Recently my son Jackson and I were taking advantage of an unseasonally warm Sunday afternoon with one of his favourite activities; water play in the backyard. I watched, bemused, as he entertained himself with endless pouring from cup to bucket to water table, then back up into the cup to continue the cycle. The water mesmerizes him. He can play with water for hours, soaking himself from head to toe until he begins to shiver violently, and even then he screams in protest when I bundle him up in a soft towel and carry him inside to recover in a warm bath.
Motherhood for me was a re-birthing into a self and a world that I couldn’t have predicted.
It is a world where everything has added significance, an importance beyond the immediate. I feel the weight of my mistakes heavier but the joys lift me higher than ever before. Even my skillset; that that in which I am strong I become stronger and that that in which I am weak becomes blaringly obvious.
I have been a mother for just over 6 and a half years. You would think that by now I have sorted through my thoughts and emotions about the biggest project I have ever undertaken. That by now I would feel confident in this enormous role and that I would be able to easily tell you what exactly motherhood means to me.
Being vulnerable is gross. I always thought I was good at being open, and honest, and vulnerable to those I loved. And sometimes, even to those I didn’t love. I often would put my whole self on the line, without regard for my protection, so that people could trust me, be open with me and ultimately, love me for who I actually was. I got tired of surface level friendship and this was the best way I knew how to push past it. Sometimes vulnerability paid off in true friendship; sometimes I walked up to the edge of a cliff without a harness and people took turns pushing me off.