By: Natalie Blackbourne – Confluence Daily is your daily news source for women in the know.
Motherhood doesn’t break you in lightly — within moments of that baby being born you’re hit with the never-ending barrage of diaper changes, spit, cries, and a very hungry mouth.
And within moments, you become a different person.
No, it’s not just in the way you’ll never get your pre-baby body back. It’s in the way you develop keen abilities that sometimes you wish you had never known.
The intuition of knowing when your baby is awake, even when you’re sleeping.
The small nudge that tells you to look over your shoulder, just in time.
The weird ability to smell when they’re sick.
The crazy anomaly of being able to function on as little sleep as humanly possible.
The sense of just knowing that something isn’t right.
And it’s heavy, having this lurking knowledge — like overwhelming dark clouds following you everywhere, providing just enough static to be agitating.
A constant state of super-drive.
Feeling like a towel, wrung out.
Or heap of tangled cords — simultaneously erratic and circular, with absolutely no idea where to begin the unraveling.
Steamrolled, and peeled up.
These superpowers are supposed to be empowering, a symbol of our connection with our little humans. But instead, it makes us feel like iron and glass — both so strong and incredibly fragile at the same time. Vacillating between utter failure and disappointment in ourselves and the glimpse of extreme joy as we finally see our kids walking, talking, and thriving.
I never wanted these superpowers — I always thought being supermom meant getting everything done on time with a clean house. Instead, it’s knowing that my son is tired by the sound of his voice, or that my infant is teetering on the edge of doing something bold just in time for me to intervene. It looks like opening my eyes most mornings crying at the weight of what I’ll face that day — even when it’s a simple summer day.
Because it’s not like these powers just go away. It’ll be the benign, carefree moments when toddler hands flash towards hot stoves, or fevers spike. It’s not about protection, or even taking away their pain.
It’s the constant swirl of thoughts trying to predict, trying to manage, trying to help, and trying to love, when you can hardly keep the pieces of yourself together.
Like a stitched up doll, with stuffing peeking out the sides.
A cracked vase with beading water.
An empty house with the light flickering, threatening to go out.
It’s in these moments, though, you realize it truly is a superpower. The smells, the intuitions, the vibes, the thoughts, the uncanny ability to predict, and the quiet sensations prickling at the back of your neck.
Because holding yourself together as their world falls apart is nothing less than supernatural.
These are the superpowers we never wanted, but nonetheless, they make us extraordinary.
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