The Pain of Motherhood

Sometimes when I’m with you, little one—watching you, holding you, loving you—it hurts.

Sometimes it hurts to have this abundance of love—this all-consuming, overpowering, intoxicating and soul-crushing love—and not have a space large enough to keep it. It’s infinite. I feel it when you whisper “I love you, too, Mama” after I tuck you in at night and when you wrap your skinny arms around me. I feel it tingling in the tips of my fingers when they trace the soft line of your jaw, your head resting on my lap as you drift peacefully off to sleep.

And that time you pressed your little lips tenderly to my forehead? I think my heart almost erupted inside my chest.

Sometimes it hurts when I lift your little body up in my arms and realize that I won’t always be able to—that you won’t always want me to. It’s a pain of balance and a pain of paradox: The lightness of you in my arms is counteracted by the heaviness in my heart. You’re getting so big, so fast. And though I love seeing the little boy you’re becoming, I also miss the little baby you once were.

I miss your smallness.

Sometimes it hurts as I witness you break out of your tentative toddler shell. You explore your surroundings with a burning curiosity that fills me with both pride and a little heartache. The more of the world you discover, the less of your world I become. And while I am proud of your burgeoning independence—of your determination to play an active role in your own life—it pains me just a little to know you won’t always need me by your side to guide you through it.

There is a comfort in being needed.

Sometimes it hurts when I can’t find the words. I can feel them there, inside me, desperately trying to form, but there’s no language both strong and delicate enough to capture the essence of you. So sometimes all I can do is stare in silence, marveling at your tiny personhood, trying to memorize every piece of you, every movement, every intricacy:

Those tiny feet that carry you across the playground. Those miniscule fingers that artfully craft Lego trains and dig itty bitty tunnels in the dirt. Those bright, animated eyes that peep at me through the hole in your bagel at breakfast. That delicate little brow that furrows when you sit on the couch and flip through your favorite book. That nearly-imperceptible chip in your front tooth from the time you fell at the playground, a tiny flaw that somehow only adds to your perfection.

 Sometimes, I watch you, and it hits me: All those things—those things that make you YOU—are a part of me. You are a part of me. You—and all of your startling perfection—were born of me.

I live in your heart, and you in mine. Your soul was nourished by my own, and I will always carry a piece of it with me.

You have changed me in the most profound, complete, and beautiful of ways. You have altered my body, my mind, my heart, my soul.

And sometimes, little one, it hurts to love you so.

But it’s a beautiful kind of pain, and I wouldn't trade it for all the comforts and security in the world.