By Amy Larson
@amyjmcnair

The steam wafts lazily off of my cup of tea. I turn the mug in my hands and the words “World’s Okayest Mom” face me in large black letters. I chuckle. This mug—my favorite—was a Mother’s Day gift from my brother last year. I have joked many times with family and friends that I do not feel old enough or “mom” enough to qualify for one of those “World’s Best Mom” mugs you find at department stores. When I was in elementary school in the nineties, every mom I knew seemed to have one, but the title seems such an unachievable and unwanted rite of passage. I will happily settle for World’s Okayest Mom for the foreseeable future (or, let’s be honest, forever). 

I grin again as I take a sip of tea and glance out the window of my makeshift home office straight into my neighbor’s yard. Every morning I pause at the beginning of the work day to look at the large variety of birds effortlessly splashing in the water bath without a care in the world. The early morning chirping is calming—the soundtrack of peace as I start work meetings. 

Then I hear it: the cry from my 4-month-old daughter. 

I groan inwardly to myself and begrudgingly slide out of my swivel chair to tiptoe in my thick wool socks past my still sleeping 2-year-old’s room. I walk into the master bedroom where my baby girl was sleeping moments ago and gently lift her up, again. Productivity at work interrupted, again. 

How is she hungry so often? Didn’t I just feed her? A familiar mantra that plays on repeat in my head all day as I seem to constantly be nursing. Why can’t she feed herself? Is a wet nurse still a thing? Is every other mom this tired? I change her diaper, put her in warmer clothes, and carry her in the crook of my arm slowly back to my office, amazed I did all of that without waking my husband or my toddler.  

Before I became a mother, I figured breastfeeding would work itself out. However, right from the very start I did not enjoy it, and my feelings never changed. My body is not just mine when I have a baby to nurse, and my instinctual response is to resent this. But she needs me, and my husband cannot nurse her, even though he has said in his calm and quiet voice when I am at the peak of frustration that if he could, he would. I know he means it. Jerk. He has always been so much more gracious and patient than me. Especially with babies. 

As a trial lawyer, my life is all about rising to challenges, and I am often celebrated for my accomplishments or at least acknowledged for good work when I complete a project. But at home, my daughter has never given me a high-five for waking up at 4:00 a.m. to nurse her, and she doesn’t have words to thank me for the sacrifices I daily make. Now that I’m working from home, the six times a day I am forced to pause everything and just be still while I feed her are the hardest moments of the day. Not because it hurts or is physically difficult in any way, but because I want my time to be my own. The lines between my professional life and personal life have been blurred, and nursing a baby and working a full-time job have revealed a pride that exists in my heart.

Why do I hate nursing so much? Why is dying to myself so often exhausting? Maybe I bristle at what it represents—that I am no longer completely free. That choices and life are irrevocably tied to another, which is just a little too vulnerable and scary to be comfortable. Those big blue eyes look up and have known nothing but comfort and happiness from me, yet I chafe at being needed so much. This built-in ritual cannot be over soon enough, but will I let my guard down and drop my attitude long enough to be softened to God’s voice?

I am inconvenienced, and I think that is where the work is for me. I need to learn to relinquish control and welcome interruptions.  

I sit in my office chair and rest the baby on a nursing pillow on my lap, making a million little adjustments to ensure she doesn’t fall off, stays latched, and that I can still attempt to type with one hand. The Zoom meeting with my coworkers begins. I have my camera strategically aimed to just show my face, and I inwardly congratulate myself that no one is the wiser. 

Several minutes go by and things seem to be going smoothly until someone interrupts the speaker: “Amy, is that a HAND on your neck?” I sigh, roll my eyes, and pan the camera down just enough to reveal the rogue hand and head of my daughter while keeping it G-rated. My colleagues burst out laughing and make a few legitimately funny jokes and an SNL reference to tiny hands. I resist the urge to apologize.  I laugh along. After a minute or two, everyone else moves on, my baby forgotten, but the nursing does not stop.  I am left there in my chair—doing my best to be faithful to my responsibilities, even if I do not enjoy all of them. Even if some of them feel like inconveniences.  

I am learning motherhood is a series of phases, and the great (and sometimes hard) thing about phases is they all end eventually. So I can be sentimental in wishing the good will last longer and be disciplined while taking comfort in knowing the bad or less pleasant will also end. Nursing is never going to be something I like. But I do like my daughter, and she needs to eat. 

I take a sip of my now lukewarm tea and put on my headphones to block the sound of the chirping birds, take a deep breath, and continue with the meeting. 

Stop. Breathe. Rest. Relish. Be. 

God help me. 

Guest essay written by Amy Larson. Amy resides in Seattle, Washington with her husband and two young kids. As a criminal prosecutor, she helps manage diversion programs to help get young people out of the criminal justice system. In her free time Amy enjoys watching indie movies with her husband, being in two book clubs, finding new playgrounds with her toddler, and eating Ethiopian food.