May 12, 2024 By Katherine Mansfield 6 min read

Katherine Mansfield tosses her son, who is almost 5 months old, in the air while her husband, Josh Merola, looks on. This photo shoot last month was their first time getting photos together as a family, an experience the writer will forever cherish.

I woke this morning to my 4-month-old son’s toothless grin as he – with the help of his father – presented me my first Mother’s Day gift: a framed piece of construction paper decorated in our handprints.

It’s been nearly 21 weeks and sometimes, I’m still amazed I’m a mom, that my body was once this little boy’s home; that now, it’s his favorite pillow. When I think “mom,” I think of the time I skinned my knee and she tenderly cleaned the wound, and I laugh because last year, I tripped in the parking lot and scraped my knee and, even though I was 31, Mom cleaned my injury with hydrogen peroxide and a kiss. I marvel at how she, despite being bone tired, mustered enthusiasm for backyard wiffle ball games, or packed three girls and their bikes into the van for an afternoon of cycling and splashing in the creek at Mingo Park.

When I think “mom,” I think of the way my mother put her career on hold so she could raise five kids, how she sacrificed her time to the whims of our youths, to horseback riding lessons and soccer games and my tennis matches. When I think “mom,” I think, can I live up to her example?

Those blessed with a good mother strive to emulate her and, simultaneously, do things differently, the way we would have raised ourselves had we the option. My mother is now a phenomenal cook, but we tease her that growing up, all we ever had for dinner was pizza bagels or Tuna Helper. I am, for the first time, learning to cook, because I want V to grow up with a mom who makes pancakes in fun shapes for breakfast and delicious dinners. I am quickly learning to appreciate just how much effort went into pizza bagels some nights.

I’m also starting to appreciate the responsibility of parenthood in a way I never considered. It’s wild how I’m not only responsible for feeding my baby, but I’m also in charge of nourishing his mind and soul. What a privilege. What a blessing.

What a privilege, watching my son learn to roll over (it’s incredible, how quickly he learns and how much he changes daily), teaching him how to navigate the world (which gets bigger the bigger he gets), and sharing my faith with him. What a blessing, seeing the world through my son’s eyes. Every day is a grand adventure. Recently, I plopped Baby V in our backyard for the very first time. My heart burst at the look of amazement in his big, brown eyes as his chubby fingers wrapped themselves around blades of grass. A walk isn’t just a walk, it’s a learning opportunity, a chance to hear new sounds – a big truck whooooshing by! – and revel in new sights (“Look,” I exclaim, “green leaves! Green is spelled g-r-e-e-n…”).

Katherine Mansfield and her son explore the great outdoors on a recent weekday. She laughed when, just after this photo was taken and the kiddo splayed out on the ground, he stuck his tongue out to taste the green grass.

Being a mother is the adventure of a lifetime. And humbling. I am not the center of the universe; Baby V is. His needs come before my own. Since welcoming my son into the world, I’ve learned how impatient a person I am. I’m practicing being more present. I’m trying to limit V’s exposure to screens, so I’ve dramatically reduced the amount of time I’m on my phone (I’ve 42 unread texts and I’m genuinely sorry if you’re one of them). I’m struggling some days, and succeeding on others, to maintain relationships. My heart swells when my mom, the cutest grandmother, narrates a trip through my childhood home, and when my Aunt Karol, aka Second Mom, scoops Baby V into her loving embrace. I watch the man who took me to my first symphony share Beethoven with our son; my heart is a puddle every time Josh and our son, identical twins 33 years apart, exchange smiles, every time V giggles that time-stopping giggle as Daddy raises him high above his head.

He’s only 4 months old, so I don’t have stories about how the curtains came crashing down on my son while playing hide-and-seek (that seems like something toddler boys accidentally do), though V did try to eat the dog’s tail the other day, and I laughed when his small face contorted in disgust as fur hit tongue. Though only 4 months old, I already hold a thousand moments dear, moments too simple and sacred for publication. Those, I will selfishly keep in the memory box of my mind.

Motherhood is more lovely and wondrous than I could ever put into words, but it’s not without its challenges. But the sleepless nights, the occasional afternoon spent failing to console my crying child, feel few and far between, either because V is such an easy baby (he does smile a lot!) or because I’m so taken with this energetic, dark-haired boy that the hard times don’t feel insurmountable. The hardest thing is living each day as it comes, because I’m so excited for all V and I will do together in future, so excited to hear his first word, to chase his toddling self down the sidewalk, to read him Harry Potter. In the blink of an eye, God willing, he’ll be off to kindergarten, and the next week he’ll be driving, and then…

And then, he repositions his head – I’m holding him as I write – as if to say he’s still a baby and we have plenty of time before I have to worry about T-ball games and girlfriends. As if to say, drink this in, Mom: This time together is sacred.

I’m still new to it, I don’t have motherhood all figured out, but on my first Mother’s Day, I am certain of this: What I say, he will say. What I do, he will do. What I am, he will become, because we all become our parents, don’t we? I am a mother, but I am still becoming, and if I become half the mother my mom is, well, my son is in good hands. And with that, I’ll go hold that tiny, dimpled hand while it still fits in my palm.