It’s been 16 years since I celebrated my first Mother’s Day as a mom. My daughter had been born — in our living room, across from the Pacific Ocean on the central Oregon coast — just two days prior.
I barely remember that first Mother’s Day, but I can recall the two thoughts going through my head days after giving birth: I have never loved anyone this much and there’s no way I can go back to work in eight weeks.
I loved my job as a newspaper reporter on the Oregon coast. It was one of the most important aspects of my life at that time. When my water broke and labor started, the first person I called was not my midwife or even my own mother, but my editor … who asked if this meant I wouldn’t make my deadline the next morning. I responded, “Not sure. I’ll let you know.” (Spoiler: I didn’t.)
You can imagine how much I wanted to keep my job. But I was nursing for 30 minutes almost every hour. Even if I’d been a superstar reporter, there was no way I could nurse a baby and cover shipwrecks and other assorted crazy coastal news at the same time.
I still think about those early days of being a mom. I remember doing without the things many other families took for granted, like a car and (during a particularly tough financial time) electricity. We washed our own cloth diapers, hung them on the line to dry, grew vegetables and made our own baby food. I went back to work when my daughter turned 2. Finances improved, but I can’t remember giant chunks of life during those years. I only know that I felt tired pretty much all the time.