The moment a child is born...

This meme was in my Facebook news feed this morning.

On this morning, 42 years ago, I became a mother. I was 18 years old. I was 2 years into a difficult marriage. 

I suffered abuse during my pregnancy. And I remember worrying that the emotional stress would harm my unborn child.


I also believed God expected perfection. I did not know much about grace, if anything. 

I remember thinking, as my labor reached transition, that I couldn't believe you could be in that much pain and not be dying. And I remember my then husband laughing at me the next day, as I reflected on the pain, saying, "What pain? You slept through the whole labor!" (I had nothing but Demerol, which makes you sleepy between contractions and unable to experience any conscious break from the pain. It felt like eight hours of uninterrupted misery.)

But once I was in the delivery process, my focus changed from pain to birth. I will never forget the moment I reached forward and took my son from the doctor's hands. My doctor asked me if I wanted to complete his delivery and I said yes while I could only see his upper torso. I reached under his shoulders and pulled him the rest of the way into this world. It's a very cool memory. And I'm glad I was fully awake to experience that moment.

I remember my son's head being very elongated from the birth process. I remember his dad asking me if I thought he was cute. I found his question extremely offensive. I thought my baby was beautiful. But when I look at his first photos, I have to giggle about the honest question from his dad.

I remember thinking the pain would finally be over only to wake up a few hours later feeling the episiotomy incision. I remember thinking that I never wanted to do this again. (And I didn't. But I would have. Even though I never really "forgot" how painful it was, I would have done it again if I'd been given that opportunity.)

I relive that morning every year on this day. I remember being that young girl. I remember being in that labor room, delivery room, recovery room, and maternity floor hospital room like it happened yesterday. (In 1978, the whole process did not occur in the same room.) I remember getting my baby ready for discharge and the physical exam a nurse gave him before we left. He never cried as she poked on him and moved him. She remarked on what a calm baby he was. She had no idea how much that relieved my mind because I had been so afraid my inner stress would result in anything but a calm newborn.

I was asked in a counseling session last year if I could remember what my earliest goals were as a parent. Other than just wanting to be a good, unconditionally loving mom, I only remember having one, more specific goal. I told my therapist that my goal was never to inflict a parental wound on my child. I was thinking primarily of my words. I never wanted to say anything I couldn't take back. My parents loved me and never intended to wound me. But I carried some distinct wounds from words of disappointment that were spoken over me in pivotal years. I just didn't want to ever do that to my son at any age. And I was determined not to. 

I cried as I shared this goal with my therapist. Not because I could think of any verbal wound I had inflicted. I honestly cannot think of a harsh, wound-inflicting word I've ever said in anger or disappointment. I've given it my all to choose my words carefully -- more in that relationship than in any other. I think I cried because, in spite of that, I realize I am not the "ideal" mother I wanted to be in the eyes of my child. And that is an ache in my heart. I'm sure many parents reading this can relate to those feelings. We just don't measure up to our lofty goals in life. It's part of the human condition.

Goals are great but life is messy. You better learn how to have grace for yourself and for others. Especially if you are a parent.

I imagine no parent ever feels like a complete success in their own eyes. And I suspect not many parents get to enjoy feeling like a complete success in the eyes of their children. But I'll never forget the response of my therapist. She said, "Shari, do you not realize what an unattainable goal you've set for yourself? Every parent wounds their children. I'm a professional therapist and I will wound my children. Your parents wounded you. Their parents wounded them. You will wound your child. And your child will wound his children. We are human. Every single one of us. Perfection is not the goal. Grace is."

At 9:13 a.m., PST, January 31, 1978, the moment my son was born, I began the journey of being a mother. I cannot say I have never disappointed him in any way. But I can say that I have loved him unconditionally every day of his life. And I have done the best I could as a mom, in every season, from then until now. For the hurts and disappointments, I can only ask forgiveness. And I always have. I think being able to say "I'm sorry" is an important part of being a parent. Being transparent in our flaws and insecurities is important too. 

I am thankful that I have learned to view my journey -- and my performance -- through the lens of grace instead of perfection.