I Don't Want to Forget

I don't want to forget how painful it was getting children to sleep at night as I simultaneously stroked the back of one child, breast-fed another and hushed the third. My heart was pounding with sad anxiety, especially on the nights I was parenting alone. Often-times, these nights ended with me walking out, sliding down to the floor and crying as they cried themselves to sleep. I don't want to forget that as our tears fell, I held onto my breasts, massaging the excruciating mastitis lumps and wishing their dad was home to hold me. I don't want to forget the feeling of being so utterly exhausted and making choices out of that place. Whether those choices were right or wrong.

I don't want to forget the times I fed my children salty, deep fried chips for dinner two nights in a row.

I don't want to forget the times that option B was the easier option, was the right option for that sleep deprived, deeply frustrating moment. Anything to keep the peace in the home for but a breath (the silver medal was actually the gold).

I don't want to forget the times doctors told me I was wrong and I turned around and did the opposite of what they suggested. I did the opposite because I knew it was the right thing for my family. The burden of carrying my children's health has truly been the heaviest thing I have ever had to hold.

I don't want to forget the transformation my body went through in giving these babies their lives, or the dark circles under my eyes, or the ache underneath my shoulder blades from years of hunching forward to breastfeed. I don't want to forget the feeling of getting it wrong. 

The freezing cold moisture of fear. 

I beg myself not to forget.

Instead, I want to be the grand old lady who young mothers wish to sit with. I want to look at them and say

"I remember. I know you're doing your best. I can see from here that It is wild and strong, I can see from here that it is enough."

This job is astoundingly difficult and it is also astoundingly beautiful; I don't want to forget that either. Grace is rarely given out here in the field of motherhood and so I am working on throwing it around like confetti.