‘The days are long, but the years are short.’ We’ve all heard this one, but I never truly understood it until I held my last baby, and was still finding motherhood difficult. I never thought about having a big family – I am an only child, and I think a lot of us envisage recreating our own family dynamic. But I now know that I have had my last baby, and strangely it makes my heart ache in a way that thinking my first child was also my last never did.
It took me a long time to feel at home in motherhood, a lot longer than I was comfortable admitting for a long time: the pressure is intense.
5 Things I Never Wrote In Your Baby Book About Finding Motherhood Difficult – But I Will Tell You When You Are Grown, Darling Daughters, Sweetest Sons.
The weight of raising another human being, of guiding another person through life when you lose sight of your own path often enough… that is a responsibility that no job or relationship could possibly prepare you for. I have met many women who were ready to be mothers, and not a single one who was prepared. A love that knocks you to your knees and simultaneously drives you to the brink of insanity at least twice weekly – sometimes daily – that’s humbling, and there’s no instruction manual for that (I know, I’ve looked – it’s normal to find motherhood difficult. Because motherhood is difficult.)
A letter to those who made me a mother.
My darling children, if you ever read this, what I want you to know is that there has not been a single moment where I have regretted having you. That’s what I want you to know. What I need you to know, for your own sanity, is that parenthood is not joyous moment upon joyous moment. I have memorised every one of your faces, the way your lips sit as you sleep, the desperation in your eyes as you cry, just needing to be physically closer to me than is humanly possible, the length of your eyelashes and the folds of your ears… hours, days and months of holding your sweet forms close to me have etched those details in my mind and heart. But a lot of moments have been hard, and I don’t want you to ever feel like a failure as a parent because I haven’t told you that.
It has been a privilege to be your comfort.
I hope I always will be, now and after I have taken my last breath. If you have children, you will one day understand. My boys, remember that you matter. You are an example to your sons of what it means to be gentle and strong, and to your daughters of the standard who they should and will hold all men to. It’s heavy, isn’t it.
My girls, when you stand there, bleeding and weak, holding a baby who just can’t seem to settle, please know you have never been stronger. Anybody who makes you feel anything less doesn’t understand the love you carry, inside and outside your body. Because motherhood is difficult – it is your heart living outside of your body, and impossible though that sounds – women through the ages have lived this way, welcome to the club.
Here Are The Things I Never Told You.
1. On the hard days, I sobbed into my pillow.
Some days were the very best days of my life, and some days – fortunately far fewer than the best days – I would place your little screaming selves in the cot, close the door, and cry so hard into my pillow that I didn’t think I would ever catch my breath. Sometimes this would be for thirty seconds, sometimes a couple of minutes… I couldn’t tell you. Some moments in life last an age when they are only seconds, others fly by and somehow ten calendars have passed.
All I can tell you with absolute certainty, is that those cries healed my heart in a way I couldn’t have functioned without. I would suddenly be cried out, and be able to open your door, pick you up, and comfort you with such love and calm that you sensed the shift and absorbed my calm yourself. Never feel ashamed for needing a moment. I will say it again until it abolishes the guilt you undoubtedly feel: Motherhood is difficult.
2. I never felt good enough.
This is a tragic reality I have learned to sit with in parenthood. In recognising you as my greatest gift I have found that I rarely feel worthy of you. While I make every effort not to compare myself to others, to other women sharing their highlight reel while living in quiet desperation, I struggle to not compare myself to the mother I hoped to be. The mother who always knew what to say, the mother who could use every moment of conflict as a teaching opportunity and who would rise from even the poorest night’s sleep to cook up a nutritious breakfast from scratch. I have been left either speechless or questioning my own pearls of wisdom more often than not over the last fifteen years, and it’s only when I notice those little looks you give me that I feel like I’m deserving of you. I am never one for preaching validation from others, but my goodness, those looks of adoration make my heart flutter.
3. I secretly love when you’re clingy… because I feel needed.
Here is our job description, as parents:
You must love another human being so completely, so fiercely and so protectively… that you teach them how to exist without you.
What an utterly impossible love. But, it’s what we do. We meet a fresh baby, whether they are fresh from our bodies or, in the case of adoption, freshly in need of a start in life. We fall utterly head over heels in love with the most innocent of souls, feel an overwhelming rush of pride for every single thing they do: from those first windy smiles, to those early broken sentences. to the first and every other time we see them show kindness and compassion, to their first school report, first love, first job interview… first home. Without us. A first home where we won’t tuck them in before theatrically performing one last check for monsters under the bed, or make sure they have two pieces of fruit with their lunch.
So.
When you pause and hold my hand a little tighter before running off to join new friends in potato printing in a brand new classroom. When you ask for an extra story at bedtime or an extra kiss before Grandma takes you for ice-cream I will smile and remind you of how much fun you are about to have, but inside, I’m glowing that you took that extra moment to seek comfort from me.
