You never see yourself doing it, not at the time. When you're young and single, or worse, young and in love, you don't see it. You think you know what you're getting into.
"Of course there'll be hard times," you tell yourself. "I don't think everything will be perfect." (You do, actually. Think it'll be perfect. You do.)
You stand at an alter in a white dress and you're so filled with love that even tears aren't enough, and you dream a beautiful, perfect dream. You promise, "for better or worse" and you mean it. And like almost everything in life, you haven't the slightest idea what you're doing.
Don't get me wrong, you should do it. Even if you don't know, probably because you don't know, you should do it. Get married. Have a baby. Even if you're so full of hope and promise that you're nauseating to talk to, you should do it. It's a good thing. And there's no preparing. You think you'll be different when those times come. You will not be the 22 year old you, you'll be a wife, or a mother. Those words hold a lot more mysticism than they really should, maybe more so if you're a sweet, naive, Christian girl. Somehow, even though we don't believe we do, we are so sure that that ceremony, or that moment when they lay a child in your arms, will change everything. And it does, in a way. But not in the way you think when you're the nauseating 22 year old in a white dress. In a lot of ways, it changes not one thing. Because at the end of the day, I'm still me.
I'm standing in the kitchen, three pots bubbling on the stove, a crockpot in the corner, a burn on my hand from pulling muffins out of the oven without a mitt, the dog underfoot, while Bella says, "Mama, I stepped in dog pee and I can't get my socks off." I wait for the part of my brain that's a mom to kick in. Do something. Know what to do! You had a baby, you're a mom. I was there, it was gross and awful and amazing and beautiful. It happened. You had that baby over there, the one with pee on her socks. Deal with this. And for a moment I feel like I'm being electrocuted, just a little. Something in my brain short-circuits because I've never dealt with this. I want to help her but I need to deal with those damn muffins. I want to deal with my burning dinner but my kid has pee on her socks. I really want to kill the dog but Bella will cry, and my neighbors will call the cops if I drag her furry dead body out of my house for peeing on my floor for the hundredth time. Wait, dinner. Turn the oven off. Bella, don't run through the kitchen with pee on your socks! Sit down. Muffins, where are my muffins and why don't I have oven mitts any more?!
And it's like that. Over and over and over again. A totally new situation that I don't know how to deal with. The other day Bella genuinely asked me, without malice, why she had to listen to me. I just blinked at her. I don't know why we should listen to me. Because I won't forget to make dinner because I'm playing dolls? Because I pay the bills? I was stumped for a minute. Then I made a stupid speech about authority that she processed exactly none of and we moved on.
I'm flying so blind and, even though it's embarrassing to say, I thought I'd have it so much more figured out than I do. I really did think that.
We've done the "for better and worse." Both. I'd promise them again, knowing what I do. I'd never go back. But the day to day stuff is totally and completely draining. And I keep thinking that I should know how to do it. The good stuff is so freaking great that even at 22 in a white dress, I could never have pictured the perfection of it. The hard stuff is so awful that you want to find that 22 year old and smack the promise and hope right off her stupid face. And the day to day grind of it is endless. I have somehow lost my identity in exactly the place in life where I thought I'd find it. And not in a depressing, awful, way, but just in a way that makes it impossible to be who I was at 22. Which would be fine, if when that girl left the inside of my head the woman who is a wife and mother arrived. Some identity that would make me different inside, and really great at this. I feel bewildered. Not sad. Not regretful, not even unhappy. Just a little stunned that my mother must have done this too. Women everywhere must just figure it out as they go. And I know, I KNOW, it was stupid and naive, but I really did think that somehow you'd just know how to do it.
I respect women in a totally different way. Moms are freaking amazing, and you should go hug yours. Or do her dishes. Or, for the love of all that is good in the world, buy her a bottle of wine and run her a bath.
"Of course there'll be hard times," you tell yourself. "I don't think everything will be perfect." (You do, actually. Think it'll be perfect. You do.)
You stand at an alter in a white dress and you're so filled with love that even tears aren't enough, and you dream a beautiful, perfect dream. You promise, "for better or worse" and you mean it. And like almost everything in life, you haven't the slightest idea what you're doing.
Don't get me wrong, you should do it. Even if you don't know, probably because you don't know, you should do it. Get married. Have a baby. Even if you're so full of hope and promise that you're nauseating to talk to, you should do it. It's a good thing. And there's no preparing. You think you'll be different when those times come. You will not be the 22 year old you, you'll be a wife, or a mother. Those words hold a lot more mysticism than they really should, maybe more so if you're a sweet, naive, Christian girl. Somehow, even though we don't believe we do, we are so sure that that ceremony, or that moment when they lay a child in your arms, will change everything. And it does, in a way. But not in the way you think when you're the nauseating 22 year old in a white dress. In a lot of ways, it changes not one thing. Because at the end of the day, I'm still me.
I'm standing in the kitchen, three pots bubbling on the stove, a crockpot in the corner, a burn on my hand from pulling muffins out of the oven without a mitt, the dog underfoot, while Bella says, "Mama, I stepped in dog pee and I can't get my socks off." I wait for the part of my brain that's a mom to kick in. Do something. Know what to do! You had a baby, you're a mom. I was there, it was gross and awful and amazing and beautiful. It happened. You had that baby over there, the one with pee on her socks. Deal with this. And for a moment I feel like I'm being electrocuted, just a little. Something in my brain short-circuits because I've never dealt with this. I want to help her but I need to deal with those damn muffins. I want to deal with my burning dinner but my kid has pee on her socks. I really want to kill the dog but Bella will cry, and my neighbors will call the cops if I drag her furry dead body out of my house for peeing on my floor for the hundredth time. Wait, dinner. Turn the oven off. Bella, don't run through the kitchen with pee on your socks! Sit down. Muffins, where are my muffins and why don't I have oven mitts any more?!
And it's like that. Over and over and over again. A totally new situation that I don't know how to deal with. The other day Bella genuinely asked me, without malice, why she had to listen to me. I just blinked at her. I don't know why we should listen to me. Because I won't forget to make dinner because I'm playing dolls? Because I pay the bills? I was stumped for a minute. Then I made a stupid speech about authority that she processed exactly none of and we moved on.
I'm flying so blind and, even though it's embarrassing to say, I thought I'd have it so much more figured out than I do. I really did think that.
We've done the "for better and worse." Both. I'd promise them again, knowing what I do. I'd never go back. But the day to day stuff is totally and completely draining. And I keep thinking that I should know how to do it. The good stuff is so freaking great that even at 22 in a white dress, I could never have pictured the perfection of it. The hard stuff is so awful that you want to find that 22 year old and smack the promise and hope right off her stupid face. And the day to day grind of it is endless. I have somehow lost my identity in exactly the place in life where I thought I'd find it. And not in a depressing, awful, way, but just in a way that makes it impossible to be who I was at 22. Which would be fine, if when that girl left the inside of my head the woman who is a wife and mother arrived. Some identity that would make me different inside, and really great at this. I feel bewildered. Not sad. Not regretful, not even unhappy. Just a little stunned that my mother must have done this too. Women everywhere must just figure it out as they go. And I know, I KNOW, it was stupid and naive, but I really did think that somehow you'd just know how to do it.
I respect women in a totally different way. Moms are freaking amazing, and you should go hug yours. Or do her dishes. Or, for the love of all that is good in the world, buy her a bottle of wine and run her a bath.
