By Trish McClellan
I became a mother…and then, almost immediately, I became a mother again. My children were born ten months apart. Ten. Months.
I went to my six-week checkup feeling like I had survived something heroic. Those present at the birth never once used the word epidural but they did give me a leather strap to bite when the pain got intense. I’ve always assumed that was a group decision…one I was not consulted on.
I had a newborn, no sleep, and the emotional stability of a dandelion in a windstorm. I was sure I deserved a medal—but I would have settled for a nap.
Instead, my doctor smiled and said, “I’m 99% sure you are pregnant. Your uterus is tilted, so I can’t be completely certain.” I clung to that 1% of doubt like a Southern woman clings to her last nerve.
Out loud, I rejected the news the way you reject a restaurant order you know is wrong. “No, I’m not.”
I held onto that belief right up until the baby started squirming like Scarlett O’Hara pitching a fit. “Well… fiddle-dee-deemaybe the doctor was right.”
There’s a moment when reality sets in, and for me it sounded like two babies crying at the same time. That was my life.
Two babies in diapers—cloth diapers, because apparently I liked to work harder, not smarter.
Nothing prepares you for motherhood like standing over a toilet rinsing a diaper and having a serious conversation with yourself about your life choices.
There I was, sleeves rolled up…losing the argument.
Those babies clung to me like a wet bathing suit—one on my hip and one in my lap and impossible to escape.
If I sat down, somebody would sense it and start crying. My name wasn’t softly spoken. It was hollered like a fire alarm.“Mama!”
On the other hand, quiet was the loudest sound of all and I went in full investigation mood!
I wasn’t raising children—I was running a one-woman emergency response team with no backup, no training, and no off switch.
Sleep wasn’t something I got. It was something I used to know. If there was a problem, I was the fixer.
If there was a question, I was the answer. By noon I felt wrung out like a dishrag—and still kept going. Because that’s what mothers do.
People say those years go by fast. What they don’t tell you is the days are long—but filled with a love that doesn’t quit.
My children are grown now, with children of their own. And every now and then, I hear it…“Mama, how did you do this?” I just smile.
The truth is most of the time I was flying by the seat of my pants. I tell them “I just showed up…did the best I could…one long day at a time.”
Turns out, that was enough.
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