Motherhood has an outstanding PR rep. It is portrayed in society by a fit, young mom with impeccable hair and clothing, effortlessly carrying a peacefully sleeping baby on her hip. Before becoming a mother, you imagine motherhood enveloping you in a gentle, warm hug. Instead, motherhood slaps you across the face. Hard.
As Mother’s Day approaches, I’d like to shed light on the reality of motherhood as I experience it. Not with the intention of dissuading anyone from becoming a mother, but instead to be in solidarity with other moms out there like me.
During my first pregnancy, I was one of the last women in my childbirth class to have a baby. Several of the couples, but especially the moms-to-be, became quite close over the course of the four months that we learned to breathe, time contractions, and create birth plans together. (Ha! As if anything to do with birth can be planned!). Each woman before me experienced childbirth differently, but they all reported two common things about their babies: “she is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” and “I loved him more than anything in the world the moment I held him in my arms.”
My first childbirth was dramatic, rapid and intense. My daughter Bucky was born after only one hour and forty-nine minutes of active labor. What my midwife called “Mack Truck labor.” I held Bucky in my arms, but I did NOT feel either of the things my friends had felt. I felt powerful, and exhilarated; overwhelmed and terrified. But I did not feel instantly connected to my child. And so, I worried, “What is wrong with me?” When Bucky didn’t immediately latch on my breast to nurse, the nurses seemed concerned. Again, I worried, “Am I going to be a terrible mother?”
It turns out, my first experience of motherhood has been repeated constantly since I became a mother. The last five and a half years of my life have been dominated by ever present self-doubt and anxiety. Am I letting her cry too much? Am I nursing him enough? Am I reading to her enough? Am I giving him enough tummy time? Giving frequent enough baths? And now, do I allow too much screen time? Do I make them eat enough vegetables? Do I yell too much? Or not enough? Do they have enough toys? Too many toys? The right toys?
Since having kids, my mind is never idle. If I am not focusing on work, I am thinking about my children. How can I make their lives better? Easier? Happier?
And you know who is not thinking about making MY life better, easier or happier? My children.
When my son Max was a newborn and Bucky was a little over two, I was trying to get Bucky ready to go to daycare. I had finally gotten her dressed, Max was strapped into his car seat, and we were about to go to the mudroom to get on our shoes. I can’t remember the exact circumstances, probably because as with much two-year-old behavior there was no rhyme or reason, but Bucky smacked me across the face so hard my glasses clattered to the floor, yanking my nose ring out. I was shocked and I reacted. It was the first time (not the last) I screamed at her. “Stop!” Bucky’s lips trembled and she wilted into a puddle of tears, as did I. I was furious. Both with Bucky and with myself for losing my temper. I didn’t want to be a mom that yelled. I felt helpless to control myself or my child. Max joined in on our tearful chorus, and we all sat on the kitchen floor weeping. It was the first time I remember feeling regret about having children. But of course, I didn’t just feel regret. I felt profound shame. And despair.
The decision to become a mother cannot be undone; children do not come with a return policy.
From time to time, I would mention to other moms, both peers and elders, how trying I found motherhood. I would muse on how different (better) my life would be if I hadn’t had kids and hint at my true feelings on the matter. My words were almost always met with gasps and pearl clutching or were dismissed with a sharp “You don’t mean that!” These reactions made me feel reprehensible because, in fact, I did mean it. These women, and society, were telling me: you are defective.
The pain of facing this torment in combination with the isolation of believing you are the sole mother to feel it cannot be overstated.
Three years into motherhood, a new friend and I went to lunch one day and as we were discussing being moms, she confided in me that if she could do it all over again, she might not choose to have children. This admission took my breath away. She was the first person to say out loud what I felt deep inside. What I still feel.
Tears stream down my cheeks as I write these words because I never want anyone to think for one second that I don’t fiercely love my children or that I wouldn’t do anything to keep them safe and happy. My children are brilliant and irrational. They are hilarious and infuriating; precocious and obstinate. I adore them. It is because I love them so deeply that I find motherhood impossible and at times miserable. And it is because I love them so deeply, that I know I am not a terrible mother.
Motherhood is not clean and simple. It is complex and thorny. It is a contradiction: the apex of joy and the apogee of despair. On this Mother’s Day, Moms, I hope that you allow yourselves the freedom to fully embrace your feelings. To love being a mother, or to love your children but hate being a mom.
Whatever your experience of motherhood is, know you are not alone.