When people try to share what it's like to be a parent, they use all the wrong words. They say it's indescribable, then fill in the space with filler words to try to explain. It never seems to fit quite right. I'm going to try my hand at it.
What really happens is a new chamber of your heart is opened. It's a place you didn't know you were missing, because you didn't realize that it existed. It allows you to feel emotions with a greater intensity.
When you wait on the baby to make their arrival (and if you're like me and you wait and wait and wait) you spend so much time thinking about how much you'll care for it. You imagine how you'll run your house with that baby. You think about what you assume their physical features and personality will be like. You try to boost yourself up in whatever areas you lack to be as good as can be. You know what you'll never and always do with the baby.
Then they're born and everything you have planned is out the window. You're sent out of the hospital with a child that is so perfect, you're wondering how they can trust you not to screw it up- you don't want to even trust yourself. At home you stick to what you laid out in your mind that you must do for the baby. Your original plan doesn't work for the baby and you sacrifice it, without question, in a moment. You do whatever your baby wants, because it's not just some random infant but instead it is yours. And yours is special. But special isn't a grand enough word- how could such a simple term be- more like illuminating, cherished, remarkable, flat out superior in all sense of the word.
It's looking into the face of your child and the awe of it being YOURS. Like, actually your own prized possession, one just for you, and never to be taken away. The scary notion that if you fail, it means the baby will too. Only, you love that baby so much, so much, that you know you just won't let that happen. You push yourself to give more, more, more. You give so much that you lose some of your identity- you're only a parent now. It stings, because as much as you love parenthood you regret sliding back from things you worked hard to achieve. Then, you witness a miracle like your baby sleeping for ten hours or the first willing smile they offer to you and you forgive what it is you have to forfeit to do this job the way you want to; come to think of it...was it really a big deal anyway? What could ever compare to the reciprocated love they bring you? The time rushes by, between all of the hectic moments, and you wish you could pause the present while still pursuing the future.
The baby and you seek out the moments where you're together, laying close. They wiggle, in whichever method they can, to get by your side to feel your warmth. You've heard they recognize your scent and you question what you smell like to them. Knowing that you are so intrinsically wound up in each other's life, you grab them just to breathe in their own scent. You do your best to record it amongst your important memories.
Though there are far more overwhelmingly happy times, sometimes you can't help the stress. You catch your stride, you know exactly what you're doing, you confidently know you can parent. Then you meltdown when baby is melting down, when the house has been in a meltdown, and all you can see is sludge. You feel frustrated when you've met all of the baby's physical needs, yet it goes red in the face, going psychotic as they lay on the ground while you had the audacity to check something off your to-do list. Then you feel chastised. It pains you to remember how badly you wanted this moment. It all comes flooding back: the sadness, the longing, the empty void after a miscarriage. To-do list be damned, you snatch them up and gather them in. You love this baby so much. You want to soothe this baby, so you bounce gently, speak quietly and begin to lay out your hopes and dreams for them. You want them to have a marvelous childhood and to grow into a person to be proud of, although you know that will happen anyway. You tell them they are so extraordinarily wonderful, to please forgive you when you make mistakes. To know above all they are loved.
Day after day, though you love them more than you realized possible, you manage to add to that love. It comes with every bubble spit out, every time a baby wiggles a dimpled leg, every long eyelash bat in your direction. You wonder how can you possibly love them more, and then you simply do. It's a never ending story.
This baby is an extension of you- so it means endless searching for features, is that my eyebrow shape? that curved neck? what about that toe point? You want to find yourself in them, but you hope they will outshine you in every way. Their successes will be your successes. If they can call themselves happy, then you can do the same.
What's being a parent? There are so many things it can be. My own experience seems most like your heart being squeezed dry by the end of the night, like a sponge wrung totally out, cheerily exhausted from the exertion of loving two babies. And then starting anew once again when they wake.
I am so happy I can't express it correctly. I am so frantically exhausted at the end of each day from my many responsibilities. But I am so, so fulfilled with my new life. It's all I could have hoped for and more. I wonder if it can ever get better than this?
