Being a mother is hard. I’m not the mother I thought I would be. My son is not the child I expected or hoped he’d be when I was pregnant. Life is like that. I can rage against it or complain about it but it doesn’t change things. Instead I have to accept what has been given to me. Some days I find accepting hard to do. I expected perfection. I’m not, he’s not. But maybe I need to find perfection and acceptance in that imperfect, unexpectedness of what we are. Because although he isn’t the perfect idea of the child I thought I’d have, he is indeed perfect. And I’m learning each day to accept his perfectness. And I’m trying each day to accept my own imperfectness and just try the best I know how to be the mother I had hoped I’d be. I’m human. I fall, I make mistakes. Despite what we’ve been led to believe mothers do have doubts and can be painfully disappointed when all does not go as we’d planned or expected. But we pick ourselves up and we carry on and we love that much harder.
But THIS says it so much better than I ever could. It’s beautiful. Get the tissues and read it.