I've hesitated to write this letter to you for a lot of reasons; mostly, I'm afraid you'll think I'm nuts (which, let's be honest, I sort of am), and I don't want to scare you if you're doing just fine. Plus, every experience is so different that I don't know if you'll even need to hear what I have to say. But having my first baby was hard on me, and maybe something in my situation will ring true for you – now or in the future – and you'll know that you're not alone.
I expected to feel instantly bonded to my baby the minute he was born, and I thought there was something wrong with me when I didn't. Mostly I felt scared. I was oozing from every part of my body, I was sore, and I was tired. Nursing HURT. My toes would curl in pain as the baby latched on (and I was doing it right!), and more than once I cried through a midnight feeding while my husband slept soundly. I resented him, a lot. I was mad at him for not knowing that I was so tired I thought I would die of it, how my life had been turned upside-down-inside-out and then lit on fire, while his life was essentially the same. He was working and going to school at the time, so I didn't want to wake him in the night; plus, I was nursing so there wasn't much he could do anyway. But I was still mad. :) And the poor man had no idea what to do with me.
Then there was the boredom. Suddenly, I didn't know what to do with myself. The baby was so unpredictable in public that I hated to take him anywhere for fear he'd scream the whole time. And the loneliness was almost unbearable, but I didn't want to interrupt the well-oiled routines of the other moms I knew. And I think I was secretly afraid they'd judge me.
There were times in those early days when I'd look at expectant mothers and think, “Poor girl, she has no idea what she's in for. Isn't anyone going to give up the act and tell her how hard this is?” At the same time, I was terrified that her experience would be the simple, beautiful transition that mine was not, and I was so mad at myself for feeling grumpy about the whole thing. I thought I must be unrighteous, totally selfish, or broken for my lack of contentment. I can look back now and see that I had postpartum depression, but at the time I just thought I was deficient somehow. How could this thing that I'd been told I was supposed to do, this life's work that I wanted make me so miserable? And since I felt at the time that I was “supposed” to have a gaggle of kids, all I could see was more of the same agony stretching on through the next two or three decades. I was, in a word, a mess. (Okay, two words.)
And now the good news: it got better. I did in fact want to have a second and even a third child, and my experiences have been completely different. I got help for my PPD after #2, using a combination of medicine and counseling to pull me out of what I refer to as “the dark place.” I had only a whiff of PPD after #3, and by the time I suspected it, it was gone.
I don't read childcare books anymore, because they're written about other people's children, not mine. I used to think all my kids' sleep problems were a product of poor parenting; then I had my third, who was sleeping eleven hours straight at two months old, and I realized I had no control whatsoever! I guess that's been the hardest transition for me – relinquishing control. My plans get changed, my sleep interrupted, my patience tested and tested and tested. And at the risk of sounding like that well-meaning but unhelpful friend who pats you on the head as she offers useless advice, I say this: whatever you are doing with that baby is perfect. And whatever you decide to do differently tomorrow will also be perfect. Because that baby is yours to mess up, but you won't. And if you ever find yourself swearing in your mind (or out loud) about how hard it is to be the mom, you know where to find me. I AM SERIOUS ABOUT THIS. I even know a good counselor.
Welcome to the club! I'm cheering for you.
Love,
Brittany
