The pursuit of joy
I’ve come to think that my own concept of “joy” has been radically redefined since giving birth, without me even realizing it.
After feeling “off” for a good while, I decided that I desired and deserved help, and started seeing a therapist a few weeks ago. The initial diagnosis: “baby blues”. Postpartum or prenatal, it’s early to say. But one of the very first questions he asked me was “what brings you joy?”. For what felt like the most uncomfortable 5 minutes of my life I sat there under his stare, frantically trying to come up with an answer. The more I thought about it, the more desperate I got to just say something, anything. That feeling stuck with me.
It felt like lately nothing truly brought me “joy”, and I was simply going through the motions of life a day at a time, grateful but unsatisfied, without joy. And even when there was joy, it often came with a side of guilt or regret as it involved being by myself, as opposed to spending precious time with my family.
Back to my therapist and his nagging question - the one and only answer I could come up with was my very last recollection of feeling joyful, which was when I witnessed S’s first steps. He nodded, and came up with an interpretation which nearly blew my mind. Safe for a health issue, which thankfully isn’t S’s case, kids his age inevitably start walking. This didn’t depend on me. S is thriving and will continue to thrive regardless of how inapt I feel as a mother sometimes. Regardless of me needing time for myself to “blow some steam” or simply recharge. He will certainly thrive with me, but also without my ominous presence. This realization lifted an incredible weight off my shoulders - it brought me joy.
Since that personal epiphany I decided to start a joy journal, to try and recognize that there is indeed joy in my life, and to hopefully get to know myself a little better. The list below is a work in progress, and what a massive progress it has been since that initial question:
Grabbing coffee and cake at a cafe (by myself, with my family, with a friend)
The kick I get after my first coffee in the morning
Having one-on-one conversations
Realizing that S is growing and has an independent personality, but still needs me
Walking around with a coffee warming up my hands on a cold day
A clean and organized apartment
Nice-smelling candles
Buying flowers for our home
Making S laugh, without tickling him
Reading a book without wondering at the back of my head whether it’s worth my time
Traveling somewhere I’ve never been before; ideally somewhere where I don’t speak the language
Both unplugging from social media and using it to connect with people
Device-free date nights
Feeling my baby girl move and kick
Daydreaming about moving to Japan with my family
Parenting with YY (something as mundane as drying S together after his bath makes me feel in my element, as if all the decisions I’ve made that got us to this moment were right)
So maybe what brings me joy hasn’t changed that much since becoming a mother, after all - it has expanded. Given my very introspective nature, many of the activities that have always brought me joy involve me being alone. Note: not lonely. I need time to think, to recharge, to reflect. I not only crave; I need time by myself. I often wonder if this is innate to me, or if I’ve become this way due to being an only child (hoping to answer this after some more therapy sessions). What has changed since giving birth was in fact the guilt that I now often feel whenever I do carve out time for myself. And this is what needs to be worked on.
Either way, it is honestly and unfortunately not a feeling that I desire for my children in our super-connected world. Being an introvert is often misinterpreted in both professional and social contexts; one can come off rude, shy, way too serious - all of which are not adjectives that relate to me at all. I do hope my children are happy on their own, but also that they can find joy in constantly being with others, more than their mother does.
Accepting who and how I am has been a very long journey with many ups and downs, and one which I am nowhere near reaching a final destination. But if there’s one thing I’ve recently learned is that the pursuit of joy and the road leading to accepting who I am are interdependent journeys - there is not one without the other.
It’s also a journey that goes beyond being an only child, an expat, an introvert, a mom - all things that I use ad nauseam to define, categorize, and limit myself. Oh, I’m also learning that introverts can be good parents, too, if you’ll allow them a solo cup of coffee from time to time. Through therapy and writing, I am coming to terms that finding time for my own joy while performing my motherly duties isn’t selfishness - it’s self-maintenance, and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that.
Thank you
Yes, you.
As I slowly approach the end of my maternity leave, I have found myself more stressed out than what's already common for my anxious nature. At the source of my worry lies the tension between an urge to go back to work, and not being able to imagine anything more fulfilling than spending my days staring at my son's toothless smile. I find myself unable to live in the present with my baby boy, not only due to the anticipation of being apart from him, but also due to the need of stimuli other than motherhood. The conflict is constant and numbing.
Lately, I've been obsessing about the difference between "who I am" and "who I want to be" - so much that by the end of the day only a good ol' Netflix binge can distract my mind in time for bed. The following questions have been playing on loop in my over-stimulated, sleep deprived head: What am I creating for my boy? How, and for what, do I want him to remember me? How will my current career contribute to that?
It is hardly news that becoming a parent often makes one reconsider who they are and what they do (for a wage, for a hobby). For our *millennial* generation though, the possibilities feel positively endless. This knowledge infers that if you do not follow your passion, or love what you do, or find purpose in it, then your own professional and/or personal misery is entirely on you.
As I'm now able to check all standard boxes in my personal life (happily married, with kid), my focus has been shifting once again to my professional one. I've been watching more self-help TED talks than I'd like to admit, and one in particular caught my attention by focusing on 3 main questions to ask oneself when searching for an authentic career: What am I good at? What do people tell me I'm good at? What is holding me back? The answer to the latter being always, invariably, myself.
This brings me, at last, to the purpose of this text - which is to thank you.
