In the twilight hours of a Tuesday morning in March, I became a mom.
I had been awake for nearly three days, breathing through contractions, crying in anticipation, eager to meet my daughter. Ready to feel relief for my swollen feet, burgeoning belly, and heavy eyes.
Pregnancy wasn’t what I anticipated — it was more challenging and less magical. Labor and delivery wasn’t what I anticipated — it was much longer and less dramatic than the movies. And those first few weeks of motherhood weren’t what I anticipated either — it was more exhausting and scary, less cuddly and rose-colored.
If I’m honest, I’ve wondered if I deserved Josefine. Her perfect ten toes and ten fingers, alert eyes and sweet smile. How could I get frustrated with something so pure? How could I long for a break, a moment of solace, when I’ve dreamt of this baby my whole life? How could I reminisce about my days of freedom, when this tiny gift was quietly napping in a white bassinet in the bedroom I share with the love of my life?
Oh mamas, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I couldn’t have known. I didn’t understand how motherhood quite literally rips you apart, body, heart, soul and mind, and then gradually, puts you back together. The pieces don’t fit the same since new ones grow in the process. Your old pieces feel odd and uneasy, yet familiar at the edges. You are still you but a different you.
Mom is a job I underestimated and took for granted. A single day can be full of dread and anxiety, but also the kind of joy that brings tears to your eyes. It’s bewildering and bewitching.
I wanted that instant love at delivery … but as she laid on my chest, using those lungs for the first time, I couldn’t help but think “When do I get a nap?” My legs, which I couldn’t feel from the epidural, had to stay in the stir-ups, for the placenta delivery and the minor stitches. I was uncomfortable, trying to hold her, while still being half-way up in the air.
At one point, the nurse asked if I was ready to breastfeed, and I sleepily said, “Can I see her face? I haven’t seen her face yet.” I saw her and I smiled, but my heart didn’t swell four times its size yet. Fear started to brew as I tried to understand what “hamburgering” my boob meant.
Where was the love?
A few hours later, once we were wheeled up to our room and finally given a short nap, I woke up and saw the sun shining through the window. The mountains were hazy with fog, much like my thoughts. I looked over and saw my sleeping husband — who didn’t give birth, but never left my side, rubbing my head and counting to ten in Danish as I pushed.
And then I saw my girl, wrapped up like a little burrito, cheeks puffy and swollen… and perfect. I scooped her up and watched the sun rise over her face.
There it was. There was the love. I always find the most love at the start of each day with her.
The morning is our time. It’s when she arrived — and it’s when we thrive.
I do the 7 a.m. morning feed with Josefine, and lately, she’s been sleeping more. She doesn’t exactly cry — more like coo — and when I go to pick her up, she recognizes me. I say “Good morning JoJo!” and she smiles. A true, big smile for me.
I carry her downstairs and make my coffee as I grab her bottle, and she looks around our house. I narrate the world around us. I unwrap her swaddle and tickle her tummy, and she smiles again. I tell her about our day ahead as she eats and I sip, and I settle in more to my new normal.
I become more of a mom.
As she becomes herself, grinning at me and discovering her hands and her voice, my love spreads another root. Blooms another branch. I gain a little more confidence. I see the forest beyond the trees.
I feel the fog lift over the mountain, bit by bit.
I understand now how being a parent is truly the most difficult — yet rewarding thing you’ll ever do. I look forward to the chapters to come, and I’m trying my best to savor every sentence of the page we are on. There are good and bad days in a week, good and bad hours in a day, good and bad minutes in an hour.
It’s not linear but it’s steady. It’s there.
The love is the guiding light — the only constant among the many unknowns.
The love helps me lean into the uncertainty, and I remind myself like everything else I’ve done in my life, I am learning in my own way. I won’t always get it right and I won’t always enjoy it.
But I will always love you, Josefine.
I will always try my very best. I will always see you as my sunshine among the fog. Thank you, my darling girl, for making me a mom.
Thank you to my mom for doing all of this with me. Tusind tak to my mother-in-law for raising a supportive, loving son. Thank you to all of the moms who have been there for me as I’ve navigated this new role.
