You Didn’t Tell Me, Mom.

When my first child was born, I got angry with my mother. I called her and lamented, “You didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t tell you what, sweetheart.”

“You didn’t tell me that as soon as he was born, it would be like my heart would get transplanted from the safety of my chest, to the outside of my body, lying there, vulnerable, open to be hurt and stepped on and crushed and ripped away from me.”

“And if I had told you, Tanya, you wouldn’t have believed me anyway.”

And she was right. Motherhood is so tough. And so rewarding. It’s exhausting and exhilarating. And nothing can really prepare us for it.

On this Mother’s Day, as I celebrate being a mom and having a mom, and as I cry for the mothers the people I care about are losing, my wish for all mothers is comfort in knowing that you’re not alone in those feelings of hope and hopelessness, joy and joylessness, fear and fearlessness. Where you shake your head in wonder at the honour of being loved by these creatures who look to us for everything and, sometimes, nothing. At this job that takes so much from us, and gives it back a hundredfold. For trying our best, and yet without a doubt falling short more often than we care to know. And for allowing our very cellular make-up to be changed by the fact that we have a child.

Thanks, Mom. For not trying to tell me. But for showing me how to love with all I have, to laugh at it all again and again, and to marvel at the visceral, deep, raw nature of being a mom.