Nobody Told Me How Much Motherhood Would Hurt

Sure, I knew about the aches and discomfort of pregnancy and the agony of childbirth; I read the books and stocked up on ibuprofen and heating pads and hemorrhoid cream. But I was utterly unprepared for the rest. Like the first time I looked you over as a newborn and my heart literally felt as though it was too big for my chest and in real danger of exploding. And then there was the first time I checked on you as you laid in your crib, and you were so still and I panicked because what if you weren't breathing? The fear, however unnecessary, was thick and choking and constricted around me.

You're older now, and though the pain is different, it's no less intense. Like any chronic pain, there are days when it's better and days when it's worse, alternating between tolerable and nearly unbearable.

It presents itself in many different forms. Like the way my heart feels like it's being squeezed in a vise, over and over again throughout your life. The overwhelming love I feel when I watch you doing something kind or just being adorably, irresistibly you. The twist of nervousness I feel on your behalf when you're trying something new. The heaviness as I watch you sleeping so deeply, with the kind of peace that childhood and innocence affords you, and I know that someday, there will come a time when you'll lie awake worrying because that's what adults do. I don't want that for you, but I know it's coming. The primal rage when somebody deeply hurts your feelings and the heartbreak of seeing your tears. The sharp pangs of worry when you fall behind or make a mistake or have a strange symptom or behavior or quirk. Then the wash of guilt — I should have done differently, known better, seen sooner. The ache of sympathy when you're ill, or broken, or bleeding. The helplessness of knowing that I can't just take your place and bear the pain myself, no matter how much I wish I could. The sickening punch in the gut at every story of an accident, a murder, a devastating illness that hits too close to home because it involved a child like you.

It's ignoring my screaming bladder because there's no time for a bathroom break before I shuttle you to school or practice. It's helping with breakfast or bath time or homework despite my burning throat or nauseous stomach or searing cramps, because your needs can't be put on hold while it's still my responsibility to fulfill them. The aching arms as I carry you when you can't walk or when you fall asleep on me in an awkward position but I stay still, so you can rest.

It's the times your hard head accidentally makes contact with my soft lip while we're playing, the times your baby hands have flailed around and whacked me in the nose or tangled in my hair, the times you kick or jab me with an elbow in your sleep when you crawl into my bed, the times your little teeth have clamped down while nursing. It's the boiling frustration when you're being irrational or stubborn and the sting of remorse when I lose my temper as a result. The jolt of shock when you suddenly decide you're "too old" to kiss me goodbye or hold my hand in public and the struggle of trying not to take it personally.

And someday, though I haven't experienced it yet, there will be pain that comes from your absence — the deafening silence, the empty bedroom, the swelling of pride in your newfound adulthood mixed with the agony of letting you go.

The pain of motherhood is lasting and substantial. It's deep, and it's physical and emotional and psychological. It is an experience you feel within your bones, a profound and indelible change set into motion the moment your child's heart flickers to life inside your body. Maybe this is why there's no chapter about it in the pregnancy books. Maybe the intensity would be too frightening. Maybe we can read about labor and delivery with only mild trepidation, but to know the true impact of motherhood before it happens would be too much.

The funny thing about it, though, is that there's no other pain that we would so willingly and persistently bear. Because it's tempered by moments of joy so great — and love so pure — that we would tolerate all we do, and more. Walking on Legos or walking through fire, we freely commit to spending the rest of our lives with the discomforts of motherhood . . . just to experience its incomparable beauty.