They’re everywhere. Everywhere I look lately there are children. And there are parents. Everyone does it. But how? Honestly, how do they all do it?
And then they do it again! Whenever I see someone with more than one child, I can’t help but think they are absolutely freaking nuts. Seriously undone. Complete weirdos.
Until I became a parent myself, I went about my daily life, aware of children and parents; aware that ‘parenting’ went on. But I was living in a completely different realm – a parallel universe of utter bliss, completely naïve about life on the other side.
Until you’ve experienced it, you have no idea. I had no idea. It cannot be described. Nothing I dared imagine even comes close to how difficult and relentless looking after a baby has been. If I’d known, I might not have done it. Yes, that’s what I said.
Do not get me wrong. I love my baby very much. But – and here’s what I’ve never heard anyone else admit – I don’t love being a mother. I feel guilty even thinking this, and it’s taken me a while to admit it to myself. I haven’t admitted it to anyone else (I just can’t think of a suitable candidate – everyone I think of would either be appalled or disappointed).
Of course, people told me parenting was difficult and exhausting, but no-one mentioned that it was by far the most difficult thing I would ever do. I seem to recall they said it was the most rewarding thing I would ever do. But it’s really not that rewarding. I’m too tired to feel rewarded.
The first eight weeks of motherhood have faded into a blur now, but I remember thinking that some of the feelings I was experiencing were similar to those I felt when my father died. It was like grief. And that is no hyperbole. I see now that I was grieving the loss of, not only the life I now realised I would never get back, but the ideal of motherhood that I had been promised – the love I would find within me that I didn’t know I had; the satisfaction of bringing another life into the world. Instead, I was reeling from the trauma of an incredibly difficult birth and struggling to deal with the basic needs of a baby – an unsettled, constantly crying baby. I had no time for love or for joy. It saddens me to say that’s how I felt. But it’s the truth, and it needs to be heard.
They persistently warn you about signs of postnatal depression, which, sure, is a serious issue – I’m certainly not denying that. But, no-one warns you about the feelings you might experience because you simply don’t always enjoy being a parent – you just don’t like having to constantly and relentlessly look after another being, to bear hours of screaming that gnaw away at your sanity, to bounce, or sing, or stand, walk, drive – do whatever it takes – to make the baby happy, at the cost of your own happiness.
I am grieving the loss of my freedom, of time to myself, and of my body – which is no longer my own. And although we’ve spent a lot of time ‘together’ lately, I feel like I miss my husband.
This is not depression – this is not an illness – this is just me saying that I am not enjoying myself.
The more I talk to people, the more I realise I’m not alone. This is how it actually is for a lot of us; people just daren’t say it. We’re mis-sold the joy of motherhood by friends, by family, by the media – perhaps in a desperate attempt to protect us from the reality, but the reality is that hiding behind unrealistic social expectations only sets us up for failure.
To really help each other, we need to be honest about just how gruelling parenthood can be. I put one foot in front of the other, I get through each hour of each day, and I carry on because I love her. But right now, I am not enjoying it.