For a long time—too long, it felt like—I wasn’t sure I’d ever get to be a mom.
I went through five years of infertility, five years of wondering if someone would ever grow up and call me “Mom.” It’s been 10 years since that day I got the call from my doctor’s office, that left me stunned at just 26 years old. It’s been five years since my son was born, my little wonder of science. He doesn’t call me “Mom”—I settled on Mama, instead.
When my son was just seven months and three days old, I posted a photo on Facebook, calling it Judah’s “In/Out Day”—the day he spent as much time out as he did in; he was born premature at 34 weeks, three days. Perhaps he’d sensed my impatience at becoming a mom.
Now, as I reflect on my journey to motherhood as many years into it as it’s been leading up to it, I have so many things I would say to my 10-years-younger self. Namely this: It’s going to be so rad, more rad than you can even fathom. It will be terrifying, joyful, exhausting, renewing—and by golly, you’ve got this.
At this moment, right now—this is what it’s like parenting my five-year-old.
Read the rest at Tinybeans.