Happy Mother’s Day

Happy Mother’s Day to all the wonderful, inspirational, funny and downright awesome mommies that I know! Especially my Mom and my Bubby.

I’m pretty lucky. I’m surrounded by a group of fabulous women whom I learn from everyday.

This is my fifth Mother’s Day, and in five years I’ve learned that there are a lot of things that all those parenting books just don’t teach you about being a mom. And I read a lot of them. It’s a steep learning curve, and most of it is on-the-job training.

The mommy books didn’t tell me that all those post-pregnancy hormones would affect my whole body forevermore! My curly hair? Not so curly anymore. They didn’t tell me that jumping-jacks can never be approached in the same way again (or trampolines or sneezing or coughing), or that molded bras would become a staple part of my wardrobe. I didn’t learn that having a birthing plan was more-or-less a pipedream, and that I’d have no idea what to do the first day that Pierre and I brought our newborn home (or the first week, month…). That the first time our baby slept through the night, I’d be up every hour to make sure that he was still breathing, defeating the purpose of sleeping-through-the-night. Or what to do when my baby boy peed on me, and pooped in his car-seat in the middle of grocery shopping. Or when my five-year-old vomited in the mini-van during the last hour of a road-trip to Montreal – in the middle of a freezing-rain storm. And I was out of wipes.

No book told me how hearing my baby cry would rip my heart out.

Or how often I’d want to rip my hair out.

I couldn’t read about how scary it would be when my newborn was admitted to the hospital with RSV. Or how my heart would lurch when my oldest knocked his front teeth out or spiked a fever, but couldn’t keep the acetaminophen down. There’s no manual on what to do when mommy is sick, and the kids are not.

Or how my son will always, always find a way to step on my feet whenever I am wearing flip-flops. Especially after I’ve just painted my toes. 

And there are definitely no books describing how often I feel as though I am doing everything wrong.   

Or how much I would depend on my girlfriends to keep my sanity. How much more I would appreciate my own parents.

There are no chapters on how to deal with well-meaning strangers who want to give me parenting advice, what to do when my two-year-old had a complete meltdown in the post-office in front of a huge line of onlookers, or when my three-year-old decided that the clothing ranks at Target were the perfect spot to play hide from mommy, scaring years off my life.

Or how thrilling and terrifying it would feel to send my children to school for the first time. How hard it is to let go a little.

No book describes the worry.

And there are definitely no chapters on dealing with the mommy-guilt. Maybe no mommy has figured out how.

There’s more…

No one told me how time would stop when I looked into my baby’s eyes for the first time. How incredible it was to watch the man I love hold his sons. How watching him made me love him even more. How good my baby smelled, or how I could watch my children sleep for hours, realizing that they are completely, totally mine. Forever. How sweet it was to see my sons smile for the first time, giggle, roll-over, take a step. Say mommy.

None of those books told me that I was a good mom, even when I gave my baby formula, used the cheap diapers, ignored my child’s request to play with Play-Doh because I don’t want to have to clean up the mess, or went four days without giving my boys a bath.

The books can’t explain how incredible it feels to snuggle with my four-year old. How much I’d love giving my oldest just one more squeaky kiss before lights out.  How sweet the words, “I love you mommy” can be. How proud I would be the first time my child read a story to me, or swam across the pool all on his own. Or how much fun it is to listen to my sons laugh with each other, over the same joke…for the hundredth time. The joke that I didn’t understand the first time.

Reading couldn’t tell me just how much my children would make me laugh. How they have the ultimate power to break my heart. And just as much to heal it.

How I wouldn’t really mind having the theme song to Jake and the Neverland Pirates stuck in my head. All day long.

That I would go to the ends of the earth to find my son’s lost Lamby before bedtime.   

Nothing can describe the feeling of pride when a teacher called my child delightful.

Or how much fun it is to watch my parents with my children.

Or how I grew to love Pierre in a completely new way; not just as my husband, but as the father of my children. And how meaningful this is.

And none of those parenting books, not one, could tell me how wonderful it would feel to be wished Happy Mother’s Day, to celebrate with the little people (and the one big person) who make me Mommy. 

Happy Mother's Day.

xo Naomi