When I was expecting my first  I worried about stretch marks

I worried about the sleepless nights.  The pain of a natural birth.

And then she came.  I looked into her eyes and I swore she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.  I stayed up all night, though not because I was feeding or tending to her.  I stayed up because I couldn’t stop staring at her, wondering at how I’d managed to produce something–someone–so perfect.

There was a tilt-shift then.  A change in my life so profound that a whole new person existed where before she did not: a mother.

I went from worrying about how my child’s presence would affect me to how my shortcomings would scar her.

I was sixteen then.

Fresh in my mind were the typical teenage disagreements I’d had with my own mom.  Fresh were the ugly words I’d hurled at her in anger.  Stark was the realization of how bratty I’d been.  How selfish.

My new role brought with it a change in my relationship with my own mom.  A friendship, where before I can’t say there’d been one.

She watched as I doted on my baby–rocking and nursing and loving.  Though, in all honesty, I didn’t always greet 2 AM feedings with open arms and a cheery demeanor.

I’ve certainly had my moments, then and now.  The icky kind.  The raised-voice, impatient-toe-tapping, count-to-ten moments.  Moments in which mothering is not my strong suit.

My oldest is a guinea pig of sorts.  Together, we sail uncharted waters and brave new, unexplored frontiers.

I feel for her, as the oldest.  Having to endure experimental discipline, the strictest of expectations, the sternest disapproval.

Unfortunately for her, I don’t take this motherhood thing lightly.

I recognized early–at the age of 12–that above all else I wanted to be someone’s mom.  When others dreamed of careers in nursing or teaching or law, I dreamed of the little minds I’d help mold, the tiny souls I’d guide.

It’s everything I dreamed it would be.  Significantly more, in fact.  Some good, and some less so.

I still worry, though now the thoughts that keep me up nights aren’t self-centered.

I worry whether it’s enough: the blood, sweat and tears.  Oh.  And the prayers.  Countless prayers.

I know now that when I turned to my mom at 16–pregnant and scared–she wondered at the outcome.  She questioned–and rightfully so–how but a girl could have a baby.  How I would possibly fare.

Nearly 16 years later I dare say I’ve done okay.

That’s not to say that I don’t shoulder my fair share of sorrow.  That I don’t carry guilt.  That regret escapes me.

It most certainly does not.

There are ways I’ve failed these babies of mine.  Ways big and ways small.  Ways in which I’ve yet to learn.  Ways in which I may never know.

Still.  Dare I say I’ve done okay.

These I’ve learned about motherhood:

1. You can’t possibly fathom it until you’ve become one.
2. It’s underpaid.
3. You’ll never sleep the same again.
4. If you don’t have a relationship with God, it’s a good idea to start one.
5. Hindsight is 20/20.

We do our best.  We take these spongy souls and try to fill them with love and kindness and honesty and integrity and ambition and courage and faith and empathy and service and strength and compassion and sincerity and smarts and ohgoodlordwhatamImissing, amen.

We lose sleep, thinking that maybe selfishness or laziness or worse has taken root.

We beat ourselves up with what-ifs and why-nots.

We second guess.  We obsess.

And we fail.  Each of us does, in one way or another.

And that’s okay.

Because there is but one perfect parent.  And He ain’t exactly on diaper duty, if ya know what I mean.

The other day, while Jayce and I were out shopping, he saw a mother trying to console her unhappy newborn.  He looked up to me and said the most insightful thing.  He said, “that baby doesn’t have to cry because he has the right mommy.  Just like I have my right mommy, he has his right mommy.”

In my moments of unsurety, I take comfort in this: I’ve been entrusted with what I believe to be the most important job in all the world.  I’ve been entrusted with shaping these wee ones into little people and, eventually, beyond.

He entrusted me with mine and you with yours.  He entrusted my mom with me and yours with you.  And those before with those that came before.

The right mommies.  Indeed.