I’ve been thinking a lot lately about these early days of motherhood. Maybe it’s because I’m about to go through it all again with a new baby girl, or maybe it’s just because these pregnancy hormones make me all kinds of sentimental (poor, poor hubs). What I think most about, though, and what I’m officially making as my “Mother’s Day wish,” is how I wish our children could remember the kind of love we have for them in the baby years.
The kind of love that comes from deep within, almost like an animal instinct to protect them, nurture them, and just love them to no end. The kind of love that pours over them like a waterfall until you no longer can take it. And the beauty of it is, they let you. The kind of love that sees them for the amazing little creations that they are, and that humbles you to the core that you had any part in it. The kind of love that opens up your heart and makes you love those around you in ways you literally never thought possible – a level of compassion that was just waiting to be awakened. The kind of love that makes you want to experience it over and over, because it’s the one thing you feel like you are doing right in this world.
And yet, like all things in life, wishing for it isn’t enough to will it to happen. Their little brains will unjustly allow them to remember only fleeting memories of this time in their life, if any at all. I wonder if my own mom used to wish the same, especially in my teenage angst years. Did she look at me with intent eyes, willing with her “mom force” to have me remember just how much she loved me all those years ago – before boys, before material things, and before asserting my independence was the main focus of my being? Perhaps. And perhaps that’s what she was trying to do when she’d tell me all the stories about how she nursed me til I was (nope, not gonna say it), and how she wanted so badly for me to experience life in all the ways she never could, being a young mom to my two brothers. Will I find myself ten years down the road wishing and praying in the same way with my own teenagers, who will never understand that “baby love” feeling until they have their own little ones? More than likely. At least I can find comfort knowing they’ll be in my same shoes someday, peering into the eyes of the child they created, and suddenly it will hit them the way it hits me now.
Nothing, and I mean nothing, compares to those first days, weeks, and years you go through learning and growing with your baby. I can only surmise that bond is what gets you through those later years, as your child grows into an adult and, from time to time, thinks they know it all and can navigate this crazy life without you. But then a beautiful things happens – they come back to you and say “Mom, I get it. I get now what you meant when you said you love me” – not because you had to, but because you truly meant it from every part of your being. Because now when I say it to my toddler, and hear those oh-so-beautiful little words reciprocated back to me, I know what love means. And who knows, maybe years down the road Garrett and his little sister will somehow recall a single hug, morning snuggle, or goodnight kiss – but until then, I’ll keep wishing.
photo cred: Elena Lautier Photography
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c/o SheIn, Crochet Insert Hollow Out Top
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