Growing up, I always assumed I’d get married and have kids. I wanted one of those sitcom families. I grew up watching Leave it to Beaver, The Brady Bunch and Happy Days, and dreamed about how I’d meet Mr. Right, have a fairy tale wedding, and be blessed with a perfectly happy family. It seemed so easy and perfect. I thought all of this would happen right out of college, but instead I got a little sidetracked… climbed the corporate ladder, got my Master’s degree, partied, dated, got inked and pierced, and sat in a therapist’s office to discuss my troubled childhood so that I wouldn’t make the same mistakes with my future family. You know, it was all about me.
I woke up one day on the late side of my 20s, and thought it was time to find Mr. Right. It was 2000, so I decided to be technically savvy and search for him online. After a few Mr. Wrongs, including the guy who bragged about expensing our date to his corporate account and then asked me for $10 for my half of the drinks; the guy who wore ugly shoes (call me shallow); and the guy with whom I had absolutely fantabulous sex, but broke my heart, I met my current husband.
At first I wasn’t sure about him. We got along really well, he was good looking, but it seemed to be more of a friendship. Then one day, a few months into our relationship while we were grocery shopping for a barbecue, I was taking groceries out of the cart to put on the conveyer belt, looked at him, and knew he was the one with whom I’d have children. That’s really how it happened. Of course it didn’t work out all nice and easy – life never does, does it? It took us two more years to sort through all of our combined baggage before we finally got engaged, and then another year of whirlwind wedding planning before our blissful nuptials.
By that time I was 34 years old and the old biological clock was ticking away. We started trying to conceive on our honeymoon. We were blessed with a pregnancy after only three months of trying. One day after my 35th birthday, our daughter was born. The childbirth experience was like nothing else I have ever experienced. Sure it was painful, but it was also the biggest high I’ve ever had. I was completely head over heels in love with my little bundle of joy.
Now here’s what I don’t get… why didn’t one of my BFFs tell me what being a mom was really like? Seriously. I was one of the last of my circle of friends to start a family. They had all been through this before. All I heard about from my friends were the joys of watching their child’s first steps, hearing her first words, taking fun family vacations, creating arts and crafts together, going on trips to the zoo, etc. How come no one ever uttered a word about baby blues, jelly belly, plugged ducts, sleepless nights, diaper explosions or colic? No one ever talked about the reality of being a mom. Was I the only one in my circle of friends who was not the embodiment of June Cleaver, Carol Brady, or Mrs. Cunningham?
I muddled through my daughter’s first year, figuring out the mommy thing by trial and error. I read what seemed like endless parenting books. I also continued to feel detached from other moms. I went to Gymboree and took my daughter to play dates, and I just couldn’t figure out why all the new mommies looked so well-balanced. I was tired, lonely and confused.
When my daughter turned 12 months old, my husband and I started talking about having another baby. Once again, we were blessed after a short time with our second pregnancy. One month after our daughter’s 2nd birthday, our son arrived. I was thrilled. I didn’t understand how it would be possible to love another baby, but I most definitely felt that head over heels in love feeling with my little baby boy. I was also a lot more calm the second time around. After all, I had this mommy-of-a-newborn stuff all figured out. I was prepared for anything that could possibly happen (yeah, right).
The first five weeks of our son’s life were incredibly happy ones for me. Then I hit a brick wall. I started crying on a regular basis, felt like I lost my identity, was tired all the time, didn’t want to leave the house, and was becoming more and more depressed. I had been blindsided with postpartum depression. Once again, none of my friends had ever talked about this. Sure, I followed the Brooke Shields/Tom Cruise media blitz, but I didn’t know anyone IRL who had experienced PPD. What was wrong with me? Surely my friends would have talked about this if they had gone through it, right? I grew tired of having to plaster on a happy face everywhere I went. I eventually shared with my friends what was going on. Wouldn’t you know it? Three of my friends had also battled PPD.
What gives? Why do women share the ups and downs of dating and marital relationships, female issues, childhood problems, job woes, etc., but are so reticent to utter a word about what it’s really like to be a mom? Here I sit, my feet firmly planted in suburbia, with 30 pounds of baby fat to lose, my hair in a scraggly pony tail, not a stitch of make-up on my face, in yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt, and let’s not forget the attractive nursing bra and bra pads, and I wonder what the hell happened to my identity. I can’t be the only mom who feels lost and confused. Don’t get me wrong, my kids are the absolute loves of my life and I wouldn’t trade them for anything. I know how incredibly fortunate I am to have two healthy, loving children. What really confuses me is why moms don’t talk with one another about the real stuff that goes on. I’ve asked my friends that and I get the canned response, “Because if we did that, no one would ever have kids.” Yeah, yeah, everyone knows that’s not really true.
So all of you moms, let’s get real with one another. We all know that you love your children more than life itself. And yes, I want to hear that Suzy knows her ABCs and used the potty twice yesterday, but I also want to hear that you counted the hours until your husband arrived home from work and that you plugged your kids in front of Sesame Street so that you could catch up on your Constant Chatter threads. Let’s not judge one another. I think we can all agree that there’s enough mommy guilt to go around without heaping it on each other. It’s okay to want to lock yourself in your bedroom so that you can watch an uninterrupted episode of American Idol. It’s okay to drive around in the car, hoping your child(ren) will magically fall asleep while you enjoy a turtle mocha. It’s okay to look forward to your child’s first day of pre-school so that you can spend two hours perusing the aisles of Target without having to utter the phrase, “Please sit down in the cart”. And it is certainly okay to share these feelings with your friends. You might be surprised to find they’ve been feeling the same way.
Catgirl1007
I hear you, Catgirl007! I had dinner with 2 girlfriends last week who haven’t had kids yet and I think they were shocked. I was brutally honest with them…the sleepless nights, the pain and recovery after delivery, the fact that I often count the hours until DH gets home. I haven’t had to deal with PPD, but if I was, I’d be honest about that, too.
It’s important to me to be honest with my girlfriends and make sure they know that while being a Mom is the greatest thing I’ve ever done….it’s also the harder then I ever imagined. I wouldn’t trade it for the world…but sometimes I’d like to take a Mommy vacation!!