Happy Mother’s Day
In the twilight hours of a Tuesday morning in March, I became a mom.
I had been awake for nearly three days, breathing through contractions, crying in anticipation, eager to meet my daughter. Ready to feel relief for my swollen feet, burgeoning belly, and heavy eyes.
Pregnancy wasn’t what I anticipated — it was more challenging and less magical. Labor and delivery wasn’t what I anticipated — it was much longer and less dramatic than the movies. And those first few weeks of motherhood weren’t what I anticipated either — it was more exhausting and scary, less cuddly and rose-colored.
If I’m honest, I’ve wondered if I deserved Josefine. Her perfect ten toes and ten fingers, alert eyes and sweet smile. How could I get frustrated with something so pure? How could I long for a break, a moment of solace, when I’ve dreamt of this baby my whole life? How could I reminisce about my days of freedom, when this tiny gift was quietly napping in a white bassinet in the bedroom I share with the love of my life?
Oh mamas, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I couldn’t have known. I didn’t understand how motherhood quite literally rips you apart, body, heart, soul and mind, and then gradually, puts you back together. The pieces don’t fit the same since new ones grow in the process. Your old pieces feel odd and uneasy, yet familiar at the edges. You are still you but a different you.
Mom is a job I underestimated and took for granted. A single day can be full of dread and anxiety, but also the kind of joy that brings tears to your eyes. It’s bewildering and bewitching.
I wanted that instant love at delivery … but as she laid on my chest, using those lungs for the first time, I couldn’t help but think “When do I get a nap?” My legs, which I couldn’t feel from the epidural, had to stay in the stir-ups, for the placenta delivery and the minor stitches. I was uncomfortable, trying to hold her, while still being half-way up in the air.
At one point, the nurse asked if I was ready to breastfeed, and I sleepily said, “Can I see her face? I haven’t seen her face yet.” I saw her and I smiled, but my heart didn’t swell four times its size yet. Fear started to brew as I tried to understand what “hamburgering” my boob meant.
Where was the love?
A few hours later, once we were wheeled up to our room and finally given a short nap, I woke up and saw the sun shining through the window. The mountains were hazy with fog, much like my thoughts. I looked over and saw my sleeping husband — who didn’t give birth, but never left my side, rubbing my head and counting to ten in Danish as I pushed.
And then I saw my girl, wrapped up like a little burrito, cheeks puffy and swollen… and perfect. I scooped her up and watched the sun rise over her face.
There it was. There was the love. I always find the most love at the start of each day with her.
The morning is our time. It’s when she arrived — and it’s when we thrive.
I do the 7 a.m. morning feed with Josefine, and lately, she’s been sleeping more. She doesn’t exactly cry — more like coo — and when I go to pick her up, she recognizes me. I say “Good morning JoJo!” and she smiles. A true, big smile for me.
I carry her downstairs and make my coffee as I grab her bottle, and she looks around our house. I narrate the world around us. I unwrap her swaddle and tickle her tummy, and she smiles again. I tell her about our day ahead as she eats and I sip, and I settle in more to my new normal.
I become more of a mom.
As she becomes herself, grinning at me and discovering her hands and her voice, my love spreads another root. Blooms another branch. I gain a little more confidence. I see the forest beyond the trees.
I feel the fog lift over the mountain, bit by bit.
I understand now how being a parent is truly the most difficult — yet rewarding thing you’ll ever do. I look forward to the chapters to come, and I’m trying my best to savor every sentence of the page we are on. There are good and bad days in a week, good and bad hours in a day, good and bad minutes in an hour.
It’s not linear but it’s steady. It’s there.
The love is the guiding light — the only constant among the many unknowns.
The love helps me lean into the uncertainty, and I remind myself like everything else I’ve done in my life, I am learning in my own way. I won’t always get it right and I won’t always enjoy it.
But I will always love you, Josefine.
I will always try my very best. I will always see you as my sunshine among the fog. Thank you, my darling girl, for making me a mom.
Thank you to my mom for doing all of this with me. Tusind tak to my mother-in-law for raising a supportive, loving son. Thank you to all of the moms who have been there for me as I’ve navigated this new role.
Happy Mother’s Day
