Writing about Momming

Disclaimer: If people who blog about their thoughts and feelings make you itch with second-hand embarrassment, you might want to find something else to do on the internet right now. Here’s a great Ted Talk about procrastinating. I also recommend this Tiny Desk concert. Also, here’s a fascinating and at times grotesque video about how rubber-bands are made.

I’ve hesitated to publicly share any of my thoughts or writings about pregnancy and motherhood for quite a while now. I found out I was pregnant in September of 2016, and I had my first baby in May of 2017. Earlier this year, I found out that I’m pregnant with my second baby (due October 2018) and after what feels like being pregnant for 2 years straight, I decided to share some of these thoughts because no man is an island. (Unless you’re pregnant. Then you’re basically an island but with a lot of indigestion.)

One reason I’ve avoided writing about pregnancy and motherhood is because I didn’t want to upset anyone. I didn’t want to alienate anyone who is not a mother, either by choice or not. How could I boast or bitch about an experience when I know that people would give anything, including thousands of dollars and painful medical procedures to have that experience for themselves? I’ve also kept quiet because I didn’t want my friends who don’t want children to feel like I’m implying that their lives are somehow incomplete or incorrect. My decision to have children is not a better decision; it’s just a different decision.

I’ve also worried--and still worry--about the privacy of my children or how they might feel if they ever read anything that I wrote about motherhood. (My already complicated relationship with social media and the internet became more complicated when I realized that I’m not just creating a narrative for myself anymore.) I thought about how my perspective of my own parents would be different if, as a child, I had access to their questions, insecurities, frustrations, and exhaustion that are such a huge part of parenting.

But the main reason I’ve avoided writing about motherhood is because motherhood is a very competitive and cut-throat club. (If you don’t believe me, spend a few minutes on any of the motherhood forums out there. The “bless-your-heart” tone of the majority of the commenting moms just barely conceals the self-congratulations and gratitude they have for not being as clueless as the moms who are brave or desperate enough to ask for help on the internet only to find themselves standing on the most aggressively passive aggressive scaffold ever.) Writing about motherhood in an honest way makes me vulnerable to all the other moms out there who I am subconsciously and unwillingly competing with.

And the really effed up part is what we’re competing for. We are competing to see who is the best (or at least not the worst) at this thing that none of us really know how to do, especially first time moms. And I think I’ve figured out why moms are so unkind to one another, and it has to do with the narratives we heard our entire lives about pregnancy and motherhood. Many women, myself included, were socialized to want to be mothers, but the people and experiences that communicated those societal expectations were very unrealistic. And some of them were downright lying.

Many of the narratives that I heard about motherhood communicated that I was born to be a mother. That being a mother was just something that I would naturally know how to do. Biologically, there is truth to that. My body dealt with the logistics of growing a baby with very little input from me. My uterus stretched and swelled on her own. My ligaments and tendons relaxed and loosened without my instructing them to do so. My ribs spread apart and my abdominal muscles tore to make room for my displaced organs and my sons’ bodies because that’s what pregnancy has been doing to women’s bodies for as long as women have had babies (yeah, I didn’t know that my abs could tear either, but it’s not that uncommon. Google diastasis recti). Since I inherited these biological processes in my DNA from all the women who came before me, in some ways, yes, I was born to be a mother.

While my body took care of the mechanics of turning a handful of cells into billions of cells, my mind was reeling from the emotional aftershocks of a hormonal hangover and wildly unmet expectations. I was completely unprepared for how difficult pregnancy is mentally. And while yes, it makes sense that I would be unprepared for something I’ve never done before, I was also unprepared because everything I heard about pregnancy hyped it up to be this magical, miraculous time when you literally glow and radiate maternal energy. You become one with mother earth, and your chakras align with all of the creator forces that exist in the universe. Instead I spent the better part of 3 months trying to decide if today was the day I was going to throw up in front of my students and planning the best way to do just that. (Carrying the trash can out into the hall was what I decided on). I also was afraid of getting excited because the entire experience felt surreal and like it could go away at anytime. I was so terrified of having a miscarriage that I didn’t even want to go to the bathroom for the first 12 weeks. When I wasn’t at work, I was sleeping on the couch or in my bed because the first trimester of pregnancy felt like mono except with a thousand times more hormones.

Making women believe pregnancy and motherhood is what they are born for or that it is something they will naturally know how to do sets us all up for failure. This subconscious socialization probably makes women who can’t have children or who don’t want children feel inept and guilty. And this pressure also makes new mothers feel like garbage. If they go into this challenging and rewarding season of their lives thinking they will naturally be good at it, there is a lot of guilt involved when that isn’t the case. That guilt is followed by shame, which is quickly replaced by frustration and anger that can then be thrown in many different directions: at their partners, their children, and especially at those other mothers who seem to have it all together or at least a little more together.

During my first pregnancy, the most drastic feelings happened when people didn’t know that I was pregnant. Professionally, people might assume that you were dropping the ball or that maybe you were coming into work hungover. Socially, your friends might wonder why you were acting so strange or avoiding them altogether. Either way, not a lot of glowing or chakra aligning happened during the first 3-4 months that I was pregnant.

