I hate failure. Born and bred as a true Type A, I've always had my eyes on my goals, on checklists, on societal expectations.
I skipped first grade, then I went big and loaded up my classes to graduate with my bachelor's degree in three years, with no "B" ever tainting my GPA. I was 20, had a year of marriage under my belt, and one month after my college graduation, on the second day of my first post-grad job, I had two pink lines on a drugstore pregnancy test.
Little did I know that that was the first day of the rest of my life.
In becoming a young mom, I was already a failure in so many people's eyes. If success is measured in accomplishments, a fine-tuned résumé, post-grad education, and a high-salary job, I was not going to be successful.
Instead of working late hours, I spent evenings and nights holed up in a rocking chair, breast milk stains all over my ragged shirt, hair high in a ponytail, not a touch of makeup on, and knee deep in contentedness and exhaustion. I memorized every wrinkle and baby fat roll, the smell of his hair, the rhythm of his heartbeat, and each tiny breath as he breathed heavy sighs and nestled his face into the crook of my neck.
I read every book. I wore down two copies Little Blue Truck and can still recite it backward and forward. I sang every song. And when exhaustion stole the words from me, I made up our own, and nearly lost my voice over the hundreds of times a day I'd whisper-sing lullabies and pat him to sleep in my arms.
My big dreams of changing the world were still there, and I watched as my best friends went on after college and traveled the world, tasted life, and soaked it in for every experience they could. And you know what? We were all happy. They experienced things I didn't, things I maybe wouldn't, but I had a little boy whose face lit up at the first glimpse of mama, even with coffee breath, yesterday's mascara dusting rims under my eyes, and my greasy hair tied in a topknot every day. With him, I held my heart in my arms. I nurtured him, kissed his boo-boos, and I nearly died the day I heard him mutter his first word, "mama," from his crib.
I have yet to accomplish all my former goals. I have yet to change the world. I have yet to leave a lasting mark like I had dreamed, but I now have a little boy who looks at me like I hung the moon. He falls asleep some nights with his arm curled around my neck, because he just needs me for one more moment, and one more, and one more.
And if I have that? I can never fail. In fact, I've redefined failure. I've learned to let go of my checklists and self-imposed expectations on all the things I should have done or could have done, and I've realized love is enough. Seeing his eyes light up when they catch my gaze, being his safe place, being his whole word— that's enough.
Motherhood met me young. Some may see that as a failure. I don't. I have fully surrendered and succumbed to motherhood, letting it wash over me and smooth out all my jagged edges and shape my unruly parts. It's healed me in ways I never knew I needed healing, and it all started with those two pink lines.
