Motherhood. I’m new to it. But anyone in my family will tell you that I wanted to be a mother since I was able to write my own name.
On the surface, it’s everything I thought it would be. Movies and sitcoms and books about babies are great that way.
On the surface, it’s everything I knew it would be. Friends and family and colleagues with babies somehow pave the way that way.
On the surface, it’s everything I hoped it would be. Dreams and fantasies, as a little girl, of one day having a baby of my own made me whole that way.
Some of my warm and fuzzy realities about motherhood have been covered before…
But under the surface, these are some of my cold and even stubbly realities of motherhood:
I don’t wax or shave at the first sign of hair growth anymore. I no longer cry about every little bump and bruise and cut I suffer. I don’t lunge for my bottle of my nail polish to touch-up whatever chip appears on my finger or toenails, like I used to. I don’t get to finish half the things I’ve started on any given day.
No. I choose not to.
I choose not to wax or shave or cry or lunge or finish things, because it’s not really a choice. My baby comes first. But for some there is no choice, motherhood.
All fun and jokes aside my experience on Big Brother has put me in touch with so many people, all at once, but through the course of ten years. It’s almost like taking the number of people I knew in 2003 and multiplying it by some arbitrary, but three-digit number, and all of a sudden I know that many more of this or that kind of person. As many fans as there are of Big Brother, there are that many individual stories behind each.
Through shared stories, I’ve come to know mothers and fathers and grandparents oh my. And also, so many good people who struggle in their wish to become parents. In 2003 when I knew not yet what motherhood was, I couldn’t have written exactly what I’m writing now. But now that I do know what it is, I never take for granted the fact that I can make such choices. Choosing to clip Noah’s toenails in lieu of polishing my own. Or crying inside for just a split-second when my head meets a shelf, because heating up Noah’s bottle is more important, at the crack of dawn. Or singing or eating oranges or anything else Noah loves to do, instead of waging war on my Brazilian bikini line half-naked in the bathroom.
I choose to do everything I do for Noah, and for my husband and for me, as mother and wife and woman hear me roar. And because my social media reach has afforded me the opportunity to see way more than what’s sitting right in front of my nose, I am that much more aware and ever more grateful for the realities of motherhood. Of parenthood, something that should never be taken for granted.
I know so many good people who would only cherish it just this way.