Back to Adolescence

I’ve been struggling for awhile to figure out a way to describe the experience of adjusting to motherhood – not because any of you necessarily care, but because I’m still trying to wrap my brain around the fact that a living being actually came out of me and someday she’ll be a wise-cracking teenager with boobs and zits and a bad sense of humor (if she’s anything like her mother, that is).

Anyway, here’s what I’ve come up with.  The first year of motherhood is a lot like going through adolescence all over again.  That painful time is all about figuring out who you are, how you’re going to be in the world, and who your friends are, all while your body keeps playing horribly embarrassing tricks on you at the worst possible moment.  That’s basically motherhood in a nutshell, but with a lot less sleep and a lot more poop.

The horrifying bodily changes actually start during pregnancy, but we pregnant women don’t really mind because a) we get a tremendous amount of positive reinforcement just for being pregnant, b) we get some amount of perverse pleasure out of playing the martyr for our unborn child, c) we get to wear cute maternity clothes, and d) most importantly, we assume there is an end in sight.  Maybe it’s lack of knowledge, or a huge blind spot born out of necessity, but we let ourselves believe that once the baby is born we won’t leak pee every time we laugh or have boobs the size of the child growing inside us.  Ha.

But then the baby is born, and bit by bit we slowly realize that all those years we spent figuring out our bodies and learning which clothes actually fit us and when our period is going to come aren’t worth shit.  The other day I was at the coffee shop, and I noticed the barista checking me out.  Yeah, he was totally eyeing the goods.  And honestly, I wasn’t too surprised, given that I was wearing my new t-shirt from Target and I had even brushed my hair that morning.  I picked up my coffee and walked back to my table feeling pretty good about myself.  Mama still gots it, baby.  Until I looked down and realized the only thing Mama still gots is a big old stain right over her right nipple.  I had leaked all over my shirt.  Hottie Barista wasn’t checking me out – he was just responding to the giant bullseye right in front of him.  And there I was again, the fourteen year old girl who had worn white jeans on the wrong day of the month.

So here I am, trying to figure out what the next stage of my life is going to look like, how I’m going to spend my time, what kind of mother I’m going to be, and how my relationships with family and friends will change, all while I’m wondering when my jeans will fit again and which part of my body is going to leak next.   Just like an adolescent, I ‘ve spent the past 8 months feeling insecure about every decision or choice I make, and they all seem so damned fraught, as if the fate of my daughter’s life actually depends on whether we put her in daycare or not, when we wean, which swim class we take or when we start feeding her meat.  Although part of my brain knows that I should feel privileged and blessed to face these struggles, and that we are among the lucky few in this world that don’t have to worry about the safety and health of our child on a regular basis, and that very few decisions will actually make a significant difference in her life, I can’t help it.  I just can’t.

As if all of that weren’t enough, figuring out your Mommy-friends is like being back in high school.  Yes, I still have all of my pre-baby friends, but most of them work, and I’m only working part time, which means I’ve needed to make new friends with other mothers who are doing the baby thing during the day.  Unlike high school, everyone I’ve met has been incredibly nice, but it’s not always easy to find people who are going to be a good match.  I used to think that nursing in front of another mother was a good litmus test, but at the end there I’d whip out the boob anywhere, anytime.  Not surprisingly, the mothers I’m drawn to are laid-back, sarcastic, and not too skinny.  Fortunately, I’ve found a few good friends who don’t require putting on a clean t-shirt and brushing my hair, but it’s taken months.  I still find myself feeling nervous and insecure every time I go to a new playdate or playground – will they like me?  Will they think I’m a good enough mother?  I know those voices are the result of sleep-deprivation, hormonal changes (talk about adolescence!), and too much time spent changing poopy diapers, but it’s a challenge nonetheless.

Yes, in many ways, becoming a mother is not unlike becoming a woman, with two major exceptions.  First, I have a sense of humor about all of it now that I definitely didn’t have 15 years ago.  So, when I find myself leaking through my shirt, or pulling 3 dirty diapers out of the diaper bag before I can find a clean one, or not noticing that I’m covered in spit-up until someone points it out to me, it doesn’t stress me out anymore.  When I was in high school, a bad hair day or new pimple or awkward interaction (of which there were many) would leave me reeling for hours or days.  These days, I’ve gotten good at laughing things off (unless I start crying, but eventually I pull it together and laugh that off too).  That makes life a lot easier.

The other exception, and this is the biggie, is that this time around I have a daughter.  There’s a point to all of it, something that gives meaning to all of the unpredictability and absurdity.  (As far as I can tell, there’s no point to adolescence.  I remember it as suffering for the sake of suffering, and then being pissed about that, and then writing tortured poetry about it.)  I’ve written my post about the good stuff, but that doesn’t quite capture it.  I guess having a child puts everything in perspective, reminds you of what’s important, challenges you to love and be loved every day, and teaches you that just when you thought you couldn’t change one more poopy diaper or deal with one more surprise change to your body, you can.  And you do.  That’s gotta be worth something.