Will I be good enough? - #131

It takes two.

This time next month, I’ll have a kid. 

I am standing on the dock, looking at the water, and everyone is waiting for me to jump. The water is cold they say, but it gets better as soon as you go under. If you take the first step toward drowning, you’ll see that you can swim. That’s what they say, panting in the cold, cold water. 

I am standing on the dock with my dry hair and my dry clothes and my dry dreams, unable to move as I hear the footsteps running up behind, ready to tackle me in.

I think I’m supposed to wonder what kind of mom I will be, but what kinds of moms are there? There are the kinds who take you on adventures, surprising you with “sick days” from school. There are moms who start sewing Halloween costumes in August. There are moms who sign you up for things, all the things, every thing. There are moms who send care packages full of your favorite treats. There are moms who send things they don’t want in their house anymore. There are moms who send nothing at all. There are moms who think you can do better. There are moms who wish they were at the party. There are moms who try your hobbies. There are moms who scoff at those hobbies. There are moms who try to be your friend instead of your mom. There are moms who don’t try at all. There are moms who care and moms who don’t and moms who just try their best. 

What kind of mom will I be? 

Will I be the kind of mom that he talks about in therapy in twenty years? Will I be the kind of mom he calls just because? Or will I be the kind of mom that garners a deep sigh when he sees my name on the phone? Will I be lame because I won’t ski the steep stuff? Will I be cool because I ski at all? Will I be someone he likes, someone he dreads, someone he respects? 

Will I be helpful? Useful? Honest? Will I be a resource or a resentment?

Will I be patient? Assertive? Thoughtful? Will I be a burden or a boon? 

And who will I be to Ben? To the pets? And to that girl who slept in sail bags and sang on bars and rode over mountains?

I never wanted kids, but one day Ben and I were sitting on a ratty old couch in the musty cabin drinking our coffees, his caffeinated, mine not, both blended with butter in matching white ceramic mugs with green stripes encircling them while Cooper sat on the floor, ears at attention, head tilted as he looked up at Ben, trying to understand what he was saying. 

Cooper was learning a new trick. Over the years he’d learned a few: sit, stay, wait, high five, high ten, roll over, the usual. I don’t remember what he was learning that day, but I remember Ben’s patience and commitment. I remember Coop’s desire to learn from him. I remember seeing the way they looked at each other and thinking, “ah fuck he’d be a good dad.”

That was eight years ago. 

I’ve never asked Ben if he ever thought I’d be a good mom. Ben would probably say something like, “yeah” or “if you want to be” or “sort of depends on the kid.” In my imagination Ben says, “how could you not with the way you tend to the pets? The way you defend your friends? The way you show up in our marriage and in our community?” But that would mean I was married to someone who likes to hear themselves talk and then I would not be married to Ben and whoever I was married to wouldn’t have been sitting on that couch looking eye to eye with a dog that loved them and we wouldn’t be where we are, now would we. 

I did ask Ben, after writing this, if he thought I’d be a good mom. He paused, contemplating the question, standing shirtless in the hallway in sunglasses while he endured the third day of a migraine as he gave me a renewed once over, inspecting me afresh.

“Yeah.” 

It is good to know someone so well before you procreate with them. 

I also think I might be a good mom. But the truth is, I think I can be a better mom because of Ben. 

Ben and I have been together for nine years. I loved who I was when he met me, but there’s no argument that I like this me better — the me that has been nurtured and revered and cared for by him. Earlier this week I took Jibs for a hike overlooking the avalanche field and it occurred to me that without Ben, I would never live here. Not in the way that I would leave if he died, but in the way where I never would have found it. I would have never known to look for it.

Without Ben, would I still be eating frozen meals? Would I still think I need to overwork myself to prove myself? Would I have ever learned the value of a rest day, of putting my feet up for the sake of it? Would I have believed a project like this was worth the time? Would I have ever found the love of a dog? Would I be able to fall asleep on airplanes? Would I still value money over everything? Would I still think the most important thing about me was where I worked and what I’d achieved? 

Maybe not. But maybe. 

With Ben, I have learned to show myself a gentle grace that I did not have before him. And with him, there is a steadfast reminder to keep that grace at hand. With him, I am always reminded that we have enough, that we are enough, and that enough is defined by our ability to step outside hand-in-hand and breathe deeply in the safety we’ve created for one another. 

I think I might be a good mom, and I think he helped me get there.

This time next month, we’ll have a kid.

Thanks for making it with me, baby. I love you.