It's hard.

I was thinking about something last night as I was rolling over for the zillionth time trying to find a comfortable position to fall asleep in (I use the term "comfortable" here loosely). For those of you who don't know, I'm 30 weeks pregnant (for those of you who have never been pregnant and this whole "weeks" thing is confusing, that's about 7 months pregnant). This is my 3rd kiddo, and he seems to demand more space than his sisters did (although I might be wrong; there are certain things you forget about being pregnant--it's so you'll have more kids later).
As I lay there, my brain spinning, a little voice said, "You really shouldn't complain. There are people that have it harder than you." Instantly I thought of friends who struggle to get pregnant, struggle to stay pregnant, or have pregnancies infinitely harder than mine (I'm looking at you HG, you miserable blighter). And then a kinder voice said, "Yes, there are people who have it hard, but it's all hard. Infertility is hard. Pregnancy is hard. Motherhood is hard. Life is hard. That's the point."
It's not a contest of who has it worse off. Thinking of these sweet friends and their struggles did help pull me out of my pity-party, and be grateful for what I have, but guess what? My groin, my back, my sides still ached and were just as sore as they had been before. "Someone has it worse than you" doesn't relieve the stress, worry, or pain that we are experiencing. All it does is add guilt to the mix. It is important to recognize our blessings, to be grateful for all we are given. It's also important to allow ourselves to feel. It's okay to be upset that sleep is so elusive. It's okay to cry. It's all okay, because guess what--life is hard. Life is pain, but life is also really beautiful.
Like I said, this is my 3rd pregnancy, and every time around, I am reminded of the incredible life lessons I learn while pregnant; for me, the biggest two are 1) that things hurt, and then they hurt worse, and then you're so incredibly blessed that you know you would do it all again. 2) Everything changes. Nothing stays the same. You don't stay pregnant. Your newborn will not stay a newborn. Your 3-year-old will not stay a 3-year-old. And even though you will always be a mother, how you mom, and who you mom won't stay the same. My mom isn't nearly as involved in my everyday life now as she was when I was 6 months old, or 6 years old, or even 16 years old. She "moms" differently now than she did then; and that's okay. It's all hard. It's all a blessing. Take a deep breath to survive the hard. Soak up the blessings. Give yourself a break. You're doing great.

Tender

When I was a kid, I was once described by my mom as "tender-hearted." I don't remember where or why she said it, but the phrase always stuck with me. As I grew older, I learned that the world had another name for it: sap. There are considerably more negative connotations with the word "sap"; however, I embraced it and considered it one of my many flaws. I tried to laugh away how I cry at so many things (ASPCA commercials, Bambi, Dumbo, basically every Disney and Hallmark movie, the list goes on and on).

Then I had a daughter; that didn't fix my sappiness. If anything, it increased. It had this whole new world of motherhood to tap into. But here's the thing about my daughter (well, I actually have two, but it's the one daughter I want to focus on right now), I see her tender heart. I understand her tender-heartedness. It is not a flaw. I understand it now, and I'm terrified. The world will tell her that she needs to be hard. That her tenderness is a flaw. The world will show her that strength is hard and tenderness is the same as weakness. It will teach her that, especially as a woman, she must be strong; tenderness is weak. I know these things because I've seen them and felt them. But they aren't what scare me. The world is a hard and mean place. I know it will try to change her. What I'm scared of is ruining her tenderness before the world even lays a finger on her.

I worry that my overly-tired self will snap one too many times, and teach her to be hard. I'm worried that my too-easy-to-flare-temper will scare her into hardness. I worry that I will ruin her. I worry that she will learn hardness from me. That she, too, will one day label herself "sap," consider it a flaw, and laugh at it with the world. I worry that she won't see her tenderness for the strength that it is.

I pray for my sweet girl that her heart will stay tender. That she will forever be gentle. That she will forever be soft.

I read once that the world has enough hard women. I believe this to be true. There is not enough tenderness in this world; however, I live with some in my home. I hope I can protect it, so that someday she might be able to bring more tenderness to this world and help it embrace soft, and gentle, help it to see tenderness as strength. I hope to protect her so that she might help save us all. I know she's already saving me from hardness.