Motherhood: My 3 Month Relection

They say nothing can prepare you for how much motherhood changes your life, and I disagree. You can totally make my mistake of obsessively researching the topic, reading a zillion fear-mongering cautionary tales about the loss of freedom, the overwhelming expenses, the strains on a marriage, the endless worry, the sleeplessness, the relentless toil of soothing, cleaning, disciplining…until it doesn’t sound all that wonderful and magical. Even after clearing the hurdle of the baby decision itself, I expected the worst, especially in the days leading up to my labor induction. I had anxiety about the pressure to “bounce back” and losing my pink, so to speak, becoming just another victim of invisible domestic labor. Being type A, I was pretty determined to be the best mother I could be, but knew that I would inevitably need to loosen my perfectionistic tendencies. There is no such thing as a perfect mom, but I did everything I could to prepare, and in some ways, it paid off. I prepared the house for her arrival, ensured that supplies were adequate and well-organized, and mentally steeled myself for a priority shift, reminding myself that the hard stuff is always temporary, I have a husband with a heart of gold, and you don’t have to put your entire life on pause - plenty of people make it work with multiple kids!

Still, I entered the labor and delivery ward with trepidation. I knew after watching L&D nurses on YouTube and talking through the process with my MFM and OBGYN doctors roughly what to expect, but knowing and experiencing are two different things. I climbed into the hospital bed and could hardly even imagine what my immediate future would look like. 18 hours later with the help of a truly amazing team at Northwestern Medicine, she was born.

I will concede that nothing can prepare you for the feeling of the first time holding your firstborn child who grew inside of you for 9 months. And if my paltry 3 months of experience are any indication, nothing can prepare you for the years of witnessing your little baby grow up to become her own person, and you can only hope that you do a good enough job for her to still love you and want to engage with you after she leaves you to live her own life. To me, she is a living representation of the passage of time, a reality full of pain, grief, and sorrow but also joy, bliss, and pride. At the same time she grows up, I grow older.

I did not decide to have a child “to be happier” and in any case, happiness is not necessarily a helpful goal anyway. However, I found myself increasingly curious about the world of child-rearing, and with the help of a therapist, I was most fulfilled when I experienced awe. Nothing prepared me for just how much love I felt for a being I just met. It’s not the same as the love I feel for my husband, or my cats, or really any other living thing - it’s simply incomparable. The doctors immediately laid her tiny 5 pound body on my chest and I simultaneously decided that I would die for her. I’m sure there are a million biochemical reasons why this happened, but again, knowing and experiencing are not the same.

Watching her grow makes you acutely aware of time passing; a baby’s brain develops astonishingly fast during the first three months. I want time to slow down just so I could savor this precious time before her tiny little features size themselves up to normalcy. Granted, my baby was exceptionally tiny even at full term at 0.2 percentile, but what I noticed first was just how tiny her fingernails were (investing in this filer was a wise decision). Her hiccups sounded like a tiny little bird tweeting. Newborn crying is not loud - their tiny vocal cords can only muster so much volume. 3 months later, I am considering earplugs to take off the edge.

Photo by Alice of Heartwritten Photography

I took tons of photos and videos of her newborn scrunching, reflex smiling, looking curiously at the world despite having poor vision to start. I was in awe of the range of facial expressions she was making straight from birth and the manifestations of our physical traits. At 5 weeks, she finally grew out of her premie clothes. At 6 weeks, she smiled. And now, at 3 months, she is conversing with us in coos. The innocence of this dreamy period is fleeting, and it’s so easy to forget when she has a difficult crying spell. At 13 weeks now, she is still wearing her newborn clothes, charming strangers with her doll-like appearance.

Are there difficult parts? Of course - but I expected that. Waking up in the middle of the night, multiple times, every night, for months, is never going to be easy. Having to buy and organize baby gear is extra work, as are the logistics of getting out of the house. Cleaning spit-up is a daily occurrence. But her problems are small - smaller than the problems of a ten year old or a teenager. They’re simple and relatively easy to fix, even if she cannot clearly communicate them yet. With my maternity leave coming to ad end, I dread the logistics of pumping, letting her be cared for by strangers, even if well-qualified strangers, and not enjoying our time together that she won’t remember, but I will.

From a position of privilege, not having encountered postpartum depression or anxiety, I’d give it more than 5 stars. My only regret is that I did not start sooner.

Motherhood: My 3 Month Relection

Getting off the Fence