We waited in the waiting room. They waited in the hallway while I used the restroom. We waited in the room for the doctor to come in. They waited for my appointment to be over.
They had waited long enough.
They were restless.
The kicked their legs and bounced around on the bench in our room, climbed off and on and off and on while making strange noises with their mouths, clapping their hands, stomping their feet.
The midwife asked me questions and I turned up my volume to answer them over the noise. I picked up the fussy baby and cuddled her, told her she could take her nap as soon as she was in her car seat.
“How are you feeling emotionally,” the midwife asked me with an overly sympathetic voice.
“Great,” I smiled.
“I mean, how are you doing since you have your hands full?”
I wondered for a moment if she has any children.
“Great,” I said again. “I’m excited to complete our family.”
“Are you holding up okay?” she tried again. “I imagine you’re exhausted.”
I wondered what it was she was hoping I would say. That I was regretting this pregnancy? That I wished we had stopped after one or two? That I couldn’t handle this and was currently searching for a nanny?
“I feel great,” I said again. “I think I was made for this.”
Ryan and I laughed when I told him about the strange exchange later that night.
“It’s true,” he said after a while. “You really were made for this.”
I was. I was made for this. Some days I am overwhelmed and some days I lose my temper too easily or am just not in the mood to play hide-and-seek or build yet another Lego house… but most days, I’m a really good mom. Those bad days are a bummer, but that’s all they are. A bummer. They are not me. They are not a definition of motherhood for me. They are not all that my children will remember of me.
Mostly, I am a book-reading, fort-building, snack-prepping, song-singing, tummy-tickling, cheek-kissing, cape-tying, game-playing, adventure-planning, jungle gym-climbing, car-vrooming, tower-building, hair-combing, belly-rubbing, good mom.