My daughter was an accident. A few months before I found out I was pregnant, I’d decided not to have children. I had an amazing job and a salary that allowed me to travel the world. I had a few friends who weren’t yet “impregnated” who joined me in my crazy adventures and impromptu parties, and I was close enough to forty to rationally believe that not having children was the right choice for me.
I threw myself heart and soul into a job I loved, drank really expensive wine—convinced it would get me drunk better than the rest—and kept my legs closed. With my uterus out of commission, my new life was slowly taking shape. In November 2011, everything changed. I didn’t have an epiphany or some mythical revelation; rather, my new life presented itself in the form of a handsome, tall guy with the looks of a rock star. E.: my “Waterloo” with long, curly hair, sky-blue eyes, and a tattooed body. Whew. Pheromones of O-L-Y-M-P-I-C caliber. In a flash, life reminded me of the dizzying rush of love and put my legs back together in fast-forward mode. Nine months later, Mia was born, and the tattooed dad stepped aside.
I don’t need to be in the thick of PMS or in “Mother’s Day” mode to realize that she’s the most beautiful gift life has ever given me. She’s the love of my life. A love that’s unsettling, moving, frightening, all-encompassing, demanding, exhausting, and sometimes restrictive—but she makes me experience the greatest and purest feeling that exists. Mia is my Love with a capital L.
She isn’t an extension of who I am, but a reflection of the best I have to offer.
She is the hope for a gentler, more centered life. She reopens my childhood wounds and teaches me how to heal them. She reminds me every day that I’m not perfect, not patient, not good at drawing—but she loves me just the way I am. She thinks I’m beautiful even when I’m ugly; she trusts me when I doubt myself; and she reminds me that just about anything that’s broken can be fixed. She is the calm that saved me from sinking; the little princess of my “happily ever after.”
Have I slept more than 6 consecutive hours since she was born? No.
Have I been able to sneeze without peeing my pants since I gave birth? No.
Do I share the sick days, the all-nighters, and the buckets of vomit with a present and helpful dad? No.
But I don’t mind, because she’s with me. She’s teaching me to become a good mom and a better person. Because contrary to what we’ve always been told, being a mom is something you learn through love, mistakes, fears, doubts, tenderness, and time.
Being a mother means doing your best every day and getting better at it. It means drawing on resources we often think are depleted, losing your sense of smell at just the right moment, and above all, showing great humility. It’s getting up in the middle of the night to change a pee-soaked bed, slathering on concealer to go to work, and—on nights when you have a cold—finding boogers in your cleavage. Not so simple, but not so complicated either.