ILLUSTRATION BY RACHEL WADA
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I thought motherhood would come more naturally to me.
I had dreamed about becoming a mother since I was a little girl. How many kids I would have and what I would name them? Growing up, I was one of the most coveted babysitters on the block.
After my first baby was born, the obstetrician had to stick her hand inside me and rip out the placenta, which for some reason my body did not want to let go of. But I continued to bleed for hours until I was put to sleep for a procedure to stop it. I remember asking the nurse if I was going to be okay, not knowing if I was dying or not, as my husband sat terrified in a chair holding our daughter, his face white as the sheet on my hospital bed.
I lost so much blood that I couldn’t stand up for a week without feeling like I was going to faint. Under any other circumstances after losing litres of blood and receiving a transfusion, I would have been allowed to rest in a quiet room for days. But as a brand new mom, I was subjected to sleepless nights and chastised by a crabby nurse for not knowing how to properly nurse my tiny six-pound baby, who only wanted to drink from one breast. I begged my husband to help milk me. Literally. Like a cow. This was because we were told that we would have to express milk and feed our two-day old baby from a cup to get her birth weight up and avoid having to start her on formula.
I really thought motherhood would come more naturally to me.
I didn’t experience going into labour naturally until my third pregnancy. My first two births were induced. They say third time’s a charm.
Maybe it’s true, because with each passing day I feel more tenderness than resistance to my children and my role as their mom. I can feel myself slowly opening up, letting go, unravelling. Until I’m challenged: by a tantrum or a sleepless night or a judging look or comment from a passing stranger. And it brings me to my knees. The wind is knocked out of me and I react just like a child myself. I throw the tantrum. It’s all so emotional and fraught. So out of my control.
I thought motherhood would come more naturally to me.
Three months after giving birth to my third and final baby, my husband had to travel for work and left me alone with the kids for a few days. This was during my first month of maternity leave with all three kids at home since I’d pulled them out of daycare. After all, why would we pay thousands of dollars a month for daycare when I was at home with the baby and perfectly capable of caring for them? They’re my kids.
But then I caught shingles and pneumonia in the same week following his trip. My doctor gave me medication and told me I had to rest. Really rest. I also began to see a naturopath who treated me for adrenal fatigue. My husband did overtime duty at home and we embraced Netflix as a legitimate child-care strategy.
My wise life coach and yoga teacher called it a “smack down” and assured me that I would come out the other end all the stronger for it. She was right.
But motherhood still doesn’t always come naturally to me.
I feel an underlying sense of panic 95 per cent of the time when I’m out in public with the kids, and sometimes react to their antics in ways that run counter to the supportive, loving and consistent parent I want to be.
Parenting books are the death of me. I approach them with the same vigour I approach every other learning opportunity or course in my life: with the expectation that I will study hard and get an A. At least, that’s how it used to work. I’ve read some really insightful books, but each has left me feeling more inadequate than the next.
I thought the job would come more naturally, but I think I’ve finally put my finger on my mission as a mother.
During my Thursday-night dance class – one of the things I do for myself to stay sane – our teacher asked us to improvise a piece that told a story through dance. I found myself fighting back tears as I moved my body across the floor on a symbolic journey of motherhood.
In the middle of the moody song, a saxophone comes in bringing levity. This is my mission: to find joy amidst the vulnerability. To choose love over fear. Starting with love for myself. And, in moments when fear overrides (as it so often does), to breath and begin again.
Maybe by the time I’m a grandmother, motherhood will come more naturally to me.
Or, at least I will share my own experience, and tell my daughter and my sons that they are not alone. That there are new parents all over the world awake in the middle of the night wondering what the heck they are doing. And that I love them and their kids ferociously, no matter what kind of parent they are.
Meredith Davis lives in Guelph, Ont.