When I was growing up, getting married and having kids were never on my to do list. I had lots of professional aspirations, and dreams of traveling the world, but not once did I think, "Oh, I hope I'll get married and be a mom." Then, it might seem like the perfect Hallmark movie plot: I met the man of my dreams. He was tall, dark (haired) and handsome and was also very charming. And being from the Midwest, he was certainly interested in getting married. As a matter of fact he'd already had marriage conversations with some of his girlfriends before he ever even entered college.
At first, we were an odd couple because there I was walking around with my personal copy of the Yellow Wallpaper and my membership card to The National Organization for Women and there he was, a hybrid historian/businessman in training, who was definitely still playing the field, whose his first commitment-related question to me was whether or not, if he bought an apartment building, I would be one of his tenants and rent from him.<>
But, as those Hallmark stories go, opposites attract and before you know it we were married. And then, just one short year into our marriage, when we were still enjoying going out to the bar on Friday nights and having campfires with buddies on the weekends, one of our friends mentioned that she thought we would make great parents. I was flattered. This concept of being a wife was new and shiny to me. We were still excited about buying knickknacks at Target for the mantle and getting invitations to other people's weddings addressed to Mr. and Mrs.
I'm not going to lie and say that, by this point, I hadn't thought about having a kid with my Mr. Perfect. As matter fact, I will never forget, during one of our Hallmark moments, when I realized I was falling in love, I told him that I wanted to "push the baby carriage with him"and I could actually envision what our children were going to look like. So, when this friend told me she thought we'd be great parents, this image of a chubby little gnome, who looked like Andy, popped into my head and I couldn't get rid of that image.
My first pregnancy was almost as idyllic as the idea of having a baby. For the first time in my life, I stopped thinking about what I looked like. Nine months, and 65 pounds, later and I was looking as much like a cherub as I hoped my baby would. Like all first-time moms I took lots of photos standing sideways. At first I pushed my hips forward in hopes that the bump would show in the picture. Eventually I didn't have to do that as the bump became it's own thing. As the months marched on, Andy and I nested, we bought a bunch of baby crap, and I laid on the couch with my feet up. I laughed a lot, I ate a lot, and it was a wonderful period of excitement peppered by foreshadowing moments of anxiety and physical exhaustion.
On the day of Caroline's birth, our little cherub arrived and I went from being a pregnant lady to a powerhouse goddess. I think everyone involved, myself included, was a little bit in awe of the experience. Which of course is pretty common for everyone who is in a room when a human being is brought into the world. However, for me and Andy, we were both shocked and impressed at what I had just done. From conception to birth, I thought, "I got this."
I went into labor at 7 o'clock in the morning and Caro was born just before 10 o'clock at night. It must've been around midnight when Andy and my mom went home and the nurses took Caroline to the nurses station so that I could get some shut eye. Like I said, I was pretty impressed with myself and I was also very tired so I was looking forward to a happy and contented night of sleep.
Sometime between 1 AM and 2 AM I was the awakened by a nurse who had a crying baby in her arms. She handed me the baby, who in my half asleep stupor, I had forgotten was mine, and told me it was time for me to feed and change my baby and after I was done I could keep my baby in the little plastic bin bassinet located conveniently right next to my bed.
I like to call this moment my rude awakening moment. By the time Andy and my mom returned mid-morning the next day I felt more tired than the day before. I didn't feel like a pregnant cherub or a powerful goddess. I felt like an awkward, delirious, nervous, scared, and unprepared fool. Holding this crying, red faced, itty bitty baby in my arms, I thought, "What have I done?"
You can read books. You can baby sit. You can have a pet. Nothing can prepare you for the task of taking care of a child. It's experiential learning at its finest because it is the ultimate example of learning by doing. Nobody could have prepared me for it. So they didn't. I announced my pregnancy to a bunch of ladies who'd already had kids and they all smiled and congratulated me. They asked me if I knew the sex, had any names picked out, if I felt tired. They listened to me as I carefully outlined by birth plan and showed them pics of the nursery with the blankets matching the curtains and the lamp. Behind those smiles and nods and benign questions were eyes that told another story, a story that they couldn't tell because doing so would break the code.
As the mother of an 11 and 7 year old, I now follow this code. Except I'm a sarcastic jack ass so it takes every fiber of my being not to say something snarky or to offer a deep and maniacal laugh to every pregnant mom when she glows her heavenly glow and shares the excitement about her first bouncing bundle-to-be.
Screw talking to an expectant mother. Enough of that for me. I lay in waiting for the new mom, the mom who just came home with the cherub, the mom whose six weeks postpartum, or 12 weeks into motherhood with going back to work lurking around the hideous corner.
That's the mom I want to talk to. I want to go up to her and give her the secret handshake. She didn't know it before but now she does. Oh, now she does. That's the moment I always wait for when I can say, "Welcome to The Club.
Women, we are not being nice. It's not kind of us to wait for the handshake so far into the motherhood process. We are doing a disservice to our sisters by holding back the secrets of motherhood and allowing them to be exposed, one painful secret after another, through personal experience. I suggest we craft a memo, from henceforth called The Memo, that is sent to women as soon as they know they are expecting, or better yet, it can be snail mailed to their mailboxes right at the very beginning of their Hallmark story. Dear readers, when would you give an expecting mom The Memo?
Just had the first kiss after ice skating and drinking hot cocoa? UH OH. STOP THE MADNESS. HAND HER THE MEMO.
Planning on buying a new couch of white linen? HOW ABOUT THE MEMO?
Considering that butterfly tattoo to the left of the belly button? LORD, WHERE'S THE MEMO?
Thinking the sex is as passionate and fun and unplanned after kids? PLEASE, GIVE THAT WOMAN THE DAMN MEMO.
Gushing over how precious those car seats are that snap into the car base and how easy it looks to carry them around the grocery store? MEMO.
Hoping the employer will suddenly allow for flex time once they see how cute the cherub is? MEMO TIME.
Thinking she'll still go to the movies after the baby is born. BIOTCH NEEDS THE MEMO.
Saying her kids will never hit the back legs of an old person with a grocery cart? SLIP HER THE MEMO.
Tells you she laughed so hard she peed her pants? SHE HAS NO IDEA. IT'S TIME FOR THE MEMO.
States with pride, after telling you that her baby is the size of an eggplant, that her husband is going to split childcare with her 50/50? TEXT HER THE MEMO.
She follows up by telling you that the article that showed up in her FB feed about the mental load won't apply to her? POST THE MEMO ON HER WALL.
Recommends you just "get a sitter" so you can attend her baby bump celebratory girls' night out? SHOW HER THE MEMO!
Saying a Dr. Oz cleanse will get the belly back to pre-baby flatness? SHIT. SHE DOESN'T EVEN DESERVE THAT MEMO.
Oh, yeah, that last one reminded me of why we don't give out The Memo: we'd never have kids and then we'd have nobody in our secret handshake society and what fun is a society without members? So moms, next time you meet a sparkly eyed, excited, first time mom-to-be, you be a good girl and you put that memo back in your purse where it belongs.
Comments