt at every turn this year. A run without him? A half day away? A new babysitter? Each one stretched me, pushed me. My sister, Ashley, wisely told me this: know your limits. Some mamas need weekends away to be refreshed. Some just need nap time and a babysitter. There’s no right way to practice self-care besides knowing what’s best for you.

This year has stretched me to new lengths in so many ways. I didn’t know how great our capacity to love was. I feel like my heart has quadrupled in size. I also didn’t know how lonely new motherhood could feel or how out of control moments could be. I have to practice, daily, to loosen my grip, opening my hands just a little bit more.

I had no idea that McCoy’s joy would become mine. Or that his laughter would be so healing. Truly like honey to my soul.

I also had no idea how much the thought of the Earth without him would terrify me. It takes my breath away. I can’t imagine this world - the one I knew for 31 years before him - without his smile, his laugh, his precious face. It feels unbearable to even type that sentence.

Sometimes I want McCoy and Chris nearby because I think I can keep them safe if they’re within arms reach. It’s an embarrassing belief in myself, in my own control. I think if we can just maintain enough control and care and - perhaps - are good enough, bad things won’t happen to any of us.

But I know it’s not this way.

I realized early on that the practice of putting him down in his crib each day, away from me, would serve as a form of faith. He is no longer in my arms or under my watchful eye. I must trust that he is OK by himself. Someday, he’ll go to preschool or kindergarten and we’ll practice it again. And friends’ houses. And ride in cars. And go to college.

And I’ll be on my knees, each time, knowing that every bit of it is weaning him from me in a new way. It’s making me stronger in my faith and more inclined to trust the growing space between us.

So here we are, on the eve of his first birthday. I am overwhelmed with gratitude for 365 days with this precious soul, this beautiful face, this tiny mohawk. Our marriage is stronger with him in our life. Our love as a family has only grown deeper. And this world is brighter with him in it. I feel so honored to get to watch him grow.

Photos by the lovely Kristen Finn

The Real McCoy

In third grade my class went to the library to learn about the term "the real McCoy". At the time, I remember being completely baffled by the fact that the term "McCoy" didn't relate to the term "decoy". The McCoy is the real thing and a decoy is a fake - and they're both coys.

How did they not come about at the same time?

In my third grade mind, I thought that there must have been an instance of something, at the time I envisioned a rubber ducky (the only explanation for this is the fact that I was nine), that was the original. It was called Coy. Then, someone created another version of the rubber ducky, but it wasn't quite right.

People looked at the new ducky and said: What is that? That is not Coy.

Then the creator said: Yes it is, it looks just like Coy.

To which the original's owner replied (annoyed): No, that's not Coy. This is my Coy. This is myCoy! This is McCoy.

And then, to really drive the point home, he said: This is McCoy and that's nothing but a dumb decoy.

And that's how the real McCoy and the lesser decoy came about.

And although I really love the McCoy version of the Lanvin Pom Pom Espadrille's, for one eighth of the cost, the decoy version from Gap is looking pretty nice.

My, how far that library lesson has taken me...