I think I am supposed to be maternal. Like, as a woman. And especially as a mother. I think society expects that I would naturally be maternal.
I should have felt forever called to have children. But I didn’t.
I never thought I would have kids. This isn’t the first time I’ve divulged this truth. I thought I’ll just be the fun aunt. Growing up, I babysat but I never watched actual babies that I can recall. I was never drawn to people’s children at events or gatherings unless they had reached the age of being talking humans who could use a bathroom on their own. I didn’t have younger cousins around me on a regular basis. I was the youngest person in my family. To me, babies were just meh.
I met this guy that I really liked. And we ended up dating for quite a spell. In fact, we liked each other so much we started talking about babies. And marriage. And a life together. A life with a family. It was then that I knew, I wanted to have tiny little humans with this man. Tiny helpless little humans that we would be responsible for 24/7. Because why not, right?
It didn’t matter that I didn’t have a maternal bone in my body, right? It didn’t matter that I didn’t really enjoy other babies that didn’t belong to friends or family, right? It didn’t matter that when I smelled the top of a baby head, I just smelled hair and spit-up, right?
So we pulled the goalie and our first child was en route. On the Brehm train. And we were headed into Babyland. The Parent Hood. Legit responsibility. And intense life skill training.
Because guess what? If you haven’t really spent a lot of time with infants, they are actually pretty different from the small humans who can talk and go to the bathroom alone.
Intense. Life. Training.
Being in charge of feeding. Sleeping. Crapping. And peeing. Of another human. And still, for yourself.
Knowing how to climb stairs in the middle of the night. In the darkest hours. With boobs so full you think you are actually carrying balloons around that might burst if you run into a corner or a stair rail.
Letting said human latch on to your utters and go to town whenever duty calls. And earning bruises, scabs, and bleeding nipples in the process. OR washing bottle. After bottle. After bottle. After bottle. Nipple after nipple. Cap after cap. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Literally.
Logging thousands of steps while “shu-shu-shusssssssssh”ing, swaying, doing the macarena, and mixing a margarita… all in attempts to drown out or cease the screaming of your wee one’s screaming fits.
Loading up 50 diapers, two sets of wipes, 34 binkies, and more into a diaper bag after getting yourself dressed, the baby dressed, a blowout changed, the baby changed again, and realizing that today is not your day for a trip to the grocery store because it’s time to feed the little dude again.
Doing all of the above and more while sporting a padded porta-john in your pants to collect all of the leftovers from the baby entry OR wearing your grandpa’s Depends in an effort to not have underwear slam up against your c section incision every time you choose to breathe.
Watching other moms and wondering why on God’s green earth do they make it look so easy. Why is their hair fixed? Why can’t I see their ginorma-pad outline on the bum of their skinny jeans? Why is their baby not screaming all the time? I thought babies were supposed to scream all the time? Why does my baby cry all the time? Why is she wearing earrings and makeup? How did she get that done? What is wrong with me?! Why did mothering a beautiful little baby make me feel like such an unnatural woman?
And when your infants that you house are smaller than the squash you grew in your garden last summer, they require even more of you.
More hours spent feeding. Some way or another. With syringe and pinky feeds. And then supplemental bottles after feeding then pumping. Waking up at all hours to hook your mams up to the milker. And falling asleep only to have milk soaking your only nursing bra that you like, night after night.
More time spent awake at night. For months on end. Until they are at a good enough weight to stay asleep. Until they are at a good enough weight to not lose weight if not fed through the night hours.
And, if you’re me… more time spent cajoling the child from its incessant bouts of crying. And changing your diet. And administering reflux meds. And being bitter that this life did not seem magical. And this baby did not seem okay. It seemed to hate life.
I hated it. Life with newborns. Life with true babies.
You did not misread that.
I hated it.
Maybe it’s because I didn’t have a maternal bone in my body? Maybe it’s because I was completely self-involved going into it? Maybe I was just a wimp when it came to a lack of sleep? Maybe it’s because I had never actually paid attention to anyone else’s baby for an actual 24 hour period to comprehend the actual dedication that these humans take to keep afloat?
Or maybe. Maybe no one really thinks it’s that great the first time around. Maybe everyone is secretly a mess. Maybe… maybe… hopefully… I remember thinking.
I was a milk-encrusted-mombie. I resembled a washed-up ferris wheel ride circa 1970 whose bolts were just not as tight as they once were. I wore the same nursing bra for 365 days in a row. I think I changed out of it a few times to wash it. But even that escapes my memory. I believe that my showering habits at at one point, meant that I washed my spit-up-laden locks at a maximum of once every 8 days. I cried often and told my husband that I didn’t feel like this was how motherhood was supposed to feel. I didn’t want to be alone because the only sound that accompanied my days was the recurring screams of a baby who did not seem comforted by his mother. And I didn’t want to be with other people because I had lost touch with my old self to the extent that I believed that the daily dates I had with Gilmore Girls and Ellen were priority calendar items and I worried I might begin retelling the stories of my friends — Lorelai, Rory, Sookie, and El.
I loved this little human. I could not live without him. And there were even moments that, at the time, I never wanted to end — the very rare happenings that he was happy, awake, and not being fed, all at one time. But I felt 100% the worst at mothering. Like, I was pretty sure that if I were up against Courtney Love in a mothering contest, the floor would drop out beneath me and I would wind up in a room with all the other misfit mommies.
