I thought I knew everything there was to know about Motherhood.
After all, I had a mother. I had several grandmothers. I had friends who were mothers.
But no one ever told me... not only would I subsist, but I would grow fat on the dregs of my children's meals: burnt french fries, PB&J crusts, the last spoonful of yogurt, the grape that fell on the floor.
No one told me... that my shirt would be used as kleenex, and I might even go to the store afterward without changing it.
I never knew... that I could love so much and want to kill at the same time.
I never imagined... that I would suddenly understand why the cult of the Holy Mother persists amongst the estimated 1 billion Catholics on the planet today. I am god to my children. If they are sick, they want my comfort. If they are hungry, they want my body. When I lift them from their beds, they look at me with ecstatic faces. When they are scared, hurt, sad, they want only me. They shower me with kisses and little pictures of hearts and flowers.
A friend without children recently said that having the girls must bring a "wonderful peace" to my life. Should I tell her?
Should I tell her that it's actually a terrifying peace. It's terrifying to think of all the things that could happen to these little people, no matter what I do. That every time I read a newspaper article or see a TV report about a child being hurt or killed, I cry. That my mind constantly invents all of the things that could go wrong in the course of a day - falling and hitting their heads, accidentally poking their eyes out with their spoons or pencils, car accidents, choking on food, kidnapping, wars, a meteor hitting the Earth...
It's a sense of peace only in that it's a sense of perspective. You change enough diapers, clean up enough barf, have your tits gnawed on enough, kiss enough soft baby cheeks, and nothing else really seems all that important, anymore. Pretenses disappear. As do vanity and modesty. Which is a sort of peace.
