This is mostly not a baby post.

Motherhood has, in a strange sense, fostered a newfound generosity of spirit in me. Let me explain.

Taking care of an infant is exhausting, repetitive, often unrewarding work. Patrick is a good baby, a happy baby, but there's virtually nothing he can do for himself. And so, I do it all for him. I am happy that he rarely cries because it means he is content with his current lot in life. His needs are met-- and I meet them. It is easy to love him, because he is my own child, but I also respect him because he is so helpless and yet still tries so hard to accomplish things. Reaching out for toys, soothing himself with his fingers, seeking me out even when it means having to roll on his side, making his tongue work so he can communicate in his own way-- he does these things despite the great amount of effort it takes sometimes to accomplish them. And because he works so hard and I can see the effort it takes, it doesn't bother me to change his diaper for the second time in ten minutes (at least he didn't pee on me) or to change my shirt for the third time in one day (at least he didn't spit up in my hair). See? I see how hard he is trying and it makes my spirit more generous-- and gentle. And it's so easy to be this way because, even on days like yesterday when I was tired and not feeling well and maybe didn't engage him as much as I should have during play time, he still forgives me and offers me a smile when he wakes up from his naps. Every time, without fail. Maybe that's a bad baby memory or maybe his spirit is generous.

You would think I'd have nothing left to give anyone else after putting all of my generosity (or "work") into a baby. Truth is, I didn't have it to give in those early weeks. I barely had it to give to him. But I found some untapped well of patience and understanding inside me because, well, I had to-- and it doesn't just extend to Patrick anymore. As my confidence in my abilities has grown, so too has my sense of generosity and forgiveness. Patrick has softened me in some ways, ways I didn't really know I had become hardened. More than one person has commented that I seem very "calm" and that motherhood suits me. I laugh it off and interpret whatever calm vibe I'm sending as pure exhaustion, but I sense what they mean. Even when everything is chaos and my brain is racing in six directions at once, there is a calm at my center that wasn't there before. An ability to let go and forgive and reach out and be kind. Because we're all trying, aren't we? Patrick's efforts are so obvious to me because he's a baby, but I find myself looking around and seeing that others are trying, too. Even if their efforts aren't as transparent, even if their work (and suffering) is going on beneath the surface. We're all reaching, soothing, seeking and communicating in our own way.

And I know this sounds all gooey and Zen (and I did enjoy Momma Zen so much that I sent a copy to another new mom friend who I thought would appreciate it), but that's what motherhood has done for me. I'm not one of the "my child is my life" mommies-- I think I will always identify as a writer, first and foremost, over mother, or wife-- but I'm discovering unexpected emotional growth because of motherhood. My goal is not to change my identity to become only "Patrick's Mother" but to help him grow his own individual identity and give him wings. We all need encouragement with that, I think. Whether we're three months old or forty three years old, it feels good to have someone understand us and accept us for who we are.

I still get frustrated with slow drivers and slow lines at the grocery store. I still have no tolerance for rudeness. I still need more sleep, more time to write and more help with baby. But I'm finding it easier these days to reach out, to soothe, to attempt to connect, to try to communicate-- and, when all else fails, to forgive and offer a smile.

Momma Zen

A fabulous friend, who happens to also be a new mom, sent me Momma Zen: Walking the Crooked Path of Motherhood by mother and Zen priest Karen Maezen Miller. (I just Googled her and found her delightfully named blog, Cheerio Road.)

I got Momma Zen in the mail yesterday and have already started reading it. (FYI: I never start reading a book as soon as I get it. This is momentous.) I knew I'd keep reading-- and probably love-- this thoughtful memoir on Zen and motherhood when I read this part:

And then, in a magic moment of old-fashioned fertility, I conceived. I was forty-two. Looking back, I saw that doing nothing to prevent pregnancy was not quite the same as doing something to get there. What I did was simply take my basal body temperature and have sex on cue, but even that required that I discard the ambivalence that I’d long carried about the issue. If it happens, it happens, I had been telling myself with a comfortable dose of confidence that it wouldn’t.

I can totally identify with this. Not only the age at which I conceived (twice, actually) and became a mother, but also the realization that "doing nothing to prevent pregnancy was not quite the same as doing something to get there." Oh, and the ambivalence. I'm a forty-two year old new mom in large part because of ambivalence, not infertility.

I never really knew whether I wanted to have a child or not-- pretty much up until oh, a few weeks ago. I had more or less talked myself out of having children-- thinking it wouldn't/couldn't happen. (And had a couple of people suggest it shouldn't happen.) The fact that I could so easily envision a life without children made it easy to be ambivalent. (Just for the record: I'm happy with the choice I made to be proactive in trying to get pregnant and the very adorable, if currently exhausting, end result.)

I am far from feeling "Zen-like" about motherhood, but I like Maezen Miller's voice of experience. It gives me a sense of calm-- something I could really use right about now.

P.S. to Nikki: You're awesome. Thank you!

Identity Crisis? (6w4d)

I’ve known I’m pregnant for three weeks today. Twenty-one days to adjust to the idea of how much my life will change next spring. Three weeks is not really enough time to process that kind of information, really. Perhaps that’s why gestation of a human being takes thirty-eight weeks.

My emotions swing from one extreme to another. I am, of course, very happy. Quietly, peacefully happy. That is to be expected since this was what I was trying for. Less expected are the other emotions that have me wondering what the hell I’m doing having a child now, at my age, with my background, with my independent nature. I know it’s just fear that sets me on that path of questioning. Fear I won’t do it right. Fear I’ll lose myself, the person I’ve been for my entire adult life. Fear my kid will grow up to hate me. Fear I’ll screw it all up. Silly, I know. Or is it?

Regardless of how far women have come in the world, we still are expected to be the nurturers, to provide the bulk of the parenting responsibilities, to “know” how to do it all. I don’t know how to do any of it. I’ve never even changed a diaper. I’m supposed to know how to do that, right? Jay is the father, but he isn’t expected to know anything. That hardly seems fair.

I have months to work all this out in my mind and heart—and years of practice to get it as right as I can. As I told a friend, I don’t really have any good role models for the kind of mother I want to be. My mother certainly wasn’t one and I don’t see anyone who is doing it the way I want to do it. Of course, that means I have to make my own path and do it my way. I’m used to that. I don’t know yet what kind of mother I’ll be, but hopefully I’ll be a good one without losing myself.