I didn’t realize that motherhood would be such a violent, injurious contact sport. I didn’t realize I’d get so many baby finger pokes-in-the-eye, so many punches to the thorax, so many kicks to the kidneys, ribs, pancreas, bladder… I didn’t realize I’d get a finger-hook in the nose or a stab in the stomach. I didn’t realize that every part of my body would become a
stepping stone trampoline. I wasn’t expecting my bed to become my own torture chamber, as directed by a tiny, strong ball of baby violence.
I knew I’d be tired and I knew I’d have poop up to my eyeballs. I knew I’d have little time for myself and I expected a deterioration of my capacity to do housework.
What I was not expecting was to have a baby come at me like a rabid, heavy-breathing, growling wolf when she wants to nurse. I wasn’t expecting tiny feet with the weight of an elephant on my throat. I was not expecting the elbows and knees like hammers to my chest.
I wasn’t expecting her to pull my hair and scratch my face for comfort as she drifted off to sleep. I wasn’t expecting being slapped when she’s excited or clawed at when she’s upset or tired. I wasn’t expecting the biting and hickeys and mouth-bopping. I wasn’t expecting her to use her head as a tool and a weapon.
I was expecting motherhood to be difficult, to ask everything of me and to change me. I was expecting my relationship with the Mountain Man to become more complex and less simple. I was expecting the aches and pains of chasing a crawler and suffocating under a pile of laundry.
I wasn’t expecting that my baby would be a professional kung-fu-wrestling-MMA-sumo cage fighter. Nobody warned me about that.
But I have scars that make me part of the club, to prove my motherhood, to give me a lifetime of stories. I wasn’t expecting my Pie to be a solid, furious weapon of mom destruction, but I think we’re going to be OK. I’ll just bandage myself up and put my money on the Pie to take down all opponents.