They don’t tell you that you’ll spend countless hours awake but if you could just get still for 5 seconds you could pass out from exhaustion and sleep for 3 days straight.
They don’t tell you that you’ll have stains in your carpet from thousands of spills, accidents, and mishaps.
They don’t tell you that you’ll worry. Constantly. Pretty much for the rest of your life.
They don’t tell you that you’ll second-guess more decisions than you don’t.
They don’t tell you that it’s possible to hurt for someone else 1,000 times more than you ever even thought about hurting for yourself.
They don’t tell you that you’ll develop a need to fix things. Everything. And the need doesn’t go away just because you can’t fix something. In fact, the need will be even stronger in those times. And it will hurt deeper than you could ever imagine.
They don’t tell you that your body will shift and change, long after your children are outside your womb. That your bladder will never be the same. Your hormones. Your hair. Your skin. Your boobs. Your bones. Everything, everything undergoes a metamorphosis. And it progresses.
They don’t tell you that your child will look at you with such hatred, or misunderstanding, or sadness, or anxiety….and all you’ll want to do is anything that will make them smile. And the times you can’t, or have to choose not to, are the moments that you swear you have no business being a mother.
They don’t tell you that doing even the things you know you should do feel like selfish decisions.
They don’t tell you that you’ll just want to give up sometimes.
They don’t tell you that there are flashes, instances of tiny little interactions that seem insignificant on the surface, but those are the moments you’ll store in your heart forever.
They don’t tell you about the awe and humility you’ll feel when looking into your child’s eyes for the first time.
They don’t tell you about the absolute peace in the moments where they are happily content, snuggled next to you.
They don’t tell you about all the funny things you will hear come out of their mouths. The joy you’ll feel when you see them doing something they have discovered they love. The way their eyes shine when they talk about something they found exciting.
They don’t tell you about how you’ll gladly clean up that art project or cooking mess that let them explore their creative side.
They don’t tell you that you’ll painfully listen to them learn their sounds and letters and then watch with amazement when they’re reading huge novels and crying from the stories and characters they’ve become attached to.
They don’t tell you that you will crave their company.
They don’t tell you that you’ll turn into a lioness, ready to attack anyone that presents any type of threat. Up to and including man, beast, or other kid.
They don’t tell you about what your worst fear will become. And how your heart breaks into a million pieces just knowing other parents that have experienced it.
They don’t tell you that you only think you’ve known real love until you’ve loved your own children.
They don’t tell you how that love becomes a driving force, the likes of which you have never known.
They don’t tell you that motherhood isn’t a title for those who have actually given birth. It’s for anyone who’s loved someone else like only a mother can. Teachers. Nurses. Aunts. Fosters. Ministers. Godparents.
They don’t tell you that it’s the hardest thing you’ll ever do. And that just when you think you’ve mastered some part of it, or survived some horrific phase, that a new one begins. And the learning never stops.
They don’t tell you that it’s pain. Fear. Hope. Joy. All at once.
They don’t tell you. And even if they did, nothing could prepare you. Nothing could have prepared me.
But it doesn’t even matter.
I’d do it all over again.