4. You mattered more than us.
I love my husband. I love that he always says that he became a father the moment he met my two children, and years later I made him a father two more times. I love watching how you all love him: He gave us roots as a family, and we him. But our marriage stopped mattering in those soft, early newborn days. In ways it’s exactly like the movies: bump stroking, nursery planning and belly kisses. Then there’s there the way where it’s just… not. Firstly, hormones are charmingly amusing in films (and, as Jacob will tell anybody who will listen, we have a few of those… like when I called Jackson home from work in tears because we were late to school and the car was frozen shut. Only it wasn’t – it was just locked.)
But the reality is that I was all-consumed by pregnancy in the best and the worst ways. I suffered with hyperemesis gravidarum (HG, severe pregnancy sickness) with all of you, which, by my forth pregnancy, left me weak and resentful that I couldn’t interact with my one year old little boy. I was nesting so strongly that sandwich crumbs left on the side in the kitchen left me convinced that he didn’t feel ready for our baby, and let’s not even go into uncomfortable and slightly awkward pregnancy sex (sorry, kids.)
Having nearly 8 years between Jacob and Killian meant that, with the older children at school, there were cosy days of feeding and naps with my head on your dad’s chest, but a year later, Nova’s newborn phase just wasn’t like that. Two under two is hard… two under two in a pandemic while home-schooling is harrrd. Oh an Nova, my beautiful, affectionate, sweet girl… you screamed for the first 18 months of your life. Constantly. I would be rocking you in the baby carrier, nuzzling your head, and your hair would be wet from my tears. Your father came home to find me crying in the shower more than once.
It’s was all worth it, it always is, but it was all about parenthood in those early days, not us. We forgot to hold hands, to watch nonsense on television, to ignore our own projects and to laugh hard and often together for a while. I think that’s common, so if that happens to you and your love when your twosome becomes three, four, five… don’t fret. Just take time for one another and start holding hands again. If you have found a true partner then you will fall back into how things should be between you, with a little effort. It’s worth noting that there is something to be said for remembering to make eye contact during those day-to-day stressful moments and say ‘Hey, same team babe.’ It matters.
5. I feel ungrateful for needing to complain.
I will never understand why so few of us, myself included, have grown up unable to show our selves the same kindness we show others. I would never berate a friend for needing to vent, nor would I assume that her finding several months of consistent sleep deprivation challenging meant she didn’t love her child… so why I feel ashamed of my need to complain about the frankly rubbish elements of motherhood is beyond me. I think having struggled with infertility for a period plays a part… whether it’s pressure others put on us or pressure we put on ourselves – I feel guilty every moment that I’m not feeling incredibly lucky.
I feel like I should be inhaling those soft heads of hair because they won’t be soft (or willing to let me sniff them) forever. I have also been in the thoroughly unhelpful situation of needing to tell someone how overwhelmed I have been feeling only to be reminded of how quickly time flies far too often. We need to be able to syphon off negative emotions without having our feelings either invalidated or worse, used to make us feel guilty – even unintentionally.
I remember being desperate for a little break to take a few breaths when Killian was a couple of months old, so meeting with a friend, Nadia, for cake in an old English village. It was exactly what I needed. Yet the moment she cuddled my baby I felt furious, aware that he would now smell of her perfume. It made no sense, it was even ridiculous, so I said nothing. A few seconds later, she said ‘Wow, you’re good at sharing your baby! I hated it!’ And it all clicked into place: It doesn’t have to make sense, and you’re never alone in feeling what you feel.
My darlings, parts of parenthood are indescribably hard in such strange ways that it’s often difficult to articulate, even if you feel comfortable doing so. It’s difficult to admit that somebody you can’t bear to part with for longer than a few minutes also sometimes makes you feel like you can’t breathe. It’s difficult to admit that the baby you longed for for so long is finally in your arms and you have moments where you miss life before they were there. It’s almost impossible to admit that, armed with maternal instinct and Google, you sometimes have absolutely no idea what you’re doing.
But there is a bravery in that honesty. I hope you know that any time you need to shower, or have somebody else hold your baby, or want to hold your baby and just sleep while somebody else puts on the laundry – I am here.
You won’t find a trace of these words in your baby books, because they are pages which celebrate the utter joy we felt in having you. But I still wanted to write them somewhere.
Because there is something to be said about the celebration of being human.
I love you, my sweet babes.
Your Mum x
Sophia says
You hit the nail on the head with so many points! Isaac is our first baby, but my 6th pregnancy, so I was ready but definitely not prepared! Also the mum guilt is strong, when I just want some time to myself. This weekend was especially hard because I missed my old life; some old friends had gone to a festival without me, and I felt so lonely. I love your beautiful posts because they help ground me when I’m struggling with feelings like that. Also I didnt realise the rage when someone held your baby, was a real thing. I thought I was just feeling selfish 😅 xxx