A part from Cori Howard: Thirty Women Tell the Truth About Motherhood 

NO INTERUPTIONS
Carrie-Anne Moss

It was day one of my forty-day seclusion. Day one of my new life as a mother. Day one of my son's life. And there we were snuggled and huddled in our big bed, skin to skin, mouth to nipple, breath to breath. Pure bliss. Over the next forty days I would spend almost all my waking and my few sleeping hours in that bed, in that bedroom and in the room next door. My husband and I had decided to create this sanctuary for our family because we believed it was the most scared event of our lives - becoming a family. We wanted to honour this time and allow it to gently take place without interruptions from the outside world.
I remember the way the light poured in through the curtains at sunset, the way it refracted off the blue walls, the way the house seemed alive with colour, as if all my senses had just woken up. I remember the way time slowed down and I was always surprised it was only 4 O'clock.
In those days, I took care of the baby and my husband took care of me. We had hired a woman to come by in the mornings to do laundry, cook us delicious meals, and rub my feet. In the evenings, I would bring the baby downstairs, and my husband and I would watch Everybody Loves Raymond. I wanted to laugh. Motherhood had made me feel so vulnerable and I wanted relief. I think we watched every single episode.
In the thirty-five years before sequestering myself in my house for those forty biblical days, I never sat still. I'd gone from busy Hollywood Actress to Earthmother in just a few days. It was a shocking transition, but one that I was ready for, desperate for. I believed having a baby would be a rest. I know that sounds funny because it isn't really "restful" if you account for the sleepless nights, caring for sick babies, and all the other constant demands of motherhood.
But I knew that motherhood, for me, would be my time to be home and hang out. Before I had a baby, I was never home. I was always traveling and living in hotels. I got pregnant two months after wrapping up production on The Matrix 3. My baby gave me a reason to say no to everyone and everything. Finally.
I'd been working since I was a teenager, at first at resteraunts, then as an actress. I was ready to surrender, and it came as a huge relief. My movies gave me the financial freedom to take time off and be with my babies.
I've always wanted babies. I babysat when I was eleven and taught kids to tie their shoes and write their names. I'm surprised somedays that I don't have eleven kids and that it took me so long to have my first child. In my fantasies, I was the bohemian mom in the peasant dress with no makeup on. And sometimes I am that woman. But I am also a tornado with baby on hip, phone in hand, jacket flinging acroos the room.
My forty-day seclusion with my firstborn seems far away now. But when I close my eyes, I remember the hours spent in my rocking chair, rocking my way into motherhood. I remember thinking as I rocked my baby, that there are millions of other mothers around the world doing exactly the same thing. I remember getting up in the middle of the night and having a strange and euphoric energy. I thought, hey, this is supposed to be irritating, but I chose to do it with joy because I knew it would go by quickly.
In my seclusion, I spent day after day after day with tea in hand, baby at the breast, in our own unique rythem. The bed was our world. I cut off any connection to news or current events. I had a few visitors, but though their occasional presence relieved the isolation and lonliness, the experience was often draining.
My baby would fall asleep. A friend would ring the doorbell. The dogs would bark and suddenly I was stressed: about waking the baby, entertaining my friend, engaging in adult conversation. Once, when I was nursing my baby, a well-meaning friend asked, "Aren't you nursing too muuch?"
"What?" I thought to myself, my confidence eroding. After hearing this one too many times, I actually attempted to nurse less. The baby would start crying. Then I would start crying. I wouldn't offer the breast because, well, we all felt he couldn't possibly need to eat again. I called the doctor, my nerves frazzled by the noise. I talked to the nurse, and she said, "Offer the breast."
"But everyone says I'm nursing too much," I tell her, sobbing. "Offer the breast," she gently encourages.
So I do, and like magic he soothes. The words of a nurse are the most improtant words I hear in those early days: Don't listen to others listen to your baby. And the lessons begin.
Around week two, I decided to go for a walk around the block. Alone. I was feeling anxious about being away from my baby, and when I saw a gorgeous woman walking down the street pushing a baby carriage, I wanted to scream, "I have a baby too!"
Instead, I waived at her. She stopped. "I just had a baby," I blurted out.
Her baby turned her face to me and I saw she had down's syndrome. Then I saw the mother, so alive and so excited about being a mom.
"That's great!" She said.
I remember walking home thinking this girl was a gift. She was a reminder to cherish my beautiful baby boy and never take motherhood for granted.
Week three. I was tired. So tired. I was walking a friend to the door to say goodbye wearing only a nursing bra, my big baby tummy sticking out, holding my baby on my hip. When I opened the door, I saw the papparazzi camped out on my lawn. They took a picture of me crying, holding my baby. I hadn't realized that they knew where I lived. I was upset, shaken, furious that my baby would never be safe. My husband went to talk to them, and they said that if I would just pose for a picture, they would go away. We didn't believe them.
I didn't leave the hosue after that. I don't think they knew what was going on. So in a sense, if I hadn't had a self-imposed forty-day seclusion, I would have to do it anyway.
Now, I'm often followed by the papparazzi. I won't go to certain parks with my kids because I know they'll be there. I'm used to it at this point. I know how to deal with it. But in those first few months of my baby's life, it was terrifying. I felt as though at any minute they were going to kidnap my baby.
A wise friend once told me that it would be hard to stay balanced as a mother, that I would have to "find my moments inside my family." That is what those forty days were all about. That is what I still strive for. As I write this, I am in my parked car, with baby number two asleep in his seat, and I'm "find my moment."
With the passing of time, I'm a lot more relaxed. My life as a mother is so different from what it was like in those first forty days. Now, I never stop moving. I'm either making something to eat, or wiping something off the floor or doing dishes or laundry or driving my son to pre-school or trying to put the baby to sleep for his nap or going to the park or giving them a bath. Most nights, we watch a show together as a family and then climb into our big bed exhausted, all of us together.
This is where it all ends - where it all started. In my bed, with my husband and my two boys under my wings, cuddled in, warm and safe in the world.

Source: http://www.themosspit.net

Lots of thank you for my good friend, Kara to share with usthis part from the book!

A könyv megvásárolható az amazon.ca oldalon./ You can buy the book on amazon.ca