Families

I vividly recall standing in front of the bathroom mirror looking at myself as I’d done countless times as a childless person. As myself. As the woman I’d always been until days before. It was like stumbling upon an identical twin I never knew I had — the same, so well-known, yet so alien and unfamiliar.

Back when we decided to have a baby together, we had a plan. She was never, ever going to have to work full-time. She was going to work part-time, and I was going to work part-time, selling dog food at that cute little store I used to work at. We would have one day off a week in common, and we would be broke, but we would get by. We would be tired, but we would be happy.

I think that before I actually became a mom, I dreamt of sick days to be filled with breakfasts in bed, handwritten notes with all the words spelled wrong, and misshapen pancakes — but the reality is far from that dream. I'm flustered just thinking about it.

I’m full of emotions: pride, awe, fear, nerves. The spelling bee first, then the piano recital. Two different kids, same mom. Same me, wanting to prevent my boys from pain and discomfort. Same me, biting my tongue and smiling broadly in support.

I went on to drink a small glass of wine or two per week throughout my pregnancy once I got over the initial shock of it being unplanned. Once I had adjusted to the fact that I was going to bring another baby into the world, I was still overwhelmed by the stress it brought on. I had suffered from postpartum depression after the birth of my son and we had decided not to have any more children. I didn't want the risks or the horrible anxiety that came with pregnancy. Yet here I was, facing all that uncertainty again. Damn right I needed a drink.

With every 2 AM wakeup cry and biohazard diaper blowout, I waited for that all-consuming love that everyone had promised me, but all I found was exhaustion, frustration, and confusion. All my girlfriends were posting on Facebook about how beautiful their newborns were, how their hearts were bursting with love, and how they had felt an instant connection. So what was wrong with me?

Long story short — she got two staples in her head. But the deeper story is a feeling that welled up in me that needed further investigation. I had this fleeting feeling that she was now damaged because she would have a scar. I remember feeling the same way the day I picked her up from daycare to find out she had a chipped tooth. “She’s not perfect anymore.” Holy crap, where are these thoughts coming from and where do they have the potential to go?

One of the most insidious things that patriarchy does is the complete and utter devaluation of anything that is considered “women’s work.” Not only does patriarchy limit what women (and all trans and nonbinary folk) can do in the world, it also takes what we do manage to do and tells us it isn’t worth anything.