The One Who Gets To

My first Mother’s Day was more meaningful than I expected. It made me think about being a Mom and what it meant. It made me think of how many more Mother’s Days I would have now that I am permanently part of the Moms.

We filled the day with the usual holiday accommodation of both families (mine and John’s). Lunch with his family. Dinner with mine. And in the middle of a busy Mexican restaurant, mariachi in full swing, I had a special moment of motherhood. Baby Z had missed his morning nap at church and was being rather civil despite the fact. Grandpa had walked him around, then Dad, then it was my turn (I was done with my flan, after all).

I took Baby Z outside and found a semi-quiet spot in the sun. Baby Z was alternating between looking around and burying his head into my shoulder. As I shooshed and swayed, I realized there was no place I’d rather be. I was the one Baby Z looked to for comfort. I had the shoulder he loves to cuddle. My voice is what calms him when he is upset. Those private moments are what set me apart from the rest of the world. They are what make me Baby Z’s Mom.

This revelation was especially enlightening when I think back to the first month of being a Mom. I had a hard time accepting the restriction in my freedom and was painfully aware that this new job was full time all the time. Friday nights were sad for me, because they no longer marked the weekend- a break when I got to do whatever I wanted. I resented the fact that I was the one who had to do most of the work- I had to get up at night, I had to feed him, I couldn’t be away for more than a couple of hours before pumping or feeding Baby Z again. I’d smear my way out of bed in the middle of the night and look at my peacefully sleeping husband and think, “Why does it always have to be me?”

And that was what was so special about Mother’s Day. For the first time I really understood that now, most of the time, it still has to be me, but it feels like it gets to be me.