Worth the Climb
By Justine McDonald
@jottingsbyj
My fingers ran against the seams of the stone walls on either side of me. Ahead of me, hundreds of steps to climb. I lifted my head back up each time it dropped to keep pace with the classmate in front, her legs working just like mine. The sun shined through a hollowed-out window on the next rotation. Standing on my tiptoes and peering out, I noticed the tower I was climbing cast a shadow on the buildings across the vibrant city. Each neighborhood centered around a plaza—an open space to gather and connect with others. This view encouraged me; I was indeed making progress upward.
I was in Valencia, Spain for six months studying abroad through Rutgers University. Nobody had an iPhone or Google maps. My travel depended on keeping track of a flimsy paper boarding pass.
The program began with a month-long History and Culture course, which took us through different cities each weekend. Our professor, Ingrid, a petite ex-pat from England with straight brown hair that fell slightly onto her shoulders spoke Spanish with a thick British accent. Old enough to be semi-retired, she moved quickly through cobblestone streets and shouted historical facts and cultural warnings into her portable microphone headset, as though she was a pop star on tour.
On this afternoon in Barcelona, she led us up the Sagrada Familia. An architectural phenomenon inspired by nature, this structure stood like a giant drip sand castle, the tight-winding spiral staircases inside like the coil of a shell. Step by step, breath by breath, I wondered how good the view from the top could be. And it was always in this moment when we reached the point of absolute doubt and frustration, just as our legs began to shake and we wondered when the ascent would end, Ingrid’s hoarse voice called out to us from ahead, “Vale la pena subir!”
The phrase, which translates to “it’s worth the pain to climb up”, became the mantra we needed to hear on more than one excursion. She would call out and we would believe her, repeating silently—It’s worth the climb.
When the floor flattened, I walked over to the edge and looked out. Small figures ran their errands on the city streets below. With blue waves of the Mediterranean Sea in the distance, the colorful layers of apartment buildings tucked into the green tree-lined avenues of a city that felt so foreign and yet so familiar.
***
Two months into motherhood, and seven years after Spain builds enough confidence in me to believe a quick trip to the beach for dinner sounds easy. And dare I say enjoyable. My husband, Mike, rearranges the pop-up tent and stroller in the car trunk. I double-check the diaper bag for the bottle, a few muslin blankets, and rash cream. Mulling over the takeout menu, I push the backdoor open to let out the dog. The to-do list required to simply leave the house seems overwhelming to my sleep-deprived postpartum self. The clock continuously ticks in my mind, anticipating the next feeding session for baby Felix, at which time I will attempt another bottle. He coos, and I feel that thing mothers feel: like he has always been here but is also a stranger speaking a language I have yet to learn.
The usual 15-minute drive to the beach includes a few unanticipated stops to reinsert the spit-out pacifier and we are all growing agitated. Upon arrival, Mike will grab our food while I give Felix his bottle on a bench overlooking the ocean. As I unload the gear, the baby begins to scream. I scoop him from the car seat, but all of the calming techniques render useless. Unable to think clearly over the noise, I hastily set up a blanket on a green patch of grass nearby. Surely once this milk hits his lips we’ll be smooth sailing. Wrong. I try to tilt the bottle and prop his head and feed while slowly rocking. He rejects it each time, face red and tiny brows furrowed. Fresh out of ideas, my husband sees me—confused that I have not yet completed my task.
“Are you twisting the bottle gently enough for him?” he suggests. I glare at him feeling completely incompetent, but offended that he doubts my abilities. Beyond frazzled at what should have been a quick, easy, and enjoyable dinner at the beach, I am ready to get in the car and drive back to the safety and predictability of the four walls of my home.
But in that moment, I see the endless Spanish stairwell and hear Ingrid’s voice calling out to me, “Vale la subir”—It’s worth the climb.
With an exhale, I give up on the bottle and nurse the baby instead. After a burp signals satisfaction, we walk up the ramp of the boardwalk as a family. A stranger graciously obliges my request to take a photo. I hold Felix in one arm and the pop-up tent in the other. My husband, next to me, smiles with the overstuffed diaper bag on his shoulder, though slightly annoyed that this photo keeps him from the plastic bag of takeout sushi he still holds.
This moment means more than just Baby’s First Beach Dinner for the memory book. The cool sand under our feet signals we have made it. I spread out the blanket and enjoy a bite of food. I look down at my son, breathe in the salty air and smile proudly as we watch his dad jump into the ocean. There is normalcy and newness in this moment of peace. The ocean tides change, the waves keep coming, and I dream of the great big world ahead of us to experience together.
