A few days ago, I stumbled across a New York Times article from last year called The Birth of a Mother.  The piece discusses matrescence — the transition into motherhood — and some of the common emotional challenges experienced by new mothers.  I could relate to much of what was in the article, particularly the part about ambivalence.

In my experience, few new mothers talk about these things openly.  Our society tends to focus far more on the baby than the mother, and once birth has occurred, we expect mothers (and fathers) to be themselves again in no time.  Many women internalize these unrealistic expectations, and they hide the disappointment they inevitably feel because they believe they are supposed to be feeling pure joy.

Discussing our challenges is key to overcoming them and to helping each other through them.  Understanding that others feel the same way is immensely reassuring and antithetical to shame.  Some of what follows may seem a little dark, but I try to be authentic here, and I think these things are worth sharing.

Matrescence has brought out the best and the worst in me.  It has amplified my good qualities and my bad ones.  At times, I am totally devoted to my child, completely present with him, and he fills me with love that spills over to others in my life.  But sometimes my selfish tendency takes over, and I find myself wishing I could hand him off to someone else and do my own thing.  I have found myself desperately craving quiet and the ability to live with reckless abandon, to once again be carefree.  I have mourned the loss of a certain kind of freedom that I probably won’t experience again for about two decades.

There are moments of great joy, like when my son smiles at me, and when he crawls over to me, tugging on my pants and wanting me to pick him up.  I love spending time with him, but not too much time.  I am grateful that I have a full-time job because I think I would go crazy if I had to spend all day, every day caring for my baby.

Yet after being away from him all day, I miss him and I want to keep my evening hours just for him.  I’ve withdrawn from other commitments and turned down invitations so I can spend most of my weeknights caring for and bonding with him.  But a consequence of this is that I feel the drain of monotony and social isolation from staying in so much and foregoing other activities.

I love that I know how to make him laugh, how to calm him when he cries, and how to put him to sleep.  Those moments make me feel like maybe I know what I’m doing after all.  But I question whether I have an innate maternal instinct.  I’ve never been one of those people who just knows how to talk to kids.  Though I try not to be, I can be impatient and distracted.  In the first few months, when I couldn’t get him to stop crying, I wondered more than once whether I was the right person for this job.

I want to give him the gift of a sibling, something I didn’t have, but I worry that raising two children will leave me feeling overwhelmed and depleted.  In the darker hours, I continually remind myself that a nap, some exercise, and a few hours of tending to chores will leave me feeling so much better.  The freedom to do those things, however,  can be hard to come by, especially when you have no family living near you.

The negative impact of child rearing on a marriage is well-documented, and I was prepared for it.  Simply expecting the predictable strain, however, doesn’t make it easy.  Both of us are devoting all of our available energy to keeping a helpless baby alive and healthy, and while there are frequent opportunities for bonding over shared experiences, there is little room for the essential elements of a thriving romantic relationship.  Interactions become transactional; conversations become mundane.  What was once easy now requires concerted effort that is sometimes hard to muster.

Before I had a child, I rarely fell into the social media comparison trap. Now, though, I find myself looking at other mothers’ lives and wondering why I, too, can’t find a way to achieve career success, volunteer in the community, tackle new fitness goals, and lead professional organizations all while raising a happy, healthy family and wearing a constant smile.  I remind myself that most of these people’s lives can’t possibly be as good as what they are presenting to the world, but it’s hard not to judge myself and wonder why I can barely manage to stay on top of the day-to-day essentials and squeeze in 20 minutes of yoga and meditation.  Fortunately I have several friends who are also raising young children, and we keep it real with each other, commiserating about our forgetfulness and uncraftiness and efforts to keep things simple.  We try to do the best we can for our children, but we also embrace a “good enough” philosophy.

I haven’t entirely adopted the identity of “mom” yet.  More than nine months into this job, I still see myself much as I did before I gave birth — as a woman, a friend, a daughter, a lawyer, a person interested in learning and adventures and deep conversations.  I have the added responsibility of caring for a small human, but this new role has not entirely overshadowed the other aspects of myself — not yet, anyway.  Perhaps I’m actively resisting that transformation, trying to maintain a separate sense of self, clinging as best I can to the things that have always made me me.

I don’t regret having a child.  Giving birth was an amazing experience. Caring for and connecting with my baby is a privilege, deeply fulfilling, and often a joy.  But I understand completely why many people choose not to procreate.  Given the physical, emotional, temporal, and monetary resources required, it is an entirely logical and rational decision not to take on this monumental, life-altering project.

Like everything in life, this stage is temporary.  Babies grow up, and in a few years, mine won’t require the same amount of intensive, hands-on attention.  We will adjust to a new normal.  Days will grow longer again and my energy will rebound.  He’ll start walking, then talking, then going to school, and eventually he won’t need me anymore, at least not in the way he does now.  When that day comes, I’m sure I’ll forget all about the hard parts and cherish the sweet memories, like the way his face lights up when I walk into day care in the evening, and the way he excitedly touches my hand when I say, “high five!”  All of it, the good and the bad, is temporary.  And that in itself, like motherhood in general, is both good and bad — or, more accurately, hard but beautiful.

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