I've been thinking a lot lately about how much knowledge and experience I've gained in just a few months of motherhood. I see now why people love giving parenting advice. When you've been through the gauntlet, you feel you must share it all-- what you experienced, how you felt, what you'd do differently, what you're most proud of. But everyone's gauntlet is full of different obstacles, different circumstances, and different outcomes. So I don't want to give anyone advice. This is just a few things I've come to learn so far, some reassuring words I'd offer myself if I could.
A mother's intuition is real, and you've got it. I read a lot of articles and stories where moms would refer to their intuition, and how they just "knew" something was wrong with their baby, or how you have to do what "feels" right to you as a parent. While I absolutely believe in my intuition as a powerful voice to listen to, I didn't quite believe that I could apply it to a wholly separate being. Was this parenting intuition just something people made up to justify whatever decisions they wanted to make? Maybe to some extent, but it feels quite real to me now. When you spend all day and night with this little being, you will naturally learn a lot about her. You will observe her harder than you've ever observed anything, not just because she is fascinating, but because she can't talk and you're trying to figure out what she needs. She will still be an extension of you, even after that cord is cut. You will learn her language, you will know when something is off, and when everything is just fine.
It takes time to parse out all the stuff that "they" say you should or should not do. Contrary to what a lot of people told me, I do think it's worth it to take the classes and read the books if you are at all inclined. Of course, they will not tell you everything you need to know. Of course, your baby will be an individual. Of course, you will use your own judgment. But having more knowledge and some different perspectives and resources can improve your judgement and give you more confidence in trusting yourself. So read on.
You won't have to do it all. Before we had the baby, I was so scared of all the work that would fall on me. So many people told me that dads can't do much in the first few months. Babies just need their moms. When I actually had the baby, my experience didn't match those warnings at all. Curtis was doing so much, around the clock, to care for all of us. He could do almost everything I could do, and some of the things he could do even better because I was tired, healing, and hormonal.
To be sure, there is a lot to do when you have a newborn: Cuddle the baby. Change the baby's diaper. Dress the baby. Get up at night to check on the baby. "Five S" the baby. Give the baby her bottle. Burp the baby. Change the baby's bedding. Empty the diaper pail. Do laundry. Prepare meals. Clean up around the house. Go to the store. Take the baby to doctors appointments. Google questions about the baby. Coordinate with visitors. Send out thank you cards for gifts. Talk and play with the baby. Love the baby.
In the very long list of things are to do when you have a new baby, there are only TWO things that (cisgender) dads can't do: breastfeed and pump milk. So don't worry that the burden will all fall on you. Trust your partnership. Trust that he can and will do all the things he said he would before you agreed to have kids. Let him carry half the load.
It will get better. There are two favorite phrases that veteran parents love to say to new parents: "Enjoy every moment! It will go so fast." and "It's hard, but so worth it." During the first month or so, I smiled on the outside, but I hated hearing these two things. Did these people just forget how much work a newborn is? There is not a lot to enjoy when you can't catch more than 2 hours of sleep at a time, when your body is recovering from birth, when you're in pain from breastfeeding, when you're waking up at 3 am to clean up a diaper blow-out, and when you're bleary-eyed figuring out what on earth your baby is still crying about. In the early weeks, it did not feel "worth it". There were no smiles, no positive reassurances, nothing that could be considered rewarding. To be honest, we joked she looked like a baked potato. All new babies do... they don't get "cute" until a little later. Through it all, I just knew I had no choice but to persevere. This is not to say I did not love her right away. But love can feel like a duty, just as much as it can feel like a joy.
At four months, I can now say that my sense of duty and joy are far more balanced. After she goes to bed, I love looking at pictures of her. I can't get enough of her gummy smile, her chubby legs, her tiny toes, her funny expressions. Seeing her learn new things warms me to the core. I find myself wishing for time to slow down so she can stay this small for a little longer. And I already catch myself wanting to say those two dreaded phrases to other moms, but I restrain myself. These words are useless to the struggling, and obvious to the rest.
Post-partum won't be pretty, but you'll be fine. I knew my body wouldn't be the same, having heard from other moms and having read the books, but I didn't know how unsettling it would be. The c-section recovery was so much more brutal than I had expected. Simple acts of sitting up in bed, walking to the bathroom, reaching to get a mixing bowl, walking to the car, all hurt. So I was daunted by that for awhile. But after I was mostly healed, I tentatively took a look at myself in the full length mirror. Having had no stretch marks during pregnancy, I was shocked to see fresh, red lightening rods cropping up all around my belly and thighs. My midsection still protruded. In Woods Hole, Massachusetts, there is little shop named, "Soft As A Grape". It makes no sense because grapes aren't supposed to be soft. That is exactly why "soft as a grape" was all I could think when I looked at my belly, which was once full and firm with life, and now just empty and loose. It felt so demoralizing.
Just as things shrank (somewhat) back into place and I started to feel less insecure, my hair started falling out. In fist fulls. My poor shower and bathroom floor, which were once white, are now littered with clumps of black. I'm still in the midst of this shedding period. It's supposed to all come back, but in the meantime, I'll just invest in extra sunscreen for my pale, receding hairline. And remember that this is a temporary state, a transition between pregnant and not. What will be left afterwards is a new story written on my body, one of how Holly came into my life.
