It Gets Easier

Part 2: Motherhood

Since becoming an adult, I’ve struggled to decide what I want out of life. But the one thing I always knew with unwavering certainty was that, one day, I wanted to be a mother. My heart’s full of love, I’m patient af, the beauty and innocence of babies and children makes my ovaries quiver, so let’s go! I thought.

When I met the love of my life and we decided to start a family, I was quietly confident that I had whatever it took to do it right.

Pre-kids, I imagined that the ritual of birth would purify me somehow, transform me from slightly lost, foul-mouthed maiden into cool, calm matriarch. Nothing would phase me, I’d feel utterly fulfilled, I’d be honoured to forego anything for the benefit of my children; my body, time, freedom.

I imagined that mothers inherently did not mind the chaos, domesticity and fatigue, the crying, shit and sick, they just absorbed it all in a warm, pink glow of maternal love.

*

Motherhood is nothing like I thought it would be. When newly pregnant, queasy and sleeping a minimum of ten hours a night, I asked a parent-friend how she coped with the notoriously tricky newborn sleep patterns. She informed me that yes, nightshifts were hard, but she didn’t mind because she was tending to the person she loved most in the entire world.

When my own baby was born, I was more than a little surprised to find that my friend’s experience was miles from my own. Yes, I was completely besotted, in awe of what my body had achieved and the miracle of a beautiful new life that was mine to nurture, but I was also shattered from a 24 hour labour, emergency C-section and two days on a bright, noisy maternity ward.

Around the one-week mark, when the initial hormones had subsided and the novelty of non-existent REM cycles had worn thin, my tolerance for being woken every one or two hours, day and night without respite, began to subside.

I became irritable, snappy, exhausted to tears, resentful. My husband was on hand, but as he lacked the lactation of it all, we agreed that I’d do the nights and he’d do everything else. Where’s the adult, I’d wonder at 2am, 3am, 4am. I can’t listen to this baby shrieking for another minute. I’ve fed, burped, changed, rocked, hummed and shhh’d, all to no avail. My surgical stitches feel like they’re going to burst if I don’t let them heal. Where’s the adult to come and take over, because I can’t do this.

It gets easier, my friend said.

She was right. It got easier, and I did do it. Then I did it all over again, three years later when our second baby came along. As bone-aching exhaustion slowly morphed into being a bit knackered, the babies morphed into crawling, walking maniacs who sought peril at every turn and wanted to get up close and personal with it. Is that a plug socket? Better stick my damp little finger in and find out. Is that a husk of bread on the floor from where I lobbed it earlier? Better bite out a large chunk and attempt to swallow it whole.

Then came a super-fun stage, one of biting and resistance and ‘no!’ to everything. It evolved into the phase I’m still navigating; kids being kids. My younger child still shrieks a blood-curdling ‘Mummyyyyy!!!’ in a tone of level-ten panic, when the crisis is a sleeve that won’t quite reach the desired position on her wrist. My older child won’t take no for an answer when he wants your involvement in his game, a game which apparently requires all your bedding to be on the floor, even though the paediatric dermatologist has finally rung after a six-month waitlist to chat eczema and the oven alarm is going off, the younger child has unloaded an entire roll of toilet paper into the toilet and is now eating the dry (you hope) end. They both want a banana but it’s nearly dinner time and you’re trying to make a note of the ointments and creams, but please just be quiet for a minute so mummy can concentrate, so you give in and dole them out but – fatal error – you peeled them, because every time they try for themselves they fuck it up, mushing it into a gooey yellow slurry and coating their hands and clothes in it before deciding it’s disgusting and belongs on the floor. There’s outrage, there’s fury, there’s burned pizza and the call cuts out, everything’s gone to hell.

However. While at one point, the above was characteristic of the majority of days, slowly, things are again beginning to change. My children will be six and three in a few months. They (mostly) sleep through the night and go to school and nursery respectively. In the last few weeks, we’ve gone on playdates where I’ve actually got to sit and talk with the grown-ups while the kids go off and play. It’s getting easier.

*

Motherhood is everything like I thought it would be. I’m more connected and attuned to my two children than I knew was possible.

I can’t believe how much more I can endure and handle now by virtue of having no choice but to walk though the fire. It’s forced me to grow up, and I’m so grateful for that.

I never tire of looking at them, and wish they’d hold still during the day so I could just stare at their sweet little faces. When I’ve not seen them for an hour, I scroll through photos and videos of them, soaking them up.

In everything I do, my children are my priority. Nothing else truly matters other than their wellbeing. I belong to them, now. They’ve divvied up my heart between them. I hope they always hold on to their slice.

My body looks and feels different, but who cares? It’s grown, birthed and nourished two humans. Loose skin and stretch marks are a small price to pay.

I gladly accept my duty to always be there for them, guide them and adapt to meet their needs. To accept them unconditionally for who they are and whoever they become.

Recently, they seem to really like me. Maybe all the staying steady during boundary-testing has paid off? I hope they feel secure now and understand that whatever they throw at me, often literally, I’m not going anywhere.

When I pick my daughter up from nursery, she beams, throws her arms around my neck and bestows my cheeks with gentle kisses that turn my heart to melted butter.

My son cracks me up with his merciless roasting, observations and impressions of people.

They’re such good kids. How did I get so lucky?

Last week, I even considered homeschooling (for about ten seconds).

*

Motherhood is nothing and everything like I thought it would be. I certainly don’t relish every moment, but that’s life. Some moments are golden, others grey.

My reward for all of the slog, grind and sacrifice is in their love.

It’s beyond worth it.