An Empty Warning
Last night, I did something I haven’t done in months: I put on cute tights, knee-high boots, a skirt, and a non-milk-stained sweater and went to a party, leaving a little Fusskins with Andrew for a couple of hours while I celebrated the grand opening of my prenatal yoga teacher’s new studio. And I talked—talked!—to a variety of other moms, and even made plans to get together with a few of them in the new year. In other words, I was a regular human being again, at least for a little while.
I was happy to hear from every other girl I talked to that they, too, spent days—weeks—crying once they brought their babies home. Lately, I’ve been thinking about the impressions and preconceptions about motherhood that I had before giving birth. I’d heard that having a baby was hard—no one ever, ever said to me it was a piece of cake. But for some unknown reason, in the back of my mind, I thought it’d be different for me—that I’d be different, or do something differently, or have a different kind of baby who’d be born with a symbiotic, mind-reading sort of understanding with her mama. Just as Mom and Dad didn’t believe California was awful until we were stuck on I-80 this summer in 100+ degree heat in a non-air-conditioned car that was filling with smoke from a wildfire by the side of the road, I didn’t believe having a baby could be all that hard until—BAM—Lucia was here, crying and screaming and otherwise exploiting her cuteness to drive me over the edge. Then I realized: why yes, having a baby is hard, just like everyone always said.
It’s the kind of warning, though, that’s difficult to deliver with any kind of credibility, especially when the person saying it’s hard has an adorable, gurgling baby or smiling toddler or thriving grown child and seems to have it all together, to have survived unscathed. It’s easy to see why I never quite bought it. And if I myself deliver such a warning one day, while holding an increasingly cute, cooing, bright-eyed Lucia, I wouldn’t be surprised if whoever is listening (Molly) smiles while thinking to herself, Hard for Margo, maybe—but it’ll surely be different for me.
I was happy to hear from every other girl I talked to that they, too, spent days—weeks—crying once they brought their babies home. Lately, I’ve been thinking about the impressions and preconceptions about motherhood that I had before giving birth. I’d heard that having a baby was hard—no one ever, ever said to me it was a piece of cake. But for some unknown reason, in the back of my mind, I thought it’d be different for me—that I’d be different, or do something differently, or have a different kind of baby who’d be born with a symbiotic, mind-reading sort of understanding with her mama. Just as Mom and Dad didn’t believe California was awful until we were stuck on I-80 this summer in 100+ degree heat in a non-air-conditioned car that was filling with smoke from a wildfire by the side of the road, I didn’t believe having a baby could be all that hard until—BAM—Lucia was here, crying and screaming and otherwise exploiting her cuteness to drive me over the edge. Then I realized: why yes, having a baby is hard, just like everyone always said.
It’s the kind of warning, though, that’s difficult to deliver with any kind of credibility, especially when the person saying it’s hard has an adorable, gurgling baby or smiling toddler or thriving grown child and seems to have it all together, to have survived unscathed. It’s easy to see why I never quite bought it. And if I myself deliver such a warning one day, while holding an increasingly cute, cooing, bright-eyed Lucia, I wouldn’t be surprised if whoever is listening (Molly) smiles while thinking to herself, Hard for Margo, maybe—but it’ll surely be different for me.
Comments
It is the best and worst thing you experience in your life. There is nothing like the love you feel for your baby and there is nothing like the dislike you have for the uncertainty and worry about that same baby.