Motherhood May 7, 2011

The white room startled me. I could feel people touching me. I could hear the nurses joking. A blue sheet blocked my view. It seemed like a party had started on the other side of the room. I felt all alone, sad, cold and lost.
Ten eternal minutes passed before they brought him over to me, swaddled in a white blanket with pink and blue stripes. He looked swollen and wrinkled. His eyes were shut and covered in Vaseline. The nurse placed him on my chest for a second. I tried pushing my head back a bit to see if I could get a better look. My hands were still tied to the operating table. I couldn’t touch him.
“Hola, Ariel. Soy Helena, tú Mamá.” was all I was able to say. Or think. And he was taken away.
As my Doctor congratulated himself on a job well done, I could not help but wonder where the feeling of immediate, radiating, wonderful love was. Maybe if I had looked at him longer it would have sparked.
Three days later, in the middle of our first sleepless night at home, I was still waiting for Hollywood’s version of maternal love. It wasn’t happening. Instead I was petrified. I wanted to go back to the hospital. I wanted to have the nurses around until he was at least eighteen. I did not feel ready for this. What was I thinking? I knew I wasn’t Mother material. I felt I was doing it all wrong. I was supplementing his feedings with formula, I had let him sleep at the nursery in the hospital, and now all I could do was stare at him.

“I’m a horrible mother.” I would tell my husband over and over again.
“No, you are not. You are the best mother he could ever have.” He would reply.
“I am?”
I was looking for a sense of security that my husband’s words could not provide. I searched for it on the entire collection of respected child rearing books, and mommy blogs, but I didn’t find it there either.
I would tremble at the thought of being alone with Ariel. As fate would have it my husband had to travel to China, and my mother went back to Venezuela.
Ariel and I were home alone.
“Well Ariel, it’s just the two of us. We can do this.” I said.
The pep talk was more for me than him. Alone for twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week with a two month old, I had to put my doubts aside.
My breasts were swollen, my back was hurting, my house was dirty, and I had to take five minute long showers, but I was actually starting to enjoy it. Every nap, bath and playtime was a joyful event. A smile or laugh an incomparable success.
Without realizing it, I began to understand what unconditional motherly love is. And, yes, it is beautiful. It is being tired and worried. It means having no privacy. It is being puked, peed and pooped on, and still loving the child. That is the magic of motherhood.
A year later, as I quietly watched my son play with his little cars, it hit me.
Being a mother is not a series of theories, or a long list of advise. It is getting down and dirty. It is not about being perfect, but being present in the moment and trusting yourself. Motherhood does not define me; it pushed me to form a better definition of myself. It does not make me a woman; it celebrates my womanhood. As Ariel and I looked at each other, our strong silent bond of love and acceptance was visible. I got down on the floor, grabbed a little car, and drove it gently up his arm. Laughter filled the sunny afternoon. I was happy. I was in the motherhood.

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