And the baby… I have to say… he was flippin’ cute. Like. The cutest little sub 5 pound creature I ever did lay eyes on {And I’ve seen some pretty cute dogs of the -poo variety that probably rivaled him in size}. But even his cuteness didn’t make me think, “Gosh… I want him to stay this way forever.”
I remember thinking, “it will be better when…”
Better when he gained and was 8 or 9 pounds. Or 12 pounds. 12 pounds sounded amazing. At a year, he was only 14.
Better when he wasn’t screaming all the time. Or fussing. Or contorting. Or making his painful kicks.
Better when he wasn’t a human barf machine. When every trip to the Breastaurant didn’t result in him yacking all over. When mealtime didn’t require 84 well placed pillows, a silicone nipple grip, a well-placed lap piddle pad to soak up the fiery white substance that burned his throat on its way back up, and a Xanax for mom.
Better when a bib was for looks. And we didn’t soak through 8 onesies a day.
Better when he didn’t wake up 6 times a night. To eat.
Better when he didn’t feed 13-14 times a day.
Better when he wasn’t such a baby.
And you know what?
I was right. At least for my world. My being. My existence. It truly was better when.
I thought maybe with the second, I would love it more… the baby phase.
I didn’t.
And then, with the third, I liked it more… but that one, well, I think I was just so happy after a three pound delivery and 6 weeks in the NICU that I just rolled with the punches and knew it would again “be better when.”
Some women are just not baby people. But that doesn’t mean we’re not mothers. Or nurturers. It doesn’t mean our ovaries’ emit some sort of babyhating green slime. It doesn’t, in any way, mean we don’t love our children. Each one of them that we are lucky enough to call ours. It just means, we don’t do babies.
I will admit, I now love to snuggle a baby. But I also love to give them back to their mom or dad. I smile at babies in Target carts or in church or at the park. I think they are cute. I love looking back at my boys when they were tiny little tots. I even, now, can smell the delicious baby smell that magically emits from a baby skin. I love the squishy, as my friend Emily calls them, “gummy bear feet.” And I adore the little giggles and coos and small hands holding onto a single finger of mine. But no part of me wants to deliver and care for another baby. Maybe that makes me selfish. Maybe it makes me non-nurturing. Or maybe, it just makes me the type of mom who prefers a little bit older kid. Yep. I am.
I felt so inadequate in those times. I felt so unlike myself. I believe my hormones were completely shipwrecked. My confidence, shot to smithereens. My body felt taken hostage by the milk sloshing around in my ductwork. My girl bits feeling like they might rip apart should I make one wrong move. The pee seemed to have a mind of its own and that pee seemed to be connected to my sneezing. And I feared that I would never learn how to mother.
But I did. I’m a damn fine mother now. The mother my boys need. The crazy, kooky, nutty type of nurturer that lives inside of me is now evident and bolder than in the early years. This mom likes to have dance parties in the kitchen and act like children with my children. This mother likes reading and conversing with my kids and answering their questions about the universe. This mom loves the age we’re at and doesn’t feel like the baby phase went too fast. This mom enjoys motherhood. And not just because it will be better when… but because it is already better. Now.
I think, if I’m being honest with myself and with you, with the first, 26 year old me p r o b a b l y could have benefited from any of the following: quitting nursing {because my milk seemed to cause a ridicu-scream sesh from the babe. And no… I didn’t quit and I’m not saying nursing is evil and I’m not saying you should or shouldn’t nurse}, eating normal foods {rather than the rigors of the MSPI diet on top of no sleep}, seeing a counselor, sending my kid to daycare+working a little or a lot {to see how I felt returning to an old “norm” and to poop alone on a regular basis}, and some prescription meds {because, as my friend Jamie says, life is sometimes better through chemistry}. That’s just what I think {again: I am not saying you should nurse or shouldn’t nurse. I’m not saying you should or shouldn’t work. I’m not saying you shouldn’t change your nursing diet and I’m definitely not saying you should or shouldn’t be on meds for post-partum depression because I’m pretty sure I had that goin’ on up in my hizzouse. But counseling… everyone should see a counselor, y’all.} And while I know the little man is not any worse for the wear, I know that the result of my circumstances turned out to be just fine, I just believe that some of those things might have helped me at the time. And I just might have enjoyed it.
But then again, with the second, I don’t think I had any PPD and yet, I was still pretty miserable with babydom. I still just didn’t like it. I still thought it was overwhelming. I still thought it will be better when. And guess what… for us, it was. Eventually.
This is why I often say, we all have our own kind of hard. Because early motherhood… something that was really really hard for me… was really easy for others. Some people love babies. They are meant to mother them. And they say that they could take or leave kids. Some people LOVE teens {though honestly, I can’t say I know too many teen girl moms who state this claim very often;)}. Others are absolutely in love with their toddlers. Or their adult children. But some stage or all of them are hard for people for different reasons. And that’s okay.
So to you “Baby People” don’t hate me for hating the baby stage. Don’t look at me like my Uterus is broken simply because I didn’t always long to be a mother. And just try not to make the ones who aren’t so natural at it or have hard babies feel like their estrogen levels are off {fwiw… my body apparently makes estrogen on overdrive… I should be so maternal it’s not even funny} even though you totally don’t know that you have that power. We all come to motherhood in different ways.
AND NON-BABY PEOPLE, TO YOU, WITH YOU, I RAISE MY GLASS! I CHEERS TO YOU, MAMA WARRIOR! EVEN IF IT’S HARD OR YOU DON’T LOVE THIS PHASE… IT’S JUST PART OF THE DEAL. I TELL YOU, YOU CAN DO THIS! IT. DOES. GET. BETTER.