***
“It’s a trip, not a vacation,” I correct my husband and he refrains from an eye roll, which I appreciate. Mike continues answering the children’s concerns about our upcoming trip to Boston.
“Yes, we’ll visit where I went to college. Yes, we’ll cheer for the Red Sox for just one day. Yes, we all get to stay in ONE hotel room ... I agree, this will be so much fun!” He genuinely means it. I, on the other hand, wear a forced smile of skepticism. I carry the weight of worry while we travel as a family of five for the first time since the pandemic. I’ve already begun reciting to myself: this will be worth the climb.
Three young boys in one hotel room in the middle of a city pans out exactly how one might expect. There are fights over who gets the stroller and who pushes the elevator buttons. The parents want to eat gourmet ice cream on Boylston Street. The boys want to ride the escalator to the candy store in the mall across from our hotel. The parents want to relive their college romance at the Cheesecake Factory. The boys laugh and wrestle and talk too loudly in the restaurant. These are long days of walking, an unusually long baseball game blow-out, and one full day of rain. Our Boston trip concludes with one child getting a 12-hour stomach bug.
But somehow, my memory holds onto the good. And when I remember Boston, I think of my boys passing Cracker Jacks back and forth in Fenway Park, belly laughs, and marveling at their delight in being a part of the sea of thousands of faces singing along to Sweet Caroline in the eighth inning, fist pumps and all.
***
The boys wake up ecstatic to see a snow-covered lawn and white flakes tumbling from the sky. Mike has already left for work and I sip my second cup of coffee. We hear a rumble out front and run quickly to the window with enough time to watch the snow plow in all its glory.
A thin layer of snow accumulates on the sleds piled up on the porch, ready for a bonafide, non-virtual snow day. Channeling my best fun mom vibes, I let the boys add whipped cream and sprinkles to their frozen waffles.
Next, with a deep breath and a playful grin, I speak the words out loud, “Do you guys want to go sledding?” A whirlwind of cheers and body slams erupt. By the time everyone is properly fed, clothed, and laced up, the sweat steadily drips down my back. I silently pray that nobody needs the bathroom or another snack.
The kids and I walk down the street and make a right turn, heading to the neighborhood sledding hill. They argue over everything—who has the bigger sled, who will be the fastest, whose snow pants are better. One complains about snow in his mittens and my three-year-old complains that I’m not keeping up with his brudders! During these seven minutes, I threaten approximately 89 times to turn around and settle in back at the house with hot chocolate and screens. But a voice inside of me beckons to press on and go forward. Vale la pena subir. It will be worth it, Justine.
We finally arrive at the tiny hill, though when covered in snow it might as well have been Mount Everest. In true oldest-brother fashion, Felix volunteers to forge the first tracks with his sled. My middle son follows competitively, trying to sled even faster. I plop the youngest between my legs on our own plastic sled. With the push of my arms, we fly down the hill, shrieking and laughing the entire way.
“Again! Again!” they holler. I smile at the sheer delight on their rosy cheeks, take a deep breath, and start the slow jog back up where we spend the morning in reckless joy racing down the snowy hill.
***
Standing at the top of the cathedral as a college student, I was so eager to create myself into the woman I’d be for the rest of my life. I dreamed about some sort of well-planned and predictable life itinerary, of adventures ahead, of finding my purpose. It would be four years before I’d get married, seven years before I’d have children, and seven years and two months before I would realize just how much the phrase I learned in Spain would become a mantra to me in motherhood.
It’s a curious thing how raising another human (or three) has both broken and strengthened my soul. The sleepless nights, the constant noise, the surrendering of my agenda, my anxiety and shortcomings all challenge my unrealistic expectations of what this journey is supposed to look like. To be honest, there are moments in motherhood when I find myself at the point of absolute doubt and frustration. But a voice deep inside beckons me to trust the women who have gone before and who whisper to me, “It’s worth the climb.”
Guest essay written by Justine McDonald. Justine believes in the power of a quiet sunrise, the ocean air, a handwritten note, and the first sip of a hot coffee. She laughs at the chaos of life alongside her husband as they raise their three boys in New Jersey. You can find her on Instagram where she’s usually writing about the garden, the sky, motherhood, or God’s grace.
Photo by Ellen Covey.