Sometimes, I wonder if I’m too doom and gloom about motherhood when I talk about it with other people, especially those who don’t have children. I worry that I’m being a big downer about parenting. I don’t mean to be because I personally feel like it’s worth it, even given how aggravating it can be.
However, some mothers seem to really love it from the very beginning (and then continue to love it for the rest of their lives), and that was simply not my experience. According to Ann Oakley, a British sociologist, feminist, and childbirth researcher, her goal in writing about motherhood is to make “a statement of how things are, rather than of how people like to think they might be.” I may not be a professor at UCL or a published novelist (yet), but I’d like to think my mission is the same. My conversations about becoming a parent are a statement of how things were for me, and not what people like to think they were.
For example, before I gave birth to my son, I’d spent years watching television shows like One Born Every Minute and A Baby Story, openly weeping at the ends of episodes when the babies were born. I’d cried at the births of so many stranger babies that when my own son was born, I was expecting to completely fall apart. Instead, as my own slimy newborn baby was placed on my chest, my first thought was, “Thank God that’s over.” My husband cried, but I’d just had the most primal, physically intense experience of my entire life, and my body was jelly and I was just so grateful it was over.
I think that’s a reality more women should be prepared for.
Also, I once ate dinner shirtless, with blood smeared all over my chest, after my son fell onto his face and got a terrible nosebleed right before my husband came home with our takeout Thai food. In years past, if I had, by some freak accident, found myself covered in someone else’s blood, snot, and tears, I would have, at the very least, taken a shower before eating anything. However, because my hysterical toddler calmed down just as my husband came through the door with dinner, my first meal of the day, I stripped off our bloody shirts, wiped us both off with baby wipes, and stuck my child in his high chair for rice and broccoli. We both ate, the toddler forgot about the trauma of the face plant, and I found grains of rice in my bra when I went upstairs to shower.
Again, a head’s up* would have been nice. (*PUN INTENDED.)
I love my child so much, I would literally tear the face off of anyone who tried to hurt him. I just also sometimes want to tear my own face off.