Guest Post #7: Thoughts on Motherhood from the Dairy Queen

People keep asking me to comment on what it’s like to be initiated into motherhood. I guess I should comment before it is all a blur.

Motherhood is… breathtaking. How can anyone else explain the sensation of awe and anxiety that washes over you the second you have the wherewithal to understand that you’ve reproduced part of yourself via a scant 10 centimeter space in your body? It’s inexplicable.

At first I just wanted to survive the birth and get the thing out of my body. I can honestly say that this was the most exhausted I have ever been in my life. And I’ve been sleep deprived more than a few times. Childbirth was more than just sleep deprivation – it’s the equivalent of pulling 3 all-nighters, running a 10K, bleeding half to death, and having the finger of God reach out and touch you (à la Michelangelo). It feels horrible and wonderful at the same time. I wanted to cry and throw up to celebrate the moment.

The immediate second thought: was she okay? Breathing? Healthy?

The third thought: whoa, that’s a lot of dark hair.

The rest of the two days in the hospital and two syncopal episodes are, in fact, a blur. I can say that I felt not even a shred of guilt sending Kemper off to the nursery at night, to be wheeled in every few hours for a feeding. So, no, Motherhood (with a capital M) was not all-consuming. I could still prioritize my rest over listening to her every sigh and wiggle. We were a little more conscientious at home, putting the baby monitor on the “every sigh and wiggle” setting for about a week, then deciding we would much prefer what we call the “sanity” setting. (Meanwhile, the thing still has fits of feedback that wake us more than the baby, to the extent that Mike has been known to turn the entire thing off and forget to turn back on. Thankfully we have a live 70 pound hairy baby monitor who alerts us when the baby is crying.)

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So maybe one of my favorite things so far about the whole experience is seeing my medical school genetics class in a whole new light. It’s no real secret nor is it unusual that Mike and I would obsess just a little over what our unborn child would look like. Would his potent Spanish genes completely overpower my Acadian ones? I was secretly afraid that would be true – not that I mind at all what my handsome husband looks like, but my little girl should look like me, right? Mike can wait his turn and pass on his looks to his son one day. That’s just genetic equality, in my opinion. (Not to mention that I should be rewarded in some way for all the back pain I suffered.)

The first time I went to the gym to start getting back into shape, I was Kemper-flummoxed. Sitting in front of the mirrors, doing arm curls, my mouth contorted into a little “O” and I let out a grunt. And there it was: the same little expression I see on Kemper’s face every morning before she realizes she’s very hungry. And it nearly brought progesterone-deficient tears to my eyes.

It’s truly amazing, genetics. Our two little chromosomes met each other and crossed over and voila! Kemper has my mouth and the pout to prove it. (Apparently Mike has passed on his hair color and GI tract.) And this is just the beginning… It remains to be seen whether she’ll get her father’s mild manner or her mother’s need to have everything in its place. Will the poor soul overcome our lack of athletic prowess? Will she love to read, like I do, or tinker on computers like her dad? We almost can’t wait for her to grow up and show us what other combinations those cross-overs made…. but for right now we’ll just hope for Mike’s sleeping gene and hearty appetite. The rest will come over time.