In Tuesday’s post, I shared with you how I struggled to come to terms with the true sacrifices of motherhood. My determination to stock-up on baby supplies during my first pregnancy proved how ill-equipped I was for the job at hand. I went from underprepared to over-controlling and exhausted by the time my children were toddlers, trying to overcompensate for my lack of mothering know-how.

For the first six years of their lives, I orbited around my children like a planet encircling the sun, and believed that I was mothering. Since I devoted zero time to myself, fashion was out of the question. I re-wore my husband’s t-shirts, cringed when a pair of pants at a superstore cost more than nine dollars, and extended the life of my mascara by adding a few drops of water into the brittle, dried out tube. I declared war if my husband interrupted bedtime, and in bed, passed out asleep without so much as a tender word to the man who once made my heart swoon.

By year seven, and maybe by the grace of God, I discovered the sales rack in the women’s section in a department store and slowly shed the guilt I’d feel anytime I purchased something nice, just for me. I learned to throw away makeup that had cracked and leaked, and relinquished my dependence on my children’s long left behind baby combs, investing instead in an actual hair brush. As I slowly allowed myself to also be a priority, I learned to let go of my frenetic need to keep the children on a timeline and the dinner on the table at exactly five, in exchange for happiness in our home, for all of us.

My husband took my by the elbows one afternoon, when our children were eight and nine, and said to me, “You’ve changed. You are more beautiful now than when we first met.” I knew he meant: “Thank you for finally cleaning up a bit, and letting go of the drill instructor routine.” What I discovered in the process was my ability to be a better mother by taking better care of myself. In the more relaxed atmosphere of our home, our oldest son discovered a passion for the guitar, and developed an impressive dry sense of humor. Our youngest channeled his boisterous energy into a set of acoustic drums that pissed off the neighbors but made me proud of his determination. My relationship with my husband stopped resembling a mother and her child and felt more like a true partnership, two people committed to one another’s happiness. I took solo trips to visit girlfriends I’d lost contact with and he rediscovered his love of sports and nature. This new idea of motherhood transitioned away from desperately clinging to schedules and Love and Logic manuals, into a symbiotic relationship of harmony and happiness. I couldn’t keep them from the occasional scar, so instead – I allowed myself to be there and bandage the wounds.

Things were perfectly imperfect. As I learned to let go and appreciate the moments we still had with our children, I also realized how quickly time had slipped from our hands. It was as if I blinked and in one moment, my children were teenagers, with pubescent beards and cracking vocal tracts. These kids, these young men, would rather text their friends than watch a movie with me, would rather roll their eyes than accept my advice, and dream about the day when they get to move away and start their own lives. There was guilt to be had, since I’d wasted the earliest years dictating the rules and forgot to hold on the sound of chipmunk voices that said “thinger” instead of finger, or “Valentimes” instead of Valentines. Where were those sweet children I’d once born?

Today, while driving my sons to school, I saw my youngest, now thirteen, in the rearview mirror, singing along to a song by Bruno Mars, while staring out the window. He has traces of acne across the bridge of his nose, styles his hair with gel and wears contacts instead of glasses. I struggled to hold in the overwhelming sob I knew would explode the minute they left the car. For most of their lives, I believed it was me who raised them, but seeing their faces, listening to their voices, I know – without question, they raised me, in the most literal sense of the word. I am far above the human being I once was, elevated from the bowels of thinking that diapers and shampoo had anything to do with mothering, and grateful, so immensely grateful that I have the opportunity to be a part of their constantly changing lives.

As Mother’s Day approaches, I wonder how many of you moms out there have witnessed your own growth alongside your children’s. How has motherhood transformed you? What crazy notions did you once have about your role as “Mom?” I can’t wait to read your responses. Happy Mother’s Day ladies, it’s quite the journey – isn’t it?

For part 1 of the story, click here

Sixteen years ago, somewhere around this time of the year, I discovered I was pregnant with my first child. I was too young to be a mother, and my fantasies of motherhood were proof of that naiveté. I’d promised my husband, who at the time was my steady boyfriend, that I would dutifully stock up on packages of Huggies and Tear Free shampoo, which, in my world, meant we’d have everything we needed to raise a child. I knew nothing about being a mother.

Eight months after I peed on a stick in the grocery store a block away from my grandmother’s house, saw two pink lines and celebrated by eating a foot long veggie Subway sandwich, I gave birth to our oldest son, who might strangle me in my sleep if I share his name. The birthing process, the pièce de résistance of my painfully swollen pregnancy, was a shadowy night of pain and triumph spent mostly alone, until the nurse informed me eleven hours later that a head, his human head, was crowning. My husband, by then my fiancé, was serving his first tour in Japan with the Marine Corps, and had no clue I’d gone into induced labor. I called my dad and grandmother, who were celebrating their pending familial promotions over icy vodka with twists of lime, to come, quickly. They arrived in time to each hold one of my bearded, formless knees while staring at my son’s primordial exit from my body and entrance into life as a singular being. It was disturbingly beautiful.

