This is silly, I know.
I was once holding a baby. I felt awkward, like the small babe just didn’t fit in my arms. She felt stiff, like she couldn’t relax. And maybe I couldn’t either. I have to admit, I don’t like how breakable babies feel.
I was only able to hold this little girl for a few minutes before she was whisked away by someone more capable. This younger woman, more confident than I, held the baby, swinging her back and forth. And it looked like they both (baby and woman) belonged. They both fit.
“She looks good on you,” somebody instantly said from over my shoulder.
The younger woman smiled and laughed, “Oh, no. Not yet.”
Tears welled up in my eyes despite how desperately I tried to suppress them. It’s silly, I know.
Infertility is many things. And, for me, one of those things is the feeling that I am not able to become pregnant because I am not good enough. At that moment, I felt inadequate to parent. Unable to mother. Too awkward. Too stiff. Too hesitant.
And my fears felt validated. That’s rarely a good thing. It seemed nobody else thought the baby looked good on me. So why should I want one so bad? What if God doesn’t think a baby looks good on me?
It’s a silly thought. I hope.
But, really, maybe motherhood will (eventually) look different on me.
This weekend I played “Anna and Elsa” with my niece, Clara. She just turned three. We ran in circles in the middle of my parents’ family room. We took turns saying lines from the movie. If you have to ask which movie, I’ll have to ask you where you’ve been hiding for the past few years.
“Do you want to build a snowman?” That was my line. I was Anna. Clara was both Elsa and director. She told me where to lay my head and which words to emphasize. Like the trained actor I am, I obliged. By the way, it’s, “Do you want to build a snoooowMAN?” not “Do you want to BUILD a snowman?”
Clara would say, “This is a special Frozen, because there’s no Hans in it.”
We can make up the rules can’t we? I watched her as she thought, and I watched her laugh, and I watched her watch me.
Who cares what other people say or imply or forget to say.
I make up the rules, and (I know / I hope) I’m going to be a silly, rockin’ mom someday.