A Letter to Mothers Who Have a Hard Time Being a Mother

Remember that post I wrote about how having babies isn’t the worst? This is not a rebuttal, nor does it negate my initial postpartum emotions. I lived in a state of euphoria for weeks after giving birth. I had the easiest newborn ever. In fact, having a newborn baby was probably the easiest job I’ve ever had.

But, when my newborn started moving on his own and stopped sleeping all day, and my hormones fluctuated and period returned, the depression hit. And it hit hard. All of those things that forced me to postpone having a baby became my reality. I couldn’t nap when I wanted to. I couldn’t sleep in anymore. I couldn’t go anywhere alone. Heck, I couldn’t ever BE alone. And then I realized why so many moms complain about their kids on Facebook and why so many women decide not to have children at all.

I reconnected with a few old friends this summer, friends I haven’t seen in almost ten years, friends I had pre-marriage, pre-baby. I found myself drowning in the nostalgia of that single, flat-bellied life where days and paychecks were my own. The rest of the summer was spent in a trance, with me wishing to go back to that simpler time. On top of this, I’d been experiencing an identity crisis. Last Mother’s Day, a cashier said to me as I fished for my wallet while holding Coltrane, “Happy Mother’s Day.” I stopped and thought, “How strange, I guess I’ll call my mom and let her know that ‘Cathy’ says ‘Happy Mother’s Day.’” After a second, I realized what she meant and I said, “Thank you.” “Mom” is the person you call when you’re stuck in traffic and need to pass the time, “Mom” is the person with all the answers about what to do when you only have $20 in the bank, “Mom” is in St. Louis, not here. “Mom” is someone else, not me.

That trance lasted until last week when I went to a wilderness and survival conference in Hibbard, ID, of all places. The whole field smelled of burning wood and patchouli, and I’ve never seen so many beards and cowhide pants and earth tones all in one place. It was pretty magical. I only had the time and resources to sign up for one class on foraging and preparing herbs. I really wanted to leave Coltrane home so that he wouldn’t be a distraction to me and the others in the class, but I had to bring him with me because it was a Tuesday and Dad has a real job now. The class was spectacular, Coltrane was relatively peaceful and happy (thank you, raisins) and I only missed part of the discussion on white willow while I followed him as he explored the outdoors.

Learning to play the guitar is necessary for survival.

 

As the class finished preparing their tinctures, a man came over to me and said, “I just have to tell you, I’m very impressed with you as a mother.” He went on to say that he has observed a variety of mothers like “The Shopping Cart Mom” who is frazzled and on her last nerve as her kids whine at the grocery store, and me, who is “on the other end of the spectrum.” I was so flattered, not just because I often feel frazzled and on my last nerve, but also because he said he could see how much love I had for my child. He believes that is what matters most in a person’s life: the love the mother has for her child and how that child grows up and shares that love with others. He could not have picked a more perfect time or way to share this.

I attended the conference for another couple of days and having Coltrane with me in the cold, damp outdoors was not a distraction at all. I loved having him with me digging in the dirt and making friends with the most awesome, intelligent, relaxed, and peaceful people I’d ever met. I decided to try emulating their attitude and stop criticizing myself as a mother. So what, I don’t sit on the floor and play learning games all day. I haven’t taught him how to do sign language or use a real toilet. So, the word “Batman” comes out as a guttural “Mama” and that’s about the only thing he knows how to say. What-ever. In the end, I really, truly, and completely love my weird baby.

Yes, my life has changed completely since he arrived and I’ll probably always miss aspects of my pre-baby life. But, Mothers, we have a super rad job where we get to stop every so often in our crazy lives and color a picture of Iron Man without it being strange. We get to go shopping for teeny cute clothes that cost almost nothing and have snack time. Kids are stinky and obnoxious, but they’re also hilarious and weird and beautiful. Their little hands and toes and potbellies and wispy hair. 

And my Coltrane’s enormous eyeballs and birthmark.

Photo by Abbey Belliston, A. Lee Photo & Design

As I write this (instead of doing homework), Coltrane is talking to himself in his crib in the other room, most likely reading books he’s pulled off of his bookshelf and I think, what else was my life supposed to look like, but this?