By Catherine York // views are the author’s own
Finding out I was pregnant scared the shit out of me. I’d never been more terrified and simultaneously delighted when I fell pregnant with my son.
My husband and I had spoken about starting a family, and having worked with a large number of thirty-something women, and being exposed to their stories of infertility, I had readied myself for the worst. I thought it would be ‘just my luck’ that it would take forever to fall pregnant, and along with hearing all the tales of long-term contraceptive pill use, and my age hitting 30, I expected this journey to be full of doom, gloom and disappointment.
To be frank, I cried. Not tears of joy though. Seeing that happy, smiling face on the plastic pee stick staring at me, made me anything but happy in that moment. I was so frightened; frightened that I wouldn’t be good at it, frightened that perhaps it’s ‘too soon’ and we weren’t ready. I had so many travel plans coming up. A Bali trip! Weddings! 30th birthday parties! So. Many. Chances. To. Drink. My overriding thought was “What have we done?!”
My pregnancy was pretty standard: the usual complaints of heartburn, back pain, stretch marks – and I was very lucky to birth a beautiful, healthy, baby boy. A baby boy with the largest head and strongest lungs known to mankind.
The first two weeks were euphoric. I had a sleepy, beautiful baby. I was recovering from a C-section, and had a 11/10 husband, who took on his new role with ease. But boy did we not see the freight train from hell headed our way. My little man, who I lovingly described to a friend as ‘a little champ’ turned into the devil. The poor little guy had horrible silent reflux, wind, gut pain and the ability to scream his little lungs out every time his eyes were open. Every time. For months.
His first year of life, and mine as a mother, is largely a blur. Partly because I was severely sleep-deprived like many new parents, and partly I think because I suppressed so much of it due to trauma. If pre-baby me were to read these words, I have no doubt she would be rolling her eyes in scepticism thinking, “C’mon, how hard could being a parent be?”
The truth is it’s the hardest thing I will ever do, and I know I’m not alone. When I was deep in the horrendous (and confusingly, at times love-soaked) trenches of adjusting to life as a new mum, my brain led me to believe I was very much alone. I felt incredibly guilty for not finding much enjoyment in my new role. I felt guilty for what I perceived as letting my husband down. I felt guilty that I didn’t take to motherhood as we both expected. My mental heath was anything but healthy.
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I finally submitted to the prompting from my loved ones to get some help. Swallow my pride. I was prescribed medication, and gosh did it help. I felt the fog lifting, I was able to sleep. It made space for me to be a better mum, a good mum, even. I dug deep into myself, and tried to learn about why I wasn’t ‘coping’ and tried to learn about how similar the grief cycle and change cycle are, and that I was grieving my old life. The old me, the one who was ‘good’ at things, who didn’t cry daily, who had a career and didn’t have what felt like a mushy, pea-brain. I had to learn to love myself again.
My son is now four. He’s brilliant! It’s rhetoric you will hear from every single parent, but he is genuinely the best thing to ever happen to us. I’m learning from him. Learning to slow down, to not be a giant stress-head, to make the most of every day as it flies by. I wished away so much of his delicate young life. I couldn’t wait until he walked, ate real food, went to day care, gave me more freedom, and the list goes on. I wish I could go back and give my broken, emotional, barely-surviving self the warmest hug.
As for my husband and I, having had no family who lives close to us, we are so damn proud of how far we’ve come. If I had a dollar for every time I said ‘WE ARE ONE AND DONE!’ or ‘NEVER AGAIN!’, I would be obnoxiously rich. But now I want another baby.
In the last twelve months I’ve had a miscarriage, and an ectopic pregnancy, resulting in a ruptured (and removed) fallopian tube. This time around, falling pregnant has been anything but easy. The logical side of me knows there’s talented specialists out there that can help, and it may still happen to this 35 year old. Yet, the over-thinking, stress-head side of me believes it’s because I really hated the early days with my son. I worry I’ve ‘jinxed’ myself and I’m being punished for not being the mother I should have been.
I’ve come to accept that being a mum-of-one is still downright glorious. I’m lucky that I’ve been given the chance to be a mother. If I am ever given the chance at round two, I promise to *try* to enjoy it, to limit my crying and swearing, and to be a Bloody Good Mum.
Catherine York is a mother and contributor to Birthbabe. Do you want to share your story? Get in touch.
Image: Supplied
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