What knowing means...

I had a mother’s heart long before my son was conceived. I was already looking out for the best interest of my child-to-be prior to his conception when I was wishing, hoping, and praying for him. When I found out this dream was becoming a reality I knew that for the rest of my life my heart would belong to that little person growing inside of me. For the entire 39 weeks and 4 days that I was pregnant with my son I tried to do all the right things, to the extreme. After he was born, for the 18 months and 19 days that I was blessed to have him I tried to do all the right things, to the extreme. I was not a perfect mother, but I was a good and purposeful mother. Being the mother to such a special little boy is the thing I’m most proud of in this life and is my favorite part of who I am. I had big plans for us and I can assure you the plans I had did not stop forever at 18 months.

At 18 months we were starting to get the hang of things. Sure, at times I wondered if I would ever use the bathroom without a helpful audience again, but we were savoring the golden months. The physical exhaustion from having a newborn was subsiding. He was eating what we were eating. He was sleeping through the night. He was walking really well and this Mama was so relieved when she was holding his hand instead of lugging around a hunk of lead over a quarter of her body weight, plus a diaper bag and all the other gear that went everywhere with him. Some people say “you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.” That’s not the case for me and for that I am so thankful. I knew exactly how special what I had was, while I still had it. I couldn't get enough of him. For lack of a better word, I was addicted. I was experiencing the phenomenon of motherhood. My love for him somehow growing more and more with each passing day. Life was good, so good...but, like most mothers when I occasionally gazed off into the horizon of what may come, I would feel a little uneasy and a little bit scared. On the one hand what I thought of as the hard part of being a mother was behind me, that first year or so when I just wanted to sleep or even just brush my teeth. But on the other hand I was afraid because I anticipated the next hard part was coming up and that over the course of our lives there would be many new hard parts. I was beginning to get a little nervous about the hard part in which it’s so important to teach obedience while not shaming or completely squelching a toddler’s natural, God given curiosity. The part where many mamas hope and pray they aren’t really messing up and raising a kid that will be a complete spoiled brat...or a serial killer. Unfortunately our golden months didn’t transition and give way to the terrible twos as I was scared they would. Instead they cruelly and abruptly stopped forever at 18 months.

When I thought the next “hard part” of being a mother was coming up, I was right. I just didn’t know it. How I wish I were so lucky as to still be playing guessing games with myself and contemplating what the hardest part would be. Instead, I know. Knowing means so many things. It can never be fully anticipated or imagined. Knowing means living a mother’s worst nightmare with no chance of waking up. Knowing means being forced, against my will to live a life I would never choose or agree to. Knowing means enduring the constant strain and struggle of being pulled and torn between two very different worlds in a way in which I can never experience the relief of being ripped apart. Knowing means being glad this “relief” can’t be experienced and finding comfort in the pain, because I want to remain connected to my son, even while I’m here on earth. Knowing means war, tug of war, with my heart, my loyalties, and my longings all divided, yanked, and jerked back and forth between heaven and earth. Knowing means war, a raging ongoing internal battle, on the one hand feeling that being allowed to survive this is cruel and wishing for the reunion and relief death would bring. Yet, on the other hand wanting to be happy and live until I die, wanting to see God bring good from this and to be a part of it. Knowing means wondering how it’s physically possible to actually survive when the pain is so real, so intense. Knowing means learning to navigate social waters and personal relationships in a whole new way. Knowing means being a mother separated from my son, with not even the hope of a reunion for the remainder of my time on this earth and while I don’t know, being afraid that could be a really long time. Knowing means struggling to take every breath, suffocating, even though I'm breathing just fine. Knowing means questioning everything I thought I knew, extreme soul searching, questioning the God I’ve always trusted and re-examining so much of what I’ve always believed. Knowing means trying to determine my purpose in life when the most important role I filled has prematurely ended. Knowing means being a wife, daughter, sister, and friend to the living, but a mother to the dead. Knowing means being here in this world, yet having my sights set on another. Knowing means understanding the bond and love I shared with my son can never be replaced and being confused about whether that makes me happy or sad. Knowing means a constant struggle to accept what is and what never will be. Knowing means that any good in this life can never be as good as it could have been or should have been. Knowing means begging to supernaturally travel back in time with a different outcome. Knowing means trying to figure out who I am now, to mesh who I was, with who I am, into who I will be. Knowing means being thankful for the people in my life who are patient with this process and realize it will take many years, maybe my whole life. Knowing means wishing I didn’t know at all, wishing I didn’t have the burden of this particular knowledge. Knowing means feeling resentment when so many others complain about the “inconvenience” of their child, their lack of compliance, or the invasion into their personal time when I would give anything to go back to enjoying life as an exhausted, but active Mommy. Knowing means while I'm putting concentrated effort into “moving forward” with my life without my son, there will always be a huge hole in my heart. Knowing means the piece of my heart I so freely and happily let my baby boy steal away is still held captive by him despite his residence in another world. Knowing means the rest of my heart, here on earth is drawn to this willing surrendered piece, as if magnetized. Knowing means really understanding the saying “home is where the heart is.” Knowing means living, yet all the while, yearning for the day my heart will be reunited with itself, and thus I with my son. Knowing means the pieces of my broken heart will be separated by both time and space for the remainder of my life on earth, as they have been since the day my son became forever 18 months.