Me: Motherhood

For years I have heard women talk about the misery of pregnancy and labor. I figured it was an 8 cow thing--the more miserable you were, the more cows you were worth. And since every woman wants to be an 8 cow wife, stories of pregnancy grew more and more terrible as groups of women talked. I also believed that these horrific stories were mothers way of keeping their daughters from dating before they are 16.

It turns out those stories were told for a different reason: they were true. I hadn't considered that option until I was six weeks pregnant and the nausea kicked in. I was working as a nurse in a nursing home at that time, and my stomach refused to tolerate the smells in that building. I quit my job and spent the next three weeks in bed eating otter pops and pickles trying to ward off the nausea. It didn't work. I finally realized the only thing that helped was to keep busy so I got a job as a nurse at a surgical center.

When I was about five months pregnant I learned an important lesson. One night I drank a 44 oz soda right before bed. When I woke up the next morning, my bed was soaked. I didn't think I wet the bed since I haven't done that since I four. The only other answer was that my water had broken during the night.

That morning also happened to be the day of a quarterly primary activity I was in charge of. I didnt' think I could miss it, especially if there was a slight possibility that I really had wet the bed. I called Labor and Delivery and asked their opinion. Of course they were legally obligated to say that if I were concerned I should come in. I'd already had multiple ultrasounds and the thought of a hospital bill and possible humiliation kept me home. But a I started to get ready for the activity, I kept imaging my baby girl in a fluid-less uterus, her umbilical cord around her neck, and her perfect face blue as she struggled for oxygen. That settled it. We high-tailed it to Labor and Delivery.

As I waited for our doctor to examine me, I felt conflicted. I didn't want anything bad to happen to Emmerson, but I also didn't want to pay someone to tell me I had wet the bed. Finally the moment of truth arrived: I had wet the bed. I started crying from embarrassment.

When I told my mom I didn't think I would have to start worrying about my child until after she was born, she said, "welcome to motherhood--it's constant worrying," and I felt the weight of responsibility and love for Emmerson descend. I already loved her even while she swam around my uterus and knew I would spend the rest of my life doing everything I could to ensure she was taken care of.

"At least it's only for 18 years," I told my mom. She started laughing and reminded me that mothering doesn't end at 18. Mothering is for life. A sobering thought.

As I think about that experience and the humiliation I felt, I began to appreciate mothers. Mothers sacrifice so much for their children--even their pride. It is also a sacrifice to get up through the night and early in the morning to care for a baby. It is a sacrifice to chase a toddler all day long, picking up the messes they leave in their wake. It takes strength to watch a child hurt or suffer. But millions of women do it every day because MOTHERS ARE STRONG WOMEN.