The Eberblog

I remember the day my son was born and feeling his soft, tender skin for the first time. Every inch of it was perfect, just like him. No marks or blemishes had changed him from how he had formed inside me. 

The thought of doing anything that would bring my son out of his current state of unformed perfection was both heavy and terrifying. There was nothing I could do to make him any better than he was now, but soon I would have to take him home with me and begin the work of raising him.

My baby boy was a blank canvas, fresh and white. I was a novice painter whose brush trembled in her hand. What if I made a mistake? I had never done this before and I didn’t know what I was doing. What if the masterpiece in my heart never made it onto the page? What if my clumsy brushstrokes made a mess of the pristine little life in front of me?

One day there would be bruises and scrapes on his body from the misadventures of growing up. I hated the thought that my mistakes could leave a painful mark on my perfect child the way a skinned knee or bumped head would leave a mark on his soft, unblemished skin.

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Just before my thirty-first birthday, I attended a pottery wheel workshop. I had never used a pottery wheel before and thought it sounded like something fun to try (and an opportunity to get out on my own for an evening while my husband put our 18-month-old son to bed.) I was determined to make the most of the workshop, so I did my research ahead of time. I read about pottery and throwing on a pottery wheel. I even watched some YouTube videos to try to learn the basics.

When I sat down at the wheel with my very own ball of clay, my inexperience far outweighed my preparation efforts. The clay collapsed in on itself. The instructor gave me some pointers and a fresh lump of clay, and I was ultimately successful in molding a cute little bowl.

My first attempt sat off to the side—a lumpy, lopsided mess.

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In the three years since he was born, my son has earned plenty of scrapes on his knees, bumps on his head, and even a burn on his wrist from touching a hot baking sheet. My daughter, almost one, wears a “bruise of the week” on her head as she grows more adventurous in both walking and climbing.

Those marks don’t bother me. I hug my children and comfort them when they’re hurt. I offer band-aids and kisses and ice cubes. I tell them, “It will stop hurting soon,” and, “The owie will go away.”

But what about the bruises my children hold inside them? Which of my actions have left the darkest marks? I’m haunted by the fear that my far-from-perfect parenting could damage the precious little balls of clay that were entrusted to me. I’m haunted by the thought of layers of sloppy paint that can never be erased. I’m haunted by knowing I can’t always be the mom they need or deserve.

I think of the times I’ve shouted, sent my son to his room, or ignored his feelings because I was out of patience. I think of how often he and the baby have seen me looking at my phone instead of at them. I think about how many of my choices, both good and bad, have affected them.

The canvas isn’t blank anymore.

My children are little works-in-progress. I believe and hope that my presence in their lives is ultimately good and safe and loving, and that I will help to form something beautiful despite the lumps and splatters. I hope my children see themselves as masterpieces.

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This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series “Haunted”.