I was excited to get out of the first trimester trenches, away from the nausea, migraines, and mood swings, but mostly I was excited to announce my pregnancy. Because pregnancy had been a very isolating experience and had left me alone on the couch with my dog many nights and weekends, I was looking forward to sharing our exciting news. The pressure to be naturally good at motherhood made the isolation worse because I didn’t want to talk about how difficult the first trimester was. I felt like I didn’t have the right to complain because I was fertile. And I couldn’t shake the irrational worry that complaining would somehow jinx my pregnancy.

When I did complain or give an honest answer to questions like “How are you feeling?” I quickly discovered that many people did not want to hear an honest answer. Here are just a couple responses (paraphrased with an inferred tone) that I heard.

Inquisitive:  “Why would you be scared? Shouldn’t you be excited?”

Sarcastic: “Well, it seems like you’re really enjoying this whole experience.”

Didactic: “Remember some women aren’t able to get pregnant. You should just be grateful.”

Flippant:  “Oh really? I absolutely loved being pregnant.”

Dismissive: “You’re not the first person to be pregnant. Women have been doing this since the beginning of time. You’ll be fine.”

Full of Good Intentions and Encouragement: “It will all be worth it.”

Sanctimonious:  “Isn’t there anything positive you could say about being pregnant?”

I would like to take a moment to respond to all of the comments above in case you’re wondering why they upset me.

“Why would you be scared? Shouldn’t you be excited?”

Being excited and being scared are almost never mutually exclusive for me. Being excited about something makes me feel vulnerable to disappointment. What if it doesn’t work out? Also, the baby lives inside of my body and depends on me entirely. It’s the most responsibility I’ve ever felt, and that is terrifying and leaves me vulnerable to a lot of fear, doubt, and guilt.

“Well, it seems like you’re really enjoying this whole experience.”

Do I have to enjoy being pregnant? My first pregnancy was very uncomfortable and complicated. Also, when the experience you’re having causes you to lose control of your bladder and bowels (sometimes at work), it’s okay not to enjoy every aspect of it. Also, you asked me about my feelings and then were annoyed by my honest answer. Maybe don’t ask people how they are feeling if you obviously don’t care about other people’s feelings.

“Remember some women aren’t able to get pregnant. You should just be grateful.”

I do try to be sensitive about pregnancy complaints (so much so that it has kept me relatively quiet about them for almost two years). Of course I am incredibly grateful for my fertility and health, but you just asked me how I was feeling. I think what you meant to ask me is “Are you feeling grateful for your fertility and health?” Another person’s experiences or feelings don’t negate or change what I am experiencing or feeling. And if we based our right or privilege to complain on whether or not we were being grateful, no one would ever be allowed to make an honest statement about their feelings, ever.  

“Oh really? I absolutely loved being pregnant.”

That’s awesome for you. I’m sure our pregnancies are exactly the same.

“You’re not the first person to be pregnant. Women have been doing this since the beginning of time. You’ll be fine.”

I was definitely not the first person to be pregnant. But it was the first time that I, as a person, had been pregnant. And I will say that my second pregnancy has been easier mentally. I’m able to see the big picture and understand the timeline and know that this is a completely weird, wonderful, but temporary season of my life. (Please don’t say this to pregnant ladies, especially if it’s their first time being pregnant.)

“It will all be worth it.”

Of course it will all be worth it. Most things that are “worth it” are difficult. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be allowed to talk about how difficult they are. For some of us (me included as a Highly Sensitive Person (thanks Dr. Elaine Aron), an introvert, and an empath), talking about how difficult something is allows us to continue on the journey. So don’t imply that I don’t want to have a baby just because I’m telling you about my sciatica. You asked me how I’m feeling. And right now, I have no feeling in my left leg.

“Isn’t there anything positive you could say about being pregnant?”

Yes! There are so many things! Where do you want me to begin? Look at my hair! My hair is glorious! And so are my fingernails and my skin. When the baby kicks, it is magic. There are moments when I hug my belly and experience a sense of fulfillment and purpose that go beyond anything I have ever felt before. Sometimes it’s like I’m the keeper of a secret that is hundreds of thousands of years old, and I’m the only one who knows it except for this tiny little person whom I’m able to love entirely without knowing them. But that’s not what you asked me. You asked me how I was feeling. And right now, I feel very overwhelmed by the world that I am carrying around inside of me.

At first, I was so angry and hurt by these responses (so much so that I still feel the need to respond to them). Eventually, I started giving the same response to everyone except my closest friends; I would just say “I’m so excited.” (And it was true. Actually, I had never been so excited in my life and other than meeting my baby in a few short weeks, I might never be that excited again.) I eventually realized that while these responses weren’t especially empathetic, they weren’t intentionally mean either. People were simply responding to that same romanticized narrative of pregnancy and motherhood that had left me feeling so inadequate to begin with. Like I said before, this glossy view of motherhood sets us ALL up for failure.

The realization that this false narrative about motherhood was the source of so much frustration during my first pregnancy compelled me to share my experiences despite how vulnerable I feel. Honest writing is probably 50% bravery, 50% patience (and 150% ego). And while motherhood has taken away a lot of my sleep and some of my ego, it has given me so much bravery, patience, and vulnerability.

So I think now, during my 7th trimester of pregnancy, I’m finally ready to write about it.