How motherhood changed me

Motherhood is the hardest thing I’ve ever experienced. The bonus? It’s irreversible

I’m 12, T-shirt soaked from crying through Stepmom with my besties at the cinema. The film solidifies two life goals–be the “Best Mum Ever” and drive a Range Rover. Who doesn’t want to be Julia Roberts? Grown up, I’ve studied film and feminist literature, and built a career as a fashion journalist. But my life goal remains firmly in place.

I’m 28. I think I’m dying. My breasts scream all day, and I can’t seem to stay awake. I worship at the altar of efficiency but suddenly my body can’t seem to keep up with my being. It turns out I’m pregnant; it’s unplanned and absolutely does not align with my immediate life plan. I’m about to launch a new brand, start a whole new career, there are so many boxes to be ticked yet. But I keep it anyway. Because isn’t that what I always wanted? It seems cruel, ungrateful, to throw it away.

Instinctively I withhold this news from as many people as I can. I don’t know it yet, but it helps me avoid judgement and unwarranted comments until I absolutely can’t hide any longer. Eventually though, it comes. My gynaecologist berates me constantly for not eating enough, even though I am. My elders shame my too-tight T-shirts. Family members treat me like I’m suddenly incapacitated (“don’t drive”), rather than just pregnant. People constantly comment on my appearance, how “unpregnant” I look, already a source of anxiety, thanks to my gynaec. Strangers on the street come forward and touch my belly without permission or warning. It’s ceaseless and draining, this infringement on my life and body, as if I exist only as a vessel. As if it isn’t exhausting enough already, growing a baby and ticking off endless lists of its material requirements–finding the exact right stroller, car seat, and even the damn bottle- drying stand.

Teething troubles

I give birth. An unplanned C-section, that my doctor springs on me at dawn to suit her convenience. The celebratory chatter and stream of visitors in my hospital room is ludicrous, considering I’ve just had six layers of my abdomen sliced through. I just want to sleep and keep their germs off my baby.

The baby itself though, is nothing like all the popular imagery we’ve been fed. New-borns look like shrivelled raisins with the face of an angry old man. How could we have made this, I think. My daughter is incredibly hard work, barely sleeping, making constant demands of my body. I get it into my head that I must do everything myself, because that’s what “Best Mums Ever” do, duh. I refuse all help. It feels like I can’t get a minute to myself; I can’t put her down long enough to even shower sometimes.

I don’t magically and instantly connect with her, like we’re usually conditioned to believe we will. It always nags at me, this inability to feel love. I feel irritated from being biologically chained to her, magnified by a loss of my sense of self, like I’m a milking cow. So much FOMO for life that’s passing me by, outside, out of reach. I can’t seem to shake this feeling, that I’m watching my life happen to me in third person, like I can’t quite believe this is really me.

Trying to shut out the noise

I hate my body–so alien, I can’t quite figure out how to dress it anymore. The ugly linea nigra is taking far too long to fade from my belly. My too-full boobs require so much management. My tummy is an unwelcome bulk, no longer a cute bump. I don’t know how to bask in its power of creation.

I’m exhausted by people’s desires to visit my baby. Unsociable at the best of times, I resent having to be sociable on her behalf. As if I have the energy to put on a face, or proper clothes, or make polite conversation. Besides, what’s to really see in a crying-pooping-sleeping infant?! I’m amazed at how all kinds of sane, balanced adults talk at this creature that can’t even respond. I can’t make myself talk to her; it feels dumb. My only instinct is to guard her, like a lioness guards her cub, trusting no one else.

Meanwhile, there is a barrage of unsolicited advice and opinions. Why don’t you use talcum powder, why do you use cloth diapers, are you sure she isn’t still hungry, won’t you give her a bit of formula, why don’t you try making her sleep earlier or tire her out more? A whole ocean of seemingly well-meaning if entirely unhelpful noise, making me second-guess every single thing I’m doing.

One day at a time

Eventually, as my daughter starts being responsive, and as I track her developmental milestones, I feel a sense of wonder return, from my pregnancy days. Isn’t it crazy what my body made, to bear witness to evolution itself? It’s been slow- going, but I fall madly in love with this stranger I grew.

The thing is, the role of a mother is a weighty one. I’m not sure dads think as hard about what kind of fathers they want to be to their children. But for most women, it comes preloaded with a lot of ideas, especially patriarchal constructs, of how their motherhood should act out. I internalised so much of it and had a hard few years reconciling me-the-mother to me-the-individual.

There are several ways in which we’re held captive to an idea of motherly perfection: a natural birth versus a C-section/ breastfeeding versus formula/ cloth diapers versus nappies/ baby-led weaning versus feeding. I fell for Camp Natural hook, line and sinker, and what that does is put a lot of unnecessary demands on modern lifestyles. We expect to still play Earth Goddess Mother but also return to our old selves seamlessly. Hold onto our careers, find the will and time to work out, fit into our old clothes and keep up with our social lives. We cannot have it all. From the moment you bring another being to life, your time is fractured irrevocably. As of this moment, most of your choices are going to be coloured in some way by having created another human. It is the biggest commitment you’ll ever make.

What finally brought me some peace, is not trying to match this idea of perfection. Making choices of convenience, without judging myself. Asking for help, it really does take a village. Serendipitously, I read something at the right time, the gist of which was I needed to put myself first, that unless I was fulfilled, I couldn’t be a good anything to anybody else. In short, to be kind to oneself.

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