3 Unique Kindnesses (#3)

*Author’s Note: Kindness happens to us everyday. Whether it’s a woman holding the door for us as we enter the market, or the guy who hands us a dropped baby toy. Humans do small kindnesses for each other all the time. And while we could all stand to take a moment and appreciate those tiny beautiful things, this series is not about the ordinary of the everyday. In this post, and the two previous posts, I’m sharing kindnesses that were grand, unique and had a lasting, profound effect on me. The world is sometimes a too solid, jagged and hard place. Receiving kindness acts as a protective bubble wrap, allowing us to continue to walk, stagger and sway through life..

This final story of unique kindness may not, at first glance, seem that unique or profound to you. But, to me it was everything.

I had my daughter late(r) in my life. After having gone my whole existence adamant that I didn’t want children, I changed my mind after a series of life events that included the death of my father, living in NYC during 9/11, becoming a real estate investor, and meeting my future husband. That series of gargantuan events, and a pearl necklace of smaller life moments, all conspired to change my outlook on having a child.

I knew I didn’t want to make the mistakes my parents made. Or their parents. I wanted to be a different kind of mother than what had been modeled for me. I would make sure that my daughter (I always knew she was a girl), would know in her bones, that she was loved and wanted.

I read the books. I made lists, I researched, and spent a huge amount of time thinking about who I wanted to be as a mom. I crafted a nursery that was joyful and rich with comfort and color, even sewing curtains for the windows.

I knew that I would be a working mother, by choice. It was important to me that my daughter saw a strong, self-sustaining mama, who could do all the things. In my perfectionist vision, I had it all laid out and handled. I didn’t know exactly what motherhood would bring, but I was pretty damn sure I was well prepared.

After giving birth via emergency C-section, they wheeled me into my room in the maternity ward, and finished doing the testing and cleaning of my new little girl before I could hold her for the first time. Along with the nurses and my husband, my best friend was in the room when they handed my daughter to me. My friend told me later that she had never seen a look like the one on my face when they put Gabriella in my arms. She said it was equal parts all encompassing, ferocious love, and unmitigated absolute terror.

Gabriella was a beautiful, small, perfect nugget of a baby. I remember her in the little crib in the hospital room, just looking around, observing. Not crying or fussing, but trying to figure out this new world. I reveled in getting to know her.

At first I tried really hard to just breast feed, but it wasn’t working out well for either of us. At the time, I saw that as a personal failure, that I was somehow deficient. It was the beginning of the erosion of my motherly confidence.

I don’t think I had postpartum depression, but I do know that I started doubting all of my decisions when it came to her - how much formula she was taking, when she was taking it, if she gurgled instead of coo’d, was she breathing, how much was she sleeping, was her poop the right color, could I really do this? Oh God, I don’t think I’m good enough for her, I can’t do this.

And on, and on, and on.

No amount of reading, research, thoughtful preparedness or nesting can ever prepare you for the enormity of the responsibility of caretaking this new little being. I was overwhelmed with the surety that I would fail her.

My mom noticed what was happening. She offered to drive us to the next pediatrician visit. Standing outside the doctor’s office, she hugged me and told me how beautiful Gabriella was, what a happy baby she was, and what a good mama I was. It was a momentary balm for my troubled soul.

The next day, early in the afternoon, my doorbell rang. It was my Mom, my Aunt Marion, and my Grandma. They had come to talk to me. They came to listen.

After feeding and rocking Gabriella to sleep, they sat me down at the kitchen table. My Mom looked me in the eye and said, “Tell me,” and it all just poured out of me in great, heaving sobs. All of it. All of the doubts, the terror, and the negativity all flowed out in a river of tears, hyperventilation, and not a little snot.

I don’t know how long we all sat at my kitchen table, two of them holding my hands and the other passing me tissues. I know that when the hitching in my breath started to subside, my Mom told me that all new mothers, regardless of age and life experience, feel like this. It wasn’t uncommon. It wasn’t that I wasn’t “mother material.” She told me that she had felt like this when I was born. My Aunt said she felt the same way when her first child was born, and my Gram agreed. They told me that becoming a mother was so Earth-shatteringly different than anything I’d ever encountered before, that to not be shaken by it would be the issue.

My Mom, got up from the table, and reached her hand out to me, and said, “come here.” I took her hand and she led me into the living room, where Gabriella was sleeping soundly. My Mom said, “Look at that little girl. She is thriving. She has no cares in the world because you’re her mama. Look at this home you’ve made for her. Look at who you are for her. She knows she’s safe. She knows you love her. Everything else, all of it, you’ll figure out. Because you’re a good mama.”

I stood there as these women hugged me and fortified me with their knowledge and presence. There were four generations of women in that room, and I was struck with how fortunate I was to have this little village.

As they got ready to leave, I hugged and thanked each one of them. They came with love. They came with their own stories and shared them with me. They assured me that I would figure it all out. It wouldn’t be perfect and certainly would be very messy, and my girl and I would figure it out.

That afternoon was the greatest gift and kindness my Mother ever gave me, and I know that should the opportunity present itself, I’ll pass that gift to my daughter.

LB Adams is the CEO of Practical Dramatics, LLC. She is a communication & public speaking coach, author and keynote speaker.