They taught me how to put on a diaper and how to swaddle a newborn. My husband and I attended a "New Parents" class at the hospital for three weeks in a row and there, we learned most of the basics. We found out which formulas are best for colicky babies, what rocking position can help soothe nighttime woes, and the pros and cons of crying it out. We learned, mostly from our own mothers, what kind of baby food was the most palatable, when to expect the transition from crawling to walking, and to never put scratchy blue jeans on an infant, no matter how absolutely precious it might look.

Yet, no one told me that having my first child would absolutely turn my world around in the very best way. No one told me there would come a night, around month three, where I'd be nursing my baby in the very early morning hours and she'd reach up with her tiny fingers to grab my arm and my heart would physically ache from the sweetness. No one told me about the instant selflessness I'd feel. The need to protect, defend and give fully of myself wasn't something I thought would come natural. Instead, I thought it would take a while to transition from full-time career girl to mother. I was used to routine pedicures, dinners out and a schedule that revolved mostly around my needs and wants. But there I was, knee-deep in diapers, milk, onesies and a needy baby who looked to me to fulfill every demand and never before had I felt such peace. Never before had I known so fully, so instantly, that I was meant to do something. Sure, I missed long showers, early bedtimes and a clean head of hair but I'd traded up in so many ways.

You see, I was never the kid who had a set-in-stone future goal. Many of my friends knew from a very early age that they wanted to be nurses, weathermen and scientists. I even had one friend who proclaimed any time she was asked that she wanted to be an ice cream taste tester. The adults all laughed, but she now works for a major food manufacturer and indeed, tests ice cream, among other products, for quality control on a daily basis. Me, on the other hand? I knew I wanted to write, and I knew I wanted to take care of people, but I didn't know where that would take me. Saddled with a lifelong speech impediment, I knew I wasn't keen on teaching, but didn't want to sit on the sidelines my entire life, either.

Turns out, life had plans to put me straight into the game, in a very big way. When I became a mother, I was 28, the same age my own mother was when she had me, her firstborn. I took steps to prepare every inch of the nursery. I nested like a frenzied madwoman, though we chose to not find out the gender of our baby. I found every item in gray, green or white that I could and created a haven of peace and joy. I derived so much joy from buying maternity leggings and decorating my bump. I attended the aforementioned hospital class, met with my firefighter neighbor to learn how to install my car seat properly, took an infant CPR course and tried to soak in all the knowledge, advice and tips that my friends, family members and co-workers so generously shared.

When she came, though? All of that information was lost on me at first, and I just stared deep into her eyes. I remember being in the hospital room on that first night, my husband downstairs getting me a turkey sandwich from the cafeteria. She was sleeping in my arms and I couldn't peel my eyes away from her. Was I going to be good enough? Was I going to be patient enough? What about smart enough, capable enough or kind enough? We learned together, she and I. We spent many of those first weeks just figuring each other out, and leaning heavily into this new life we suddenly shared together. It was a season of growth in so many ways, and one I look back on with the sweet nostalgia that only perspective can bring. Later, I found side work as a freelance technical writer, which enabled me to fulfill that side of myself while also staying home during the day.

Now, I have two sheep to shepherd and I'm still learning, every day. I don't think I'll ever have this whole parenting thing totally figured out, and I think that's part of the beauty of it. We aren't supposed to have all of the answers or know what to do in every given situation. It's that very unknowing that keeps us humble, grounded, and looking for support. It's that very question of "Am I good enough?" that keeps us wanting desperately to be not only good, but good for something. For them. My answer is always "not yet." I'll never be good enough to be worthy of this highest calling, but I'll spend my life working toward it.