That is the moment I was viewed as a mother by the world at large. I had believed myself to be one that day in the Kroger toilet stall while staring at the EPT stick, but now I had more than two pink lines and a grotesque body to prove my title. I had a child who looked a little like me, smelled like risen dough and warm milk, and would one day mouth the words, “Mom.”

The magic of my imagined foray into motherhood withered after two days, when I came home from the hospital, infant in tow, to an empty studio apartment where every whimper and meconium-laced diaper was now my responsibility. There were no more helpful nurses, and not enough barf clothes to save my shoulder from ruin. Sure, I had dozens of packs of diapers and countless bottles of golden baby shampoo, but they could not save either of us. Motherhood was not what I had expected.

Yet, somewhere between the agonizing sleepless nights and shared tub water with floating baby poo, I discovered a tiny shard of what motherhood could be. It started with his skin, perfect, smooth, and golden, with neither a mark nor a blemish. I would stare at his skin with deep fascination, admiring its smoothness and creamy color, and then fret at the thought that one day, his faultless body would carry scars from wounds I couldn’t spare him.

Then, he smiled. Somewhere around the second month, when his pediatrician swore it was only gas bubbles escaping his rosy lips, I saw my son’s brown eyes crinkle in the corners and his healthy red gums emerge. In that moment, I questioned if I had ever truly loved another person before, because I knew that for this child, I would easily give my life to ensure his would continue. Motherhood was not what I had expected, it was so much more than I could have hoped for.

My husband and I married before our son turned a year old, then soon after we welcomed our next son into the world. Years passed and lessons were learned. I knew to register the soundlessness of an inquisitive toddler with loud alarms inside my head, an easy trick once you find your son rolling on the bedroom floor covered in thick, tacky diaper cream, laughing at the tickle against his slick skin. I discovered that reruns of annoying costumed television characters could jar my nerves but also kept my children occupied long enough for me to fold the laundry and make dinner. I learned that a scraped knee hurt more if I said, “Oh no, are you okay?” rather than, “Get up, you’re fine.” I developed what I believed were perfected routines, devoting every second of my waking life to being the best, most dutiful mother I could, regardless of my own peace of mind. In my desire to protect my children and give them the best life possible – I forgot that I was a person with needs, too. I was so blinded by motherhood, that I didn’t see how miserable I had made my family in the process.

How did it change? Stay tuned for part two on Thursday!

What is the lost box, you ask? You know in elementary school when you lose your new mittens or “lose” your new itchy hat that you hate? Your mom makes you go to the lost and found and prays that you will find it. She hopes that she doesn’t have to take a trip to Target in the middle of the night to get you a new hat because it’s suppose to snow tomorrow and you’re prone to ear infections (hypothetically, you live in New England).

How the lost and found works is someone LOST it and someone else FOUND it. Hence, the term “Lost and Found.” However, if something is never claimed by the original owner or is stolen by someone who looks at the box as the “free stuff box,” it’s still kind of just lost (or stolen). I often feel like the contents in a lost box (which by summer get left behind).

Lately, I have been feeling a little lost in general. I have been questioning my life’s purpose, and I’m trying not to search because it seems the more I search the more lost I become. Some people just wake up and know what they should do. I think that I think too much! I get lost in the same town over and over again.

I am kind of a Jackie-of-all-trades and a master of none. I am not always able to focus on just one thing either. As a creature of habit with a fear-based identity, I am doing my best to live outside of my comfort zone. I’m trying to find myself!

In the past year while searching for myself, I took a Bible study, directed an original musical, traveled to a makeup seminar in Boston and a Buddhist commune in VT, (I’m not a Buddhist—my cousin is and she needed a ride), took a class in NYC, and flew to L.A. because I figured maybe I’d find a better grasp on what the heck it is I’m doing here. Nope!

It’s not that I don’t have goals, but getting from point A to point B sometimes is the most daunting. It’s like I’m just a random item sitting in that box waiting to be claimed, but I think that I need to make a decision and grab myself. Ok, that totally didn’t come out right! I guess that I am both the lost box and the random contents.

While I’m lost I’m really having an interesting time trying new things, and I hope that I just fall into something and all of the random contents of my lost box will come together to create something incredible (the found box).  Until then, I guess that I am just the lost box and it’s random contents. The cool thing though, is that something new is always put into the box—so the box definitely has a lot of potential.

The box, like the glass, we can look at as half full or half empty (or what the potential is out of the box, around the box, and maybe even without the box). I guess it really is all about the journey! Maybe answers are already in the box. I just have to have the perspective to see.

