On motherhood

Before I became a mum I had this idealised vision of what it would be about. Cute baby outfits, mums and bubs yoga, brunches.

Of course everyone told me it was going to be hard.

“Get used to never sleeping again,” I’d hear. “Your life will change forever,” they’d say without a smile.

I used to think these misers were just raining on my parade. The sky is blue now, I’d think, rubbing my big belly. Why tell me about the storm?

But damn. Then I had the baby.

“I just want time to myself,” a mum confided in me yesterday. “I just want to be able to put her down and walk away and not feel like a bad mum. I want to lie in bed without someone wanting to hug me. I want myself to myself.”

Nothing really prepares you for not sleeping for months on end. The aching body and feeling like you’re 103 years old. The constant waiting: for them to cry, to wake up, to want you. Your body foreign, changed, somehow no longer yours. Clothes no longer fit or are unsuitable for breastfeeding. How things become a luxury, where before they were ritual: brushing your hair, having a shower, making food without carrying a baby.

The sadness from missing your old life, a life where jetting overseas, going out for coffee or swimming in the ocean didn’t require carefully orchestrated plans with contingencies and a giant bag full of nappies, clothes, toys, burp cloths, wipes, books, hats, teething gel and carriers.

And the guilt.

The guilt from feeling anything but grateful. The guilt from wanting anything else.

Oh, the guilt.

And that’s just it. Because the hardest job in the world doesn’t come with a break. There’s babysitting and daycare. But you don’t get to leave your job and go home. You don’t ever get to stop being a mum. It becomes who you are.

That’s beautiful. But also really, really hard.

How do you do it? You just do. You find strength you didn’t know you had, because you didn’t have it before you became a mum. You celebrate the small wins: singing her to sleep, timing an outing so she doesn’t get overtired, breastfeeding while making lunch.

Only, they aren’t small. They are mountains. And you get better at climbing.

Some days you even get to brunch and yoga.

And some days you don’t. Because some days, or nights, are awful. Some days you mess it up. It’s okay. You can’t always get it right. You practice progress, not perfection. You can always start again tomorrow.

Because there’s still beauty in the struggle, even when it doesn’t seem that way.

You’re not just raising them. You’re raising you.