The Ambiguity of the Early Days
I seem to have lost myself a bit. My son, now 16 months, is no longer breastfeeding and is slightly more independent during play. We aren’t attached at the hip the way we once were. I’ve found pockets of time that I simply…don’t know what to do with.
When he ventures into his play area fully occupied within his own rapidly-expanding mind, I sit dumbfounded, staring at him. On my husband’s nights to put our son to bed, I wander around the house, aimlessly picking up toys or watching the monitor to make sure everything is going well.
Back in the newborn days, I longed for moments like these. There was so much I wanted to do—I missed myself so deeply. Read a book, call a friend, play the piano. Now that I’ve been given some time, it’s simultaneously too much and not enough.
One could argue that ten minutes to read is better than none, and they’d be right. But it’s not just about the book. What I’m really feeling here is the ambiguity of early motherhood identity. The truth is that I don’t really know who I am anymore, at this particular moment in time. As much as I want hours to myself to figure that out, I also feel a bit sad that my son doesn’t need me as intensely as he once did. I understand innately the transient nature of these days and this understanding leaves me a bit breathless.
We just returned from a quick trip to visit family. The two hour plane ride went exactly as expected with a toddler. Exhausting, messy, and uncomfortable. The poor kid was sick and he wanted his mother, which is somehow the biggest honor of my life and also a literal pain in the neck. He’s bigger now and the two of us can hardly be contained in one seat. I held him, well past the point of aching arms, and smelled his sweet, sick baby breath. I knew I would catch his cold—no question about it—but I also knew I wouldn't have that baby breath much longer.
I thought about the flights I once took on my own. The longer the flight the better in those days. I did some of my best writing on planes and I generally loved the whole experience. I wondered when I’d ever again hop a flight to Europe, excited for 12 hours in the air. I can’t even fathom the idea right now—that life seems so far away. How is it possible to be both happy and sad? Fulfilled and still longing?
Later, while chasing my son around baggage claim, I couldn’t help but notice the attention we were getting from people much older than me. They looked at my son and smiled—pure wistfulness in their gazes. I was reminded that these are the days. Maybe it’s okay if I don’t know who I am right now. Maybe it’s okay if my life’s purpose at this moment is to comfort my sick son. Someday, when I’m the older woman at the airport, I won’t regret the colds I caught from being so close.
