Feature image by Larissa Welch, “We, The Light Photography”
My friend posted a photo of herself with her two children on her lap. She appeared to be sitting in a recliner. The caption reads “so much sitting, sleeping, nursing, eating, book reading, storytelling, cuddling, tv watching, giggling, crying, and life happens in this spot.” I think about this Instagram post often, because I also have one of these spots. And I suspect other moms probably have a spot like this too.
What I found so powerful about the post and its message is that social media is filled with photos of people going somewhere, anywhere to make life happen. Travelling, hiking, camping, eating out, sports, etc. And while these experiences are fulfilling and add fun to life, the busyness of social media makes it easy to forget the importance of the everyday experience. The experience of being at home, the place where we bond most with our children. Where we watch them grow and learn to be human. Where we learn to become a new kind of human ourselves in this new privileged identity as parents. Where we watch our spouses learn to be mothers and fathers. To become something more than we were before our children. Where we grow into (hopefully) better people. There’s value in the everyday. There’s so much value in the “sitting, sleeping, nursing, eating, book reading, storytelling, cuddling, tv watching, giggling, crying,” etc. As the post said, there’s so much life in it. It’s beautiful really. And simple. We can choose to leave the home and bond with our children with fun activities; and we can choose to stay in our spot and live just as fully.
My “spot” has been mine since before George (my son) was born. It’s on the right side of our couch in the living room, next to a side table and lamp. From that spot, I imagined what life would be like with a baby. I would think about how he would sleep in a bouncer peacefully while I watched TV, cleaned, or did some cool project while on maternity leave. You know, with all that free time I knew I would have while away from work. At that time, pre-George, I dusted the side table frequently (I’m not going to say daily, but it might have been) and always used a coaster. After my son was born and after about three months of triple feeding him, I pumped exclusively from that spot. While I pumped, my husband — if he was home from work — would entertain our son. Sometimes I would take video of them playing or bonding, and in the background of every single one of those videos, there is the distinct, familiar sound of the pump. Motherhood. The side table was no longer dusted; and dried milk covered the thing. The physical evidence, in my spot, of at least one part of my “identity” changing.
The “change” didn’t happen all at once for me. But I remember thinking within those first few weeks that motherhood was the most extreme thing I ever experienced — physically, mentally, and emotionally. And most of that physical, mental, and emotional experience happened from my spot. When my son was a newborn, he threw up every day after most feeds. We now know that he was likely allergic to my breast-milk coupled with acid reflux. Holding him vertical helped. It seemed to make him more comfortable. So we would sit in what became “our” spot. I can still remember how tiny he was while he slept and rested his head on my chest. He didn’t like either of our carriers, so we would just sit. And sit. And sit. During these early newborn stages, I started to not-so-jokingly and not-so-lovingly refer to “our” spot as “baby jail.” But he grew and grew in this spot. And I watched him become more and more human.
By the time he was 5 or 6 months old, he was no longer sleeping on me in our spot but wanting to engage with me. I distinctly remember the day he didn’t fall asleep while I fed him and he remained awake, ready for the next thing. He stared up at me while sucking on the corner of his blanket. And I asked him if he wanted to play with some toys or read some books. I remember having a moment with him. He seemed to really understand. We read “Go, Dog. Go!” about a thousand times. It’s a very weird book that I somehow acquired and George loves it. Since then we read all the time from this spot; “Curious George’s ABCs” and “The Pout Pout Fish” are a couple of favorites. We get into tickle fights from this spot. He “tells” me stories, or more accurately jibber-jabbers at me, and laughs and laughs at whatever joke he just told. He plays while I watch him from this spot. And I keep watching him become something more than he was the day before. It’s fascinating and wild. He went from laying to sitting to standing to crawling to barely walking to running to talking. How does that happen? And how is it possible to watch so much happen from one spot?
The “change” was probably gradual, but it felt like a prevailing sense of calm. Calm in the chaos. Motherhood.
At some point in this past year and a half, I realized the change in myself too. As an introvert, I’ve always hoarded my time. I like my space. I like being able to do my own thing. I like to work first, then play. I like finishing a task before starting a new one. But babies don’t cater to that way of life. It was difficult for me to let go of my set behaviors and frame of mind. It was hard to put down the dish I was trying to wash, when I would hear him cry. It was hard to realize that my hot cup of coffee was going to inevitably be reheated in the microwave several times before I would get the chance to finish it. It was especially difficult during those newborn days of vomit and constant crying; I felt imposed upon. I didn’t like the interruption. I know that sounds terrible, but I didn’t like it. I always responded to my son’s cries and needs, but I didn’t always love doing it. One day, though, the interruption didn’t seem to matter as much. He cried, and I tended to him calmly — not only in behavior but with peace of mind. And after tending to him, I jumped back into whatever I was doing before he needed me. The “change” was probably gradual, but it felt like a prevailing sense of calm. Calm in the chaos. Motherhood.
And now from our spot, I find myself dreaming and imagining once again, wondering what I will see from this spot in the future. Who will my baby become? Will he continue to sit beside me wanting to cuddle and nestle into my arms while we watch a silly show together? Will he have a million friends who come rushing inside for snacks in between playing outside? What kind of little boy will he be? I dream that he will be independent and strong but also kind and generous. Generous with his time. Generous with his belongings. I pray he will be loving and understanding, knowing how to feel big while also reacting small. I see him being rambunctious, a little antagonistic, coy, a jokester. In every stage, he will be my firstborn, my son, my everything. I fear he will be a mirror of my faults. But from our spot, I’ve realized how to grow and change and provide myself grace as I fumble through this journey of motherhood. And my dream for myself is that I continue to grow into a calm, loving parent, providing a reliable shoulder and a trusting ear for my son. I pray that I become a little less in-my-head and a little more selfless. That I step back when I need to. That I am quiet when I need to be. That I listen for his need and always put it first. That I laugh with him always. That I grow as he grows. Motherhood. And I know I will keep sitting, sleeping, eating, book reading, storytelling, cuddling, tv watching, giggling, crying, and living life from our spot. Because that’s what is has become – ours.
Do you have a spot? I’d love to hear about them! Share your photos on Instagram using the hashtag, #wherelifehappens, or on Facebook @theshutterbugmom and tag #wherelifehappens.