I have not always been an athlete. I started as a chunky kid. I carried 180 pounds on my 5’4” frame for most of college and throughout graduate school. I tried diet after diet, but eventually assumed that this was just how I was built to be.

As my 30th birthday approached, I decided to try something new. Rather than seeing how little I could eat, I committed to see how strong I could be. I started working out with a personal trainer in earnest and gave Weight Watchers one more try.

One day at the gym, I saw an ad for Team in Training at the back of a magazine. I’d heard of the program before, and admired their mission to use endurance races as a way to raise funds to cure Leukemia and Lymphoma. But, quite frankly, I had no interest in running. I could never understand why anyone would CHOOSE to run around the block, much less for 26.2 miles. But for some reason, this time the ad caught my eye and stuck with me. If I was trying to see how strong I could be, why not try to do something that I never thought that I would be able to do?

I attended an introductory meeting and signed up for the 2006 Nike Marathon for Women’s Cancers in San Francisco. Over the next 4 months, I trained with the team twice a week, in addition to my solo workouts. I planned a wedding, dropped 5 dress sizes, got married, went on my honeymoon, came back to training and finished the race in a grueling 5 hours and 24 minutes.

I won’t lie —it was NOT love at first sight. The last 5 miles of the race were pure HELL. I went from the elation of finishing a four month long journey to quietly (and then loudly) cursing everyone and everything around me. But I crossed the finish line. I looked like hell, I felt even worse, but I finished.

Before I knew it, I was hooked. In less than 6 weeks, I had signed up for my next marathon with Team in Training. Over the past 7 years, I have run 4 full and 5 half marathons, delivered 2 babies and crossed the finish line at the San Diego Marathon in 2010 with both boys in the double stroller. Running has changed my body, for sure. But more importantly it has changed my mind—my self-image, self-esteem, and perception of what I am and am not capable of doing. When I run, I feel invincible. There is nothing the day can throw my way that I can’t handle, and nothing cures the drama of a bad day like a long run.

Dear Elle,

So, I hear you recently got married and have a mother-in-law from hell. Let’s start with this whole marriage thing.

Marriage is hard as hell. You will have plenty of ups and downs over the years.  Hell, you’ll even have good years and bad years. Remember you have to work at marriage. “Through good times and bad, sickness and in health”, you have to be good to each other.

Sure, your husband will make you want to strangle him and you’ll want to fight back with hurtful words. Don’t do it. You’ll regret it later and wish you could take those hurtful words back. Once you let those words hang in the air, you can never take them back. Please keep that in mind. Support him and be kind to each other.

Also keep in mind that he married you for YOU. He didn’t marry Martha Stewart. So what if you’re not the domestic goddess you thought you would be when you were younger and idealized your life as an adult. Don’t be hard on yourself because if you do, you’ll spend years beating yourself up over it. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine and make do with the skills you have and the things you really do enjoy doing. A happy wife equals a happy husband.

Now for that mother-in-law.

The worst mistake you can make is letting her walk all over you. She will beat you down with her words and actions and you just need to put her in her place and nip that in the bud right away. Don’t let her get under your skin for years and years while you practically kill yourself trying to make her happy. Guess what? Nothing you do will make her happy. Stand up to her and don’t let her push you around. Sure, it will be awkward at first when you speak your mind but it’s better than letting this kind of treatment go on for several years. Be strong and don’t let her get you down. She’s not worth the trouble.

Now for motherhood. Get a puppy instead. Kidding!

Motherhood certainly isn’t black and white like you used to think. It’s a tricky little bastard and will keep your head swirling at night when it comes to the choices you make for your children.

“Was that the best decision?” “I didn’t have to say that to my daughter in such a nasty tone.” “I don’t feel like I’m doing this right.”

That and more will weigh you down if you let it. Remember you’re doing the best that you can when it comes to your child. It’s okay if you’re not crafty and can’t do 10,000 projects a week with your child or you get flustered and let them watch television while mommy has a time out. You’re not a bad mom.

Repeat after me, “I’m a great mother and do the best I can for my children.” Repeat 10 more times. Sometimes you might not be doing the best you can and that’s okay to. You, my dear, are only human.  Don’t worry if you pretend not to notice that sign up sheet to make baked goods for their entire preschool. Or you look like the Bride of Frankenstein when you drop them off at school while the other moms don’t have a hair out-of-place.

Last thing.

Love yourself. You will spend too many years trying to be someone you’re not just to try to fit in. Be yourself and be proud of who you are no matter how strange, quirky, and out-of-place you may feel.

If others don’t like it, tell them they can suck it.

Sincerely,

Your older, wiser self

This post was originally published on Elle’s This Is Mommyhood. For more from Elle, check out her blog and follow her on twitter and facebook.