What I know now, 16 years on
Parenting is the part of my life where I question myself the most. Whatever I do, it’s rarely good enough. I should be more present. More calm. More energized. I should know how to respond to the curve balls that appear almost daily.
Holly is now almost 16 and James, 13. Raising teenagers isn’t easy, but I seemed to hold myself to even higher standards during the baby and toddler years. Sometimes, I even questioned my reasons for deciding to start a family in the first place.
When my ex-husband and I decided to have children, I hoped that being a mother would bring more meaning into my life. It felt like the next right step after marriage. It was also a chance to stop working in my soul-sucking job for at least a year. (That reason feels particularly hard to admit to.)
Ross had talked about wanting a family since the early days of our relationship, and on some level, I did too. But it wasn’t from a place of deep longing to bring new life into the world. I did not feel a strong urge to become a mother.
A few days after Holly was born, Ross had to go to work. He kissed us goodbye, and left me alone with her, as I waited for my Mom to arrive to help. Almost as soon as he’d closed the front door, words popped into my head that I hated myself for.
What have I done?
I don’t want this.
I can’t do this.
Holly was born in a blow-up birthing pool in our kitchen at home.
Ross baked potatoes the size of his fists for dinner. It was July, in the midst of a heatwave. Not an obvious choice of meal, given it required the oven to be on for two hours straight. But it’s what I hankered for, so he obliged. He rubbed oil and salt into the potato skins and served them with baked beans and melted cheese. The midwife, Barbara, and he ate at the kitchen counter, while I balanced my plate on the side of the pool, eating mouthfuls between contractions.
I’d been terrified in the lead-up to this day and felt as if I would turn inside-out with the waves of pain. But with Barbara there, I felt calm. My body was leading me through a process, and I found myself inexplicably trusting what was happening. There was no going back. Nothing to do. No place to be. Nothing else mattered.
When Holly finally slid from my body, the pain instantly stopped. I cradled her under the warmth of the water. Her eyes were open, and she was quieter than I’d expected. As if she thought she was still in the womb.
In those moments, only the two of us existed. Her soft, spongy body against mine, her bald head searching my skin. I didn’t ever want to put her down.
Once we were out of the water, I lay down with her on the living room floor under a blanket. I stroked her cheek as she fed and felt on the edge of something I didn’t understand.
I was meant to be a mother. The moment I first held Holly, I knew it. And I know it now. As I write these words, I know it so absolutely, I wonder why I have doubted myself so often.
When parenting feels hard, it’s because I’m holding myself to some standard I believe I should be meeting. Judging myself for not being a textbook parent (whatever that is). I’ve probably read far too much parenting advice in my plight to “be better,” and that feeds the doubt. It feeds the feeling of not-enoughness.
I also feel pressure to say that being a Mom is the part of my life that brings me the most fulfillment. But that is just another standard I have internalized. Being a mother does bring me deep joy. And it can also feel thankless and frustrating and constricting.
On some days, my work is what I feel most lit up by, and on other days, it’s the time I spend alone writing. Sometimes, I can’t wait to get home to my family and snuggle up with them in front of a movie. I’m allowed to feel all of it. It doesn’t have to look any particular way.
Sometimes, I wish I could go back in time and live the years Holly and James were young children again. But I’m not sure if I’d have been able to do much differently.
I was increasingly unhappy in my marriage, and in my work. In the end, I decided to make changes in both these areas of my life, but while Holly and James were young, I didn’t have capacity for that. I was doing my best. And that’s all we can ever do.
When I let the self-judgment go, the “what-ifs” and “if only I’d known betters,” I know that the choices I have made since becoming a mother have been borne from love.
Love for my children. A growing love for myself. A desire for our whole family unit to thrive, even if the set up of our lives is different from the fairytale ending I once thought it should be.
Today is Mother’s Day here in the UK, and as I sit in bed, eating the breakfast my daughter has made me, this is what I choose to remember.
This is the gift I choose to give to myself.
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