Twenty-two years, four pregnancies, and one very eventful bathroom

On raising five kids, the body that remembers everything, and a birthday that makes you feel all of it at once.

Twenty-two years‚ four pregnancies‚ and one very eventful bathroom

On raising five kids‚ the body that remembers everything‚ and a birthday that makes you feel all of it at once․

My son turns 22 this Sunday․

Twenty-two․ I say this out loud‚ to myself‚ like the more I say it‚ the more it will make sense․ It doesn’t․ It just keeps sounding both enormous and impossible - the way all true things do when you’re a mother․

I’m the mother of five․ Four of them came out of my body‚ which‚ if you’ve never done it‚ is simultaneously the most primal and most surreal thing a human can experience․ The fifth didn’t come out of my body‚ and if anything‚ that’s taught me that motherhood was never really about biology to begin with․

But this week‚ with a birthday on the horizon‚ I keep getting pulled back․ Back to the beginning․ Back to the before․ Back to a version of myself who had no idea what she was getting into‚ and would have signed up for every single second of it anyway․

The body keeps the score․ And the receipts․

It’s been nearly eleven years since I was pregnant․ Eleven years since my body first did that kind of magic where you somehow grow a person from scratch while also managing to function‚ work‚ laugh‚ cry at commercials‚ and eat an alarming amount of crackers․

And yet‚ the memories happened not eleven years ago․ They’re yesterday-old․ They live in my body the way all meaningful things do - not archived‚ just resting․

There are things that stay with you forever․ Like the first time a baby stirs inside your belly․ That unmistakable little flutter․ The kind that makes you stop dead cold in the middle of whatever you’re doing‚ hand pressed to your stomach‚ completely undone by something that feels like a secret․ I definitely did it four times‚ and every time it felt brand new to me․

Nobody prepares you for the tiredness of life after a baby‚ or for the tiredness of pregnancy․ It’s as if every ounce of you has been siphoned off to create a new human while you pretend to be a regular person․ At this time‚ I was not a regular person‚ but a construction site with a smile․

I remember the swelling‚ the heartburn‚ the strange and specific food aversions that make zero logical sense - the way a smell you loved your entire life can suddenly become your sworn enemy for nine months․ I remember every time wondering how women have done this since the beginning of human history․ And then I remember: because there’s no other way to get the people here․

About that bathroom․

I have to talk about the bathroom․ There’s no version of this essay where I skip the bathroom․

One of my kids was born in one․ Not a hospital․ Not a birthing suite with soft lighting and carefully curated music․ A bathroom․ Our bathroom․ Or‚ more accurately‚ our bathroom‚ the one with the suspicious tile‚ the towel rack always a little skewed․

It was fast․ Faster than fast‚ the sort of fast that gave you no time to think‚ only time to act․ It was terrifying․ It was chaotic․ We survived and then some‚ on instinct and adrenaline and whatever grace the universe decided to extend that day․ And somehow‚ miraculously‚ improbably‚ everyone came out fine․

It is‚ I will confess‚ kind of funny now․ In the particular way that only the things that once scared you most can become funny once enough time has passed and everyone is okay․ I’ve told this story at dinner tables‚ and I won’t stop․ To me‚ it’s one of my best stories․ My kid who made that entrance has been making memorable entrances ever since‚ which honestly tracks perfectly․

Motherhood is not the Pinterest version․ It is the bathroom version․ It’s the version where everything goes sideways‚ and you handle it anyway‚ because what other option is there? You handle it‚ and then one day it becomes part of the story you tell - the one that makes people laugh and gasp and say‚ you’re kidding‚ and you say‚ I am not kidding even slightly․

This is what twenty-two looks like․

Here is the thing about your children getting older․ It doesn’t get easier to process․ And it gets deeper‚ too‚ because there’s more to love․ More of a person there‚ someone who has lived enough life to have opinions and regrets and inside jokes and a whole interior world you only get glimpses of‚ which is as it should be․

Twenty-two is no longer the baby I was pregnant with․ Twenty-two is someone․ A whole‚ complicated‚ wonderful someone․ And I get to be the person who knew them before they were anyone - who felt the first flutter‚ who counted the fingers‚ who hasn’t stopped counting on them since․

I think about the last time I was pregnant‚ eleven-some years ago․ I think about how I had no way of knowing it was the last․ You never do․ The last time you do anything meaningful‚ you rarely know it’s the last time‚ and maybe that’s a mercy․ You get to be really in the moment‚ not thinking about the end․

But I know now․ And I can hold it‚ the fullness of it - four pregnancies‚ five children‚ one bathroom birth‚ thousands of ordinary days that were actually extraordinary - and feel grateful in a way that has no bottom․

Happy birthday․

To my child who turns 22 this Sunday: I have been your mother for your whole life and I am still not used to you․ I mean that in the highest possible way․ You keep surprising me․ You keep showing up in ways I didn’t expect․ From the very beginning‚ you were more than I could have planned for‚ and that has never once been a disappointment․

So you’re twenty-two and I am standing in the kitchen‚ thinking about the first time I saw your face‚ and I’m just not going to pretend I’m not a little bit of a mess about it․

I would do it all again․ Every single part․ Even the bathroom․