That Little Park
“Starting today, I need to forget what’s gone, appreciate what still remains, and look forward to what’s coming next.”
As far back as I can remember, I have always wanted to be a mother. I was the child who was the mother when we played house. I took great care of imaginary kids and fiercely tended to stuffed animals with protection and extra love. I enjoyed dreaming up futures that always had me in the leading role as a mom. One kid or five - it varied, but didn’t matter - it was always motherhood that I dreamed of. Sure, I had other goals; some realistic and others just far-fetched fantasies. A doctor, a teacher, a witch, the pink Power Ranger, a summer Olympian in softball, a winter Olympian in hockey - but within all of these dreams persisted my strongest desire of motherhood. As the years went on, my resolve to become a mother never wavered. And, quite frankly, I thought I would make a wonderful mother. I believed that my love of working with children coupled with my passion for education would make me the perfect candidate for motherhood. I envisioned a life where I cradled a baby, shushed them to sleep with ease, finished the household chores while disciplining a toddler with calm intentionality, taught them their alphabet as we sang songs, all while cooking dinner. To say that my current picture of motherhood isn’t quite how I once imagined it would be is a bit of an understatement.
Like many first-time mothers, the realities of parenthood shook me to my core. The idyllic dreams from my childhood were quickly thrown out the door along with countless diapers and my sanity. The first couple months of motherhood knocked me down a peg or two, humbling me by how hard the job would be regardless of the wealth of experience and knowledge I naively thought I possessed. I have no trouble recalling some of the hardest days of my life. There was the time I phoned my husband in a panic because my daughter hadn’t pooped regularly that day and when she finally did it was green and foamy (apparently this is perfectly normal). Or the brief, but at the time never-ending, period where Maelle hated her car seat - each car ride I would have to sing, tap her seat, or make big sweeping turns in an attempt to calm her. Once, I had to pull over on the busiest highway in Calgary, with cars zipping by, to try to find her pacifier because her screaming was unbearable. I can recall sitting in complete darkness in our basement, hoping she would sleep longer than 30-minutes, ready to pop in a soother in a vain attempt to get her back to sleep if she woke up, rocking her like the utter crazy person I had become. As if it were just yesterday, I can recall the feeling of her against my chest as she wailed without reason - bouncing her, rocking her, and walking her around fruitlessly. I would stare at the clock, watching intently as the seconds counted down to 5:30pm when my husband would be home. Every minute late was a minute more of built-up frustration and exhaustion.
I have never forgotten that very difficult time - those extremely challenging moments in early motherhood that I am not so proud of. I wasn’t always the mother I wanted to be and I haven’t for a second forgotten how hard, isolating, and overwhelming it was during those days, weeks, and months in the trenches of motherhood. I worried endlessly that I wasn’t cut out for the job; I felt that I was failing at the one thing I had so severely hoped to be. To make matters worse, just a week past Maelle’s birth we were hit with a major snowstorm. It was September 2nd (see, I even remember the exact date) and Calgary experienced what is now lovingly referred to as “Snowtember”. The city was covered in snow, causing power outages that lasted days and created damage from falling tree branches that just couldn’t bear the weight of wet, late-summer snow. Those branches represented my feelings, bending and breaking under the overwhelming and sudden pressure. That snowstorm foreshadowed what was to come - a cold and bitter winter that saw the city covered in snow and ice for months.
After 2 months of wallowing in my own self-doubt, I decided that I needed to make a change. I decided that every day I would leave the house and unless it was absolutely unrelentingly cold, I would walk. I would bundle Maelle up in layers of clothing and then layers of blankets, in addition to a protective car-seat cover on the stroller. We would walk to our local coffee shop or to the leisure centre to partake in a fitness class. I walked to our community centre or our local drugstore to mindlessly peruse the aisles or pick up necessities. Sometimes, I would just walk down a little path that started near the end of our cul-de-sac. The path took us to the back of a field and eventually to a tiny playground. Not long into my conviction to get out of the house daily, this playground became the final destination for the majority of our outings. That tiny little playground became so much more than just a park: it started to represent success. Regardless of the weather - through rain, snow, and sun - I was outside and I completed something worthwhile with my daughter.
After a long, relentless winter where I walked the same steps almost daily with Maelle, spring settled in. Like the changing weather, so too had that path I walked. The snow and the ice began to melt, making way for green grass and the buds of flowers starting to grow on the tree branches hanging over our heads next to the path. Our layers were replaced by spring jackets and rubber boots. By the end of May, Maelle was walking, so instead of putting her in the stroller, we would walk hand in hand to that little park. The changes that came along with the changing season were mirrored in my own personal season of motherhood. A melting of ice that made way for a better, more vibrant, newer kind of motherhood. I was more comfortable and more at ease with the job. I was connected to my child and settled into a routine that took care of both of our needs. I was becoming a better version of the mother I once was while being able to let go of the unrealistic vision of what I thought motherhood would be. It may have taken a lot longer and we traveled a lot less distance but we always ended up at that little park. That little playground of hope and potential.
In the months and years that followed (prior to us moving homes), I continued to walk to that park countless times. That park saw some of my favourite memories. From pushing each of the kids on the swing for their first time to watching each of them toddle around as they played in the rocks. We met new people and forged unforgettable bonds with some of our best friends at that park. We rode scooters and bikes down the path to the playground and held picnic playdates. And, when I would see new moms walking the path, stopping at the same park with the tell-tale signs of new motherhood all over them (bags under their eyes, milk stains on their shirts, maternity coats that didn’t quite fit right) all I could think was “this season will pass, the sun will shine again - I promise.” Because, quite frankly, that is life. The time goes on and the seasons fall away to new ones. And if there is one thing that tiny park taught me, it is that the path to motherhood changes as you go. Motherhood is unforgiving in its capacity to continually knock you down. When you finally feel like you have a sense of rhythm and a feeling of comfort, life shifts, the wind blows, and the seasons change again. There is no mastery to be achieved in motherhood. Rather it’s learning to cope with the changing tides and being confident enough to know that you are doing your very best in spite of it all.
