I’d been waiting for this moment. I’m almost 40, and so I really believed it might never happen.
I’d had tests and tried everything else I could, too – feet in the air, pineapple core, supplements, acupuncture. I lived on a 28-day rollercoaster of hope and crushing heartbreak for two years.
I’d watched others come and go through this same experience. In fact, almost everyone I knew was effortlessly successful at something I failed at monthly.
On the other side, they were so keen to tell me that it was “life-changing” and “the most important job in the world”; that their days finally felt “truly magic” and “meaningful now”. I tried to be happy for them, as sad as I was for myself – even if their joy and seemingly newly elevated existence only showed me what I was missing.
But, finally, finally, it was my turn. It had happened. I too was going to have a beautiful, entirely changed life.
‘Your life as you know it is over’
I couldn’t wait to tell everyone. They’d been telling me for so long how glorious, how important it was. So, you can imagine my bewilderment when I announced my pregnancy and the most common thing people said, often directly after a tepid congratulations, was: “You’re f****d.”
I don’t know what we expected people to say when we told them I was pregnant, but I didn’t predict the avalanche of complaints about parenthood and warnings of “life never being the same” – but not, it seemed, in a good way.
Women are conditioned to believe that nothing compares to motherhood, nothing is as rewarding. It’s so often implied that you’re meaningless without a uterus that’s served as a B&B for a baby.
But, it seemed to me the minute I was pregnant, no one could wait to tell me how hard and difficult it was going to be. Especially those who’d previously been so keen to present it as a perfect experience.
I thought I’d be admitted with open arms into the glorious ivory tower of motherhood, which involved a superiority complex and a lot of stretch jersey. But instead, folk took pleasure in telling me that sleep deprivation would ravage my skin and mind. I could forget sex.
I should accept I’d probably have to get a nice, part-time “mum job”, because writing would be impossible. Who wanted to read about “poonamis” and cracked nipples anyway? Also, my marriage would never be the same.
At the end of the all too familiar diatribe, they’d say something like: “I mean, I love my kids. I wouldn’t change it for the world. But your life as you know it is over now.”
The camaraderie of parenthood
I’ll have been a mum for two years in autumn and what I know now is that, in a strange, counterproductive way, when parents start talking to you about the hard stuff, that is your welcome into the community. Like people who worked for the same company with notoriously bad conditions – it’s camaraderie and gallows humour.
Often, especially in the earliest months which are, undeniably, a bomb of exhaustion and bewilderment going off in life as you know it, reminding yourself that everyone said you were “f****d” lets you know it’s normal.
I didn’t understand this when I was pregnant. And, already dealing with a pandemic and fear of losing a much-longed-for baby, I thought it was unnecessary unkindness.
Now, I am actually grateful to those people who, however well-intentioned, made me think that motherhood was going to be a painful drudge full of sacrifice, hardship and resentment
High on the fury of pregnancy hormones, I answered, rightly, that I left school at 15, built a career in NGOs, travelled the world solo twice over, and then became a published writer – I thought I could handle a few sleepless nights and nappy changes.
And this is also true: every individual parent is different. Every family unit has things that distinctively benefit and disadvantage them in the wild west of child-rearing. I had many weaknesses and some strengths that were uniquely mine. Things happen that you can never expect – in our case, my ill-health, a war breaking out, and a refugee crisis in our city – and that changes the experience too.
Now, I am actually grateful to those people who, however well-intentioned, made me think that motherhood was going to be a painful drudge full of sacrifice, hardship and resentment. They made me expect the worst, and I was given, instead, joy.
I truly love being a mum. It’s true, there are many difficult things about being a parent and it is important we speak about them too. And, yes, sleep deprivation did ravage skin and mind for a while.
I do have a nice part-time “mum job” – it’s writing, just as it always was. My marriage will never be the same – it’s better for this shared experience, for seeing who my husband is when the chips are down. Yes, we still have sex.
Now, when I hear someone is pregnant, I say: “I love my kid. I wouldn’t change motherhood for the world. Your life as you know it will change. You’re about to have an exceptional adventure.”
Kerry Hudson is an Aberdeen-born, award-winning writer of novels, memoirs and screenplays. She lives in Prague with her husband, toddler and an angry black cat
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