I’ve done some really stupid things in my life. Some were monumentally ignorant, some were just everyday, run-of-the-mill mistakes.
The thing is, I’m incredibly hard on myself when I screw up. I beat myself up for days, weeks, even months or years depending on the level of idiocy. Which is why my mother’s perspective on messing up has always been a comfort to me: “It’s not a mistake if you learned something.”
And I have. I’ve learned from bad choice after bad choice. And it’s a process, but I believe I am better for making that advice from my mom a life mantra.
So, when I began thinking about this post, I tried really hard to think about what would be at the top of my list. And there were many contenders. But this weekend, I had a thought.
A friend of mine is having her 3rd child next month. Yesterday, I gave her Reagan’s old dresser and changing table from her nursery. Tonight, as I was curled up with my tall, lanky daughter, watching Gilmore Girls, I had a thought:
The dumbest thing I ever did was think that I didn’t want to be a mother.
In my early teens and really up until the time I got pregnant with Reagan, I wasn’t sure if I wanted children. I had never felt very….maternal. It seemed like a lot of heavy responsibility with many uncontrollable factors. And it is.
But I cannot imagine my life without her in it. I cannot imagine my life without having carried, birthed, and raised my daughter.
Anybody who reads my blog knows that I have written about her on more than one occasion. Knows that I am nothing short of crazy about her. Knows that this experience of motherhood is a journey that I cherish.
So I sit and marvel at how I might have missed it. How, once upon a time, I thought I didn’t want this role.
And thinking that? That was just dumb. The dumbest thing I ever did.