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A few weeks ago I met with Emily, one of my dearest friends, for coffee at Starbucks.  These dates have been a tradition since we were lab partners in chemistry at Oak Hills High School and despite the 90 miles that separate us, we’ve managed to find time to meet at least a few times a year since then. This time I was meeting her third child, a brand new baby boy with his momma’s ocean eyes. I often tell people when I’m describing Emily that she is like sunshine and it’s the truth; even if you only get an hour with her, you feel better about life.

We sat on the patio, drinking coffees neither of us could really afford but enjoying them nonetheless. I held the baby for as long as he’d let me, marveling at the dimples in his hands and the sweet smell of newness all over him. Lately, I’ve been getting the baby question a lot, as in, when will you have another? Before I had Ada, having a baby was all I could think about but somehow, this time is different. Of course, like most mommas, I wonder how I could possibly love anyone else as much as I love Ada; I worry if my heart is big enough to hold all of that love but then really, I know I will be just fine when the time comes because something magic happens to your heart when you see that double-pink line, something that makes everything about you start to grow. I think what I really worry about is that this time I’ll know what I’m getting myself into; know the risks and just how fragile that little life is as you carry it to term and know just what it takes to raise someone. Some days I worry that I can’t handle raising another little person when I don’t feel totally raised myself. What is it about holding a little baby that makes you forget all of those things? I don’t know, but I sat there on the porch with my friend just soaking up the joy of that sweet boy of hers and not worrying about a thing.

We talked for a long time that morning about the pressures of being a momma today. Emily started a business just before learning she was pregnant for the third time and like me (and so many other women I know,) she doesn’t quite fit into either the working-mommy or stay-at-home mommy worlds. And it seems like this is the norm for so many women: Working odd jobs, caring for children, starting businesses…selling whatever you can on Craigslist when money is tight. Why is it such a lonely place to be if so many of us are doing it?

The truth is, I think about throwing things at the TV every time some hot-shot reporter comes into my living-room dressed to the nines and lectures me on the importance of having it all. I don’t know a single mother who says she wants to have it all; I do know lots of women who are trying to BE it all, though. Women who are trying to give the best of themselves to their husbands, children, parents, friends and then with whatever is left at the end of the day, work to use (or sell) their God-given talents to live up to their potential so no one says their degrees or brains or youth was wasted on washing dishes and changing diapers.

This might be the most un-feminist thing I’ve ever said but sometimes I envy my great-grandmother who got to just raise her kids and not deal with the pressure of being anything else but a good mom. Yes, I love that I live in an era when I can write and be taken seriously, have a career and not worry so much about glass ceilings but I also am raising a daughter in an era when the world expects me to be the perfect little 1950s housewife with cloth diapers, homemade organic baby food and play-dates filling my days then once the family is fed (a nutritious meal, of course) I should take off that hat and become a CEO. This greedy notion of “having it all” doesn’t apply to most women I know who barely have enough time to eat or shave their legs let alone think of having anything but a moment to pee in peace. What I see from the motherhood trenches is women just trying to survive a lot of unrealistic expectations to be it all and I think that creates a situation where mothers are at war with other mothers. We tear each other up on playgrounds, criticize who breastfed too little or too much, compare our kids’ sleeping schedules and milestones like they are blue ribbons. Why? All in an effort to make ourselves feel like we aren’t falling short of the ideal we’re trying to live up to and I think the blame should be put on a society that overlooks the value of mothers.

I started this week by sharing some truths about myself and I want to share a few more:

I know I should stop drinking Diet Coke but it’s better than smoking a cigarette and Lord knows there are days when Ada is climbing the walls, the dog is chasing her tail, the bills are piling up and I’ve yet to receive a paycheck and the thought of sitting still and setting anything on fire sounds appealing. So, Diet Coke it is…

I do clean up poop. A lot of poop. But I could still have a conversation with you about politics, write a damn-good paper about Romantic literature or run an editorial department. When a man puts the life of another before his own, it’s heroic but when a woman does it, people say she wasted her degree. Serving my family doesn’t make me ignorant or anti-feminist but if you believe it does, that says more about your ignorance than mine.

My house isn’t perfect. My child isn’t perfect. My marriage isn’t perfect. I’m not perfect. It’s all very shabby but all very real. I’ve been working on a novel for a year and some days, I don’t know that I’ll finish it until I’ve packed Ada up and sent her off to college. Some days I could care less and some days I literally itch because I want to do so many things before this life is over. But in all honesty, for as difficult as this work-at-home momma thing is, I get up and do it everyday not because someone on the “Today” show said I should have it all but because that girl I carried in my belly for nine months and continue to carry is worth all I’ve got.

So for all of you out there in the same boat as me and my good friend Emily, here’s something to remember: Some day, you’ll forget that you didn’t get to shave your legs for a week at a time or that you had to eat potato soup to get through tight spots in the month. You won’t think so much about the people who didn’t understand what you were trying to do or the people who second-guessed your ability to do anything because you had squeaky toys in your purse and spit-up in your hair. That stuff won’t matter at all. What you’ll remember is the little dimples in the back of the hands that needed you so badly when the TV stopped working or the diaper got too wet or the book needed to be read. You’ll remember them falling asleep in your lap because it was the place they felt the safest. You’ll remember the first hugs, the best ones because they gave them on their own free-will. You’ll remember that you burned the candle at both ends because it’s this middle stuff, the stuff in between our birth and death dates, that really, really matters. You will remember that you did it all out of love, over and over again. And if you’re lucky, you’ll have a friend who will drink expensive lattes with you and remember how they did it, too. Life isn’t and never will be about having it all; it’s about giving everything you’ve got.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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