in the end

Before getting pregnant this past January, for the last year or so I had been meaning to post here and say something to you all along the lines of “it all worked out.” The things you read here, for years–all worked out. The compressed identity crisis of You, Overdue. The beleaguered self examination of the 25 year old who wrote The Seeking Heart. In the Weeds. White Flag. The long days. The long nights.

All is pleasant now! is what I wanted to come and say to you. I don’t have to hire babysitters. I don’t have to bring everyone on errands. I don’t push strollers full of groceries uphill with toddlers in tow. I rarely feel harried. I don’t feel isolated and wonder how I’m going to get through a day, much less a morning. I don’t resent my daily tasks though they crop up…daily. I move slower, and repeat myself so languidly that my children say “I know Mom!!” before I’m halfway through the sentence, as all children have since the beginning of time. The 5yr old says “I heard you the first time” after a few words leave my mouth. I apologize a lot and readily agree things could have gone better when listening to a scene-by-scene dissection by critical 8yr olds.

I feel steeped in wisdom now, every micro-particle of it earned through mistakes, or attempts that just unraveled in a strange way and as I walked away I said, “Huh maybe I won’t do that again.”

“I really feel like a wise mother at this point,” I remarked to a friend recently, without a trace of irony.

I feel like an efficient homemaker. Maker of home. If I’m being honest, I love being this person. I see myself saving us money and catching mishaps before they collapse. Economizing. Strategizing. The laundry goes from hamper to washer to folded to into fold of clothes available to wear. The dishwasher is filled and emptied, sometimes several times a day. Six people are fed three meals a day, most of it composed of homemade food. Thirty to forty library books come home weekly to be relished and then are returned to their place of rest. (Every so often we pay for the missing books that fell out along the way and I crow, “More than worth it for the value of hundreds!”) How can it be that the person who manages this, plus texting a 13yr old reassuring guidance, and tucking away shoes that are grown out of and finding their replacements, and nodding benignly at dentist appointments, working in meaningful traditions and conversations full of eye contact and sympathy, and reminding children to tithe off their allowance, closely managing a schedule of activities, is me, little ol’ me, that same person who started out? Did I work my way into fulfillment? Or did fulfillment come when as I slowly set and reset the parameters of satisfaction?

If we devote four years to some sort of life education in high school, and four more to college, what ho! of the education of thirteen years of household management?

Seven years ago I wrote of daily motherhood…

Fertility can seem like a moving walkway that keeps turning me into new things and handing me things–infancy, baby, kindergarten, drop off and pick up, doctors appointments, feeling late a lot, nights on zappos analyzing miniature sandal straps, grocery lists peppered with apples and peanut butter jars, afternoons that begin when I pack the snacks and end with a bowl of tuna fish between us on the floor, me scooping spoonfuls into their mouths.

In theory here I could write a list of things I’ve learned that helped, and the first one would be everyone got older, and the next two would be something like setting boundaries and saying them out loud so you feel understood even if no one actually understood you. But lists just make you skim the writing until you get to the list, and anyway I’d end up coming up with one or two fake items just to finish the list on an even number.

Getting pregnant again didn’t cancel out my wish to share this in-the-end-sentiment with you. I still feel it, and wish to neatly tie some of the threads that were started here years ago. Mostly I wanted to come back and write because I worry we trail off, as writers and documenters of motherhood, and you don’t get to hear the moments of triumph. I’ve always found it funny that people decide how many kids to have based on whether they’d fit in their current vehicle, and it’s equally misleading that we don’t balance our narratives of parenting, but rather phase out of life stages and stop talking about them altogether.

Pregnancy has distracted me for a little while though. I find it fascinating how the energy switches, reordering the interior comes as priority before outward-facing energy. The way closets that went ignored for months suddenly become paramount to reorganize. The way peeling paint that went ignored for years is suddenly desperately in need of rehabilitation. The way I re-read books instead of reading new ones; still consuming comforting content that transports me away from time and space for a bit, but only familiar ideas for now. The way I think seriously about buying Christmas gifts in September, just to have the job done. So, before I get carried away, this is just to say, in the end, it all worked out.