I always thought becoming a mother would be the greatest achievement of my life. But now that I’m in it, I feel desperately unaccomplished. Until about 2 weeks ago, I was spending all my time resting, nauseas, and of course running to the bathroom to puke (so much oversharing, sorry). I’d lie awake at night wondering what I’ve done all day.

I’m growing a human being. I see the pictures. The little avocado sized body has sprouted arms and legs. Last time we checked he (or she?) was dancing in the sonogram. Summersaults for days in there. My job right now is to love my tiny acrobat, to eat and keep food down, to sleep long, and, of course, to find clothes that fit (never have I ever complained about having to go shopping until now!). 

We made it to the second trimester, and though I’m not in the nesting phase yet (way too tired for all that), I’ll get there. Right now for the first time ever I am a mother. I have this new job. I’m still learning it, a little confused by it, because it doesn’t measure accomplishment like any other job I’ve experienced. 

It’s taken being a mother for three months for me to see why mothers have the capacity to be the most selfless, real, and extraordinary human beings. They don’t need to cover themselves in labels and achievements, because they put others first, and in doing so, find themselves. They know the truth that days are not so much about what you accomplished, but how hard you loved in everything you did.