That's all for now. Gotta go clean some spit up that somehow landed all over her ear. (Note to past self: this will be the new norm, and somehow you won't mind that much.)
A mother's intuition is real, and you've got it. I read a lot of articles and stories where moms would refer to their intuition, and how they just "knew" something was wrong with their baby, or how you have to do what "feels" right to you as a parent. While I absolutely believe in my intuition as a powerful voice to listen to, I didn't quite believe that I could apply it to a wholly separate being. Was this parenting intuition just something people made up to justify whatever decisions they wanted to make? Maybe to some extent, but it feels quite real to me now. When you spend all day and night with this little being, you will naturally learn a lot about her. You will observe her harder than you've ever observed anything, not just because she is fascinating, but because she can't talk and you're trying to figure out what she needs. She will still be an extension of you, even after that cord is cut. You will learn her language, you will know when something is off, and when everything is just fine.
It takes time to parse out all the stuff that "they" say you should or should not do. Contrary to what a lot of people told me, I do think it's worth it to take the classes and read the books if you are at all inclined. Of course, they will not tell you everything you need to know. Of course, your baby will be an individual. Of course, you will use your own judgment. But having more knowledge and some different perspectives and resources can improve your judgement and give you more confidence in trusting yourself. So read on.
You won't have to do it all. Before we had the baby, I was so scared of all the work that would fall on me. So many people told me that dads can't do much in the first few months. Babies just need their moms. When I actually had the baby, my experience didn't match those warnings at all. Curtis was doing so much, around the clock, to care for all of us. He could do almost everything I could do, and some of the things he could do even better because I was tired, healing, and hormonal.
To be sure, there is a lot to do when you have a newborn: Cuddle the baby. Change the baby's diaper. Dress the baby. Get up at night to check on the baby. "Five S" the baby. Give the baby her bottle. Burp the baby. Change the baby's bedding. Empty the diaper pail. Do laundry. Prepare meals. Clean up around the house. Go to the store. Take the baby to doctors appointments. Google questions about the baby. Coordinate with visitors. Send out thank you cards for gifts. Talk and play with the baby. Love the baby.
In the very long list of things are to do when you have a new baby, there are only TWO things that (cisgender) dads can't do: breastfeed and pump milk. So don't worry that the burden will all fall on you. Trust your partnership. Trust that he can and will do all the things he said he would before you agreed to have kids. Let him carry half the load.
It will get better. There are two favorite phrases that veteran parents love to say to new parents: "Enjoy every moment! It will go so fast." and "It's hard, but so worth it." During the first month or so, I smiled on the outside, but I hated hearing these two things. Did these people just forget how much work a newborn is? There is not a lot to enjoy when you can't catch more than 2 hours of sleep at a time, when your body is recovering from birth, when you're in pain from breastfeeding, when you're waking up at 3 am to clean up a diaper blow-out, and when you're bleary-eyed figuring out what on earth your baby is still crying about. In the early weeks, it did not feel "worth it". There were no smiles, no positive reassurances, nothing that could be considered rewarding. To be honest, we joked she looked like a baked potato. All new babies do... they don't get "cute" until a little later. Through it all, I just knew I had no choice but to persevere. This is not to say I did not love her right away. But love can feel like a duty, just as much as it can feel like a joy.
At four months, I can now say that my sense of duty and joy are far more balanced. After she goes to bed, I love looking at pictures of her. I can't get enough of her gummy smile, her chubby legs, her tiny toes, her funny expressions. Seeing her learn new things warms me to the core. I find myself wishing for time to slow down so she can stay this small for a little longer. And I already catch myself wanting to say those two dreaded phrases to other moms, but I restrain myself. These words are useless to the struggling, and obvious to the rest.
Post-partum won't be pretty, but you'll be fine. I knew my body wouldn't be the same, having heard from other moms and having read the books, but I didn't know how unsettling it would be. The c-section recovery was so much more brutal than I had expected. Simple acts of sitting up in bed, walking to the bathroom, reaching to get a mixing bowl, walking to the car, all hurt. So I was daunted by that for awhile. But after I was mostly healed, I tentatively took a look at myself in the full length mirror. Having had no stretch marks during pregnancy, I was shocked to see fresh, red lightening rods cropping up all around my belly and thighs. My midsection still protruded. In Woods Hole, Massachusetts, there is little shop named, "Soft As A Grape". It makes no sense because grapes aren't supposed to be soft. That is exactly why "soft as a grape" was all I could think when I looked at my belly, which was once full and firm with life, and now just empty and loose. It felt so demoralizing.
Just as things shrank (somewhat) back into place and I started to feel less insecure, my hair started falling out. In fist fulls. My poor shower and bathroom floor, which were once white, are now littered with clumps of black. I'm still in the midst of this shedding period. It's supposed to all come back, but in the meantime, I'll just invest in extra sunscreen for my pale, receding hairline. And remember that this is a temporary state, a transition between pregnant and not. What will be left afterwards is a new story written on my body, one of how Holly came into my life.
That's all for now. Gotta go clean some spit up that somehow landed all over her ear. (Note to past self: this will be the new norm, and somehow you won't mind that much.)
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