It’s 6:30 a.m., and my son has been awake since 3. The exhaustion I feel is overwhelming, threatening to drag me under with every blink. I realize, with a jolt, that I haven’t managed more than three hours of continuous sleep since my little one entered the world. It’s astonishing to love someone who has been a source of constant fatigue since day one. But I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
I’m acutely aware of how fortunate I am. I gaze at my sweet boy, so brave and full of love, and I know that many would swap places with me in an instant, even with the sleep deprivation. He is my sunshine, and being his mother is a privilege. However, stepping into this role has unearthed shadows from my past, particularly a fierce jealousy I thought I had buried long ago.
My mother passed away shortly after I turned 25. She was an extraordinary woman—intelligent, compassionate, and the brightest light in my life. She was my confidante and my greatest supporter. Losing her to cancer was a blow I could not have prepared for, and I thought I had made peace with the unfulfilled promises and adventures we would never share.
Then I found out I was pregnant. That’s when the reality hit me; I was far from healed. I cried daily throughout my pregnancy, overwhelmed by the knowledge that she would never meet my child, never be there to offer advice or support. The only keepsake I took to the hospital was her photograph, a reminder of the strength I needed as I navigated the pain of childbirth.
Despite believing I could manage my grief, a new layer of sorrow emerged when I saw that second blue line. For so many women around me, their mothers are integral parts of their parenting journeys. I scroll through social media, seeing joyful posts of mothers and grandmothers spending time together, and tales of how their moms lend a hand with the baby. I witness grandmothers at grocery stores, gathering goodies for their grandchildren.
Although I know I’m not alone in this experience, and I genuinely celebrate my friends’ moments with their mothers, jealousy creeps in, threatening to drown out my joy. I recognize that this is a first-world problem; we have a home, food, and clean water. We are incredibly fortunate. Yet, seeing happy babies with their grandmothers makes my heart ache. I can’t help but feel a pang when friends share wisdom they received from their moms. I find myself watching older women, hoping one might turn around and resemble her so I could run to her, envelop her in a hug, and seek her guidance.
I chastise myself for wanting more when I have so much to be grateful for—a beautiful child and a loving partner. My sister has stepped up magnificently in caring for my son, and my father and brothers are smitten with him. Many friends have come forward with kindness, making my longing seem selfish. Yet, I would give anything for just one more conversation with my mother—to ask if I’m doing this “mommy” thing right, to share a laugh over the chaos of parenthood, to lean on her shoulder and hear her say she’s proud of me.
As a teenager, I swore I would never have children. I was young, angry, and convinced that no one would ever want me. It felt easier to reject the idea of family than to hope for what seemed unattainable. My mother was heartbroken when she heard me say that, and I never got to tell her how mistaken I was. My son has transformed my life in ways I never imagined, and I cherish him. His blue eyes remind me of her, and I yearn for her to experience the joys of grandmotherhood.
In my dreams, she visits me. We share lunch, talk about life, and then she tells me to rest while she takes my son to the park. I can picture lying in the sun, drifting into a peaceful sleep, comforted by the knowledge that my boy is with the best woman imaginable.
This daydream fills me with both warmth and sorrow. Yet, even amid my grief, I can still hear her voice—gentle yet assertive—urging me to rise, to strive harder, to be stronger. I draw strength from her legacy—her kindness in the face of adversity, her intelligence amidst ignorance, and her resilience against life’s struggles. She was a warrior, a beacon of love and compassion.
Even in her absence, she continues to illuminate my path, inspiring me to become a better mother. I aim to embody the qualities she possessed, ensuring my son has someone to rely on, trust, and confide in—someone like her. He deserves the best version of me, not a jealous child mourning her loss. For him, I would gather my tears, rise from despair, and strive to reflect her spirit.
As we navigate this journey together, we find joy in laughter, dance to our favorite tunes, and I bury my sorrow under countless baby kisses and hugs. The love of my son acts as a balm over the wounds of loss, and it’s more than enough. Because now, I am a mother, and mothers persevere, no matter the challenges.
In conclusion, while the heartache of losing my mother lingers, my son’s presence fills the void. I am determined to honor her memory by being the mother she would have admired. Life continues, and I embrace every moment of it.
For more on topics related to parenting and family, check out this insightful resource on donor insemination from American Pregnancy, and explore further insights on home insemination kits at Make A Mom as well as other relevant articles on Modern Family Blog.