The last time I posted, I was pregnant. Pregnant and proclaiming that I was back to the blogging world. Ha. I am now the happy mama of a 2 1/2 month old boy. Timothy Michael was born on September 27th after a blessedly simple labor. He came home with us on my 32nd birthday and I have enjoyed almost 12 weeks of glorious time with him.
A friend reminded me, shortly after Timothy was born, of a blog post I’d written a few years ago. It was when Matt and I were first getting serious and I was adapting to being involved in (my stepson) Nethanial’s life. I shared how, compared to my closest friends and plenty of other girls I knew, my desire to be a parent was weak. I didn’t have a strong urge or longing for it. I feared it wouldn’t come naturally, that I wouldn’t be able to do it wholeheartedly as it should be done. I couldn’t help smiling to myself when she brought that up. God be praised, I can honestly say that nothing has felt more natural to me than being Timothy’s mom. Nothing. Being Matt’s wife is an extremely close second but otherwise, I can’t think of anything that didn’t feel forced or awkward or unsuited to me in at least one way or aspect.
Twelve weeks of cuddling, rocking, diapering, breastfeeding, learning, laundry, dishes, house cleaning, cooking, singing to sleep, cooing, marveling, and praying. Praying I’ll do it right. Praying it all doesn’t go too fast for me to handle.
But it has gone too fast. I return to work this Thursday. Only part time; 3 days a week instead of 5, for which I’m so thankful. For the last few weeks, it is everyone’s first question: “When do you have to go back to work?” Usually followed by “who will be watching him?” and “are you ready?” Day after day, I answer each of them with a calm manner and as much of a smile as I can manage. Then I sneak to another room or get in the car or hang up the phone, and I cry. I cry and I hug my boy. I cry and I talk to him. I cry and I snuggle him to my chest and feed him. I give myself a few precious minutes to stare at him and caress him without thinking about the laundry to be folded or the dinner to be planned.
I’ve never had my heart broken. Not truly. I had one boyfriend before Matt, and that was a simple junior high/high school relationship. Matt and I never broke up along the way, despite some extremely difficult times. I have not lost one of my parents or a sibling or a best friend. I’ve been disappointed, wounded, hurt, yes, but never has my heart been broken. I don’t know if I’ll be able to say the same come Thursday.
Mothers have been doing this for years, many of them for far more hours per week than what I’ll be doing. It’s necessary. There’s no way around it. I’ve found a great situation for him as far as care while I’m at work. There is every logical reason for it all to be fine. I am so far from being unique in this necessity and difficulty. Even my pain over it feels shameful at times as I know so many women have gone through it (and survived it) before me. Unfortunately, that doesn’t make it any less gut-wrenching.
With each day that brings me closer to leaving him in someone else’s care, I feel a desperate, unanswerable need to apologize to him. To explain and reassure. There’s no release from it as there’s no way to actually do this. All I’ll be able to do is count the hours until I bring him home, wrap him in my arms and tell him I love him.