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“Mommy, when I grow up, can I be a mommy like you?”
I was simply overjoyed when those sweet little words came out of my daughter’s precious mouth. When raising young children, some days your strength relies on the encouragement of others. So imagine how I felt when I was receiving encouragement from the very subject of all my hard work.
All I could think was “Wow, I am doing it right! She wants to be like me!”
In central Wyoming, it wasn’t unusual for the weather to dip to 20 degrees below zero and stay there for a week or two in midwinter. Dad would call my name and tell me to follow him to the wood pile.
“Stick out your arms,” he would say.
Then he would pile me high with wood –more than I could have grabbed on my own but not so much that I couldn’t see over the top.
Carrying stuff. It’s something I understand now that I’ve been a mom.
I remember the first time the weight of motherhood settled on me.
Growing up, there was one thing I was sure of: I was going to do everything differently than the way it had been done in my house. Must be part of the wiring of an intuitive, introverted, feeling, judging person, the watching and evaluating, the tossing aside of things that obviously don't work.
But I loved children, and I knew I wanted a houseful. We welcomed the helpless, squirming newborn with open arms and happy eyes, and I drank in the wonder of him, the wonder of the chance to get it all right.
Much has been said about how to deal with our own anxiety- we have to attend to it when we own it. We feel the tearing at our own hearts and our own minds, and we bear the scars. But what if the anxious heart in your care is not your own? What if your husband, child, sister or friend is the one who is struggling?
I still remember 8 years ago as though it was yesterday, the day that I woke up and no longer felt safe within my skin.
It was the day I began to experience a fear unlike anything I'd ever known. A fear caused by nothing, soothed by nothing, and seemed to be my lifelong uninvited unwelcomed constant companion.
It was the day I no longer felt like me, and the day I wondered if I'd ever get back to me again....
My husband has seen me at my worst. And I am not talking about physical appearance with sweatpants and a messy bun. I could be wrong, but I think he enjoys me feeling comfortable around him in what I wear.