A few weeks back, a good friend of mine with whom I hadn't spoken in a while reached out to me. She had started writing again, and wanted me to know that I had inspired her to do so. In my haze of self-doubt, it has often felt unlikely for me to find motivation within myself, let alone having enough to spare and topple onto others. "Having a kid and still finding the time to do what you like, it's remarkable", she said. She was referring to my blog, my writing, my personal posts which despite being somewhat rare these days, are definitely full of raw feelings and plain joy from the act of writing. I'm always so glad to hear that it shows. "Looking forward to reading your next post", she finished her text, and my day was made.
Her kindness pulled me a step closer to the track, and for this I thank her wholeheartedly. Every now and then I find motivation and focus in refreshingly unlikely sources. Every little feedback from friends (or friends of friends), i.e. people who took 5 minutes of their time to read some words I've sewn together, fills my heart and soul with purpose.
So thank you friend, acquaintance, stranger, for bringing me closer to clarity amidst the sea of dirty diapers and toothless smiles. I truly appreciate it.
Limitations
I'm a fraud. "Why on Earth did I think I know enough to start a blog about motherhood?". I'm a fraud, I'm a phony, I'm so embarrassed - that's all I could think, on loop, as I sobbed around 2am the other night. It'd been one hour since my son had woken up to eat, two hours since I'd gone to bed. There he was, balling, and I had no idea what he wanted.
At first I thought we had it covered. "Can you please try to burp him? Did you check his diaper?", I whispered in the dark to my husband, face half-buried in my pillow (we take turns). The crying continued. "He can't be hungry, he just ate! Keep trying to burp him". Every minute of a newborn crying in the night feels like hours. I quickly, too quickly, started losing it.
Then I reluctantly asked for my godmother's help. We've been lucky enough to have her around since S was born - but to ask for her help at 2am meant admitting that we don't have it covered. She happens to be a trained nurse who's worked in childcare for the past 40 years, so her presence has been just a bit reassuring. But those days are almost over, as she'll soon head back to Brazil. "When did he eat last?", she asked. "He can't be hungry, he just ate", I answered, defensively.
In the meantime YY was still trying to burp him. He burped! - but the crying continued. He passed S to my godmother. She took him away and patiently calmed him down. Then I lost it.
I started sobbing, telling myself I don't have this, we don't have this, I need sleep, I can't, I won't - but I will. My godmother asked me to prepare a bottle, as she knew I couldn't breastfeed at that moment. "But... He just ate", I muttered as I mixed the formula. That was it. He was hungry, and I was in denial. I preach that "fed is best", but at that moment I had trouble feeding my son formula. I couldn't accept that my milk wasn't enough. I felt like I wasn't enough.
As it turns out, S is slightly underweight for his age, and we'll have to feed him formula multiple times a day from now on. I look back at that night and try to make sense of my desperation. From a distance, I understand that I'm not a fraud, or a phony, and there's nothing to be embarrassed about. I am doing the best that I can on the daily - mind and body - but sometimes that doesn't cut it, and that's okay. The problem is accepting it.
The pressure of parenthood is unlike anything I'd experienced before. I salute parents everywhere, and think about them sometimes as I feed my baby at 2am. I wonder how many of them are out there at that very moment, exhausted, feeling inadequate, feeling like they're not enough. Feeling like a fraud. Feeling like I so often do.
Is that, I wonder, a sign that we must be doing something right?
We must talk about the C-word
Let's kick it off by making one thing clear: If you think I didn't "give birth" to my son because I had a c-section, please leave.
This being 2017, isn't it about time that we end the stigma against c-sections? Hasn't it been proved time and again that this isn't by any means an easy way out? And even if it was - shouldn't one have a choice? Why must we glamourise pain, and devalue any birthing experience that doesn't necessarily involve copious amounts of swearing at doctors or midwives?
To be completely honest, for most of my pregnancy I was a bit in denial that my baby would sooner or later somehow have to come out. I didn't set off wishing for a c-section. Natural births and all that aren't my cup of tea either, but I was set on the idea that I'd have a "normal birth" with an epidural and all would be well. Alas, it didn't go quite as planned.
Despite living in Germany, my husband and I decided that our son would be born in Rio (to the shock and confusion of many around us). My life-long gynecologist had been my mom's obstetrician, i.e. the doctor who once performed the c-section that brought me onto this very world. In this crazy international life that my French-American husband and I lead, the decision to give birth to our son where I myself had been born and raised just felt right. Knowing my doctor would be there gave me the trust and confidence I lacked back in Munich, which was more than enough reason to go back home. We have zero regrets - but now I'm diverging. This topic deserves a post on its own.
Once I flew to Rio at around 30 weeks pregnant, I had to recognize my own veiled prejudice during the first in-person appointment with my obstetrician. The moment I told him I'd like a "normal" birth, he said he isn't a big fan of the term, as it implies that c-sections aren't normal. He prefers to call it vaginal birth instead. Touché.
As the weeks went on and my son's predicted birth weight reached 3.8kg, the thought of vaginal birth started making me uneasy. I never feared the pain or pooping-while-delivering-baby. It was articles about women who ended up with urinary incontinence for life, tried numerous reconstructive surgeries and finally got divorced due to a destroyed sex life that haunted me. Other articles affirmed that "your vagina will NEVER be the same - but that's ok!!! :)". Hm. I'd failed miserably at doing kegels consistently during my pregnancy (I know, I know). Alright, I was doomed.
As I discussed my fears with my doctor, he flat-out said exactly what I needed to hear: "It's your vagina, your choice. Not mine or your husband's, or anyone else's really, but yours". This no-bullshit attitude made every penny spent on my ticket to Rio worth it. At that moment, I still had a choice.
If I opted for a c-section, it would have to be scheduled for the due date or later - not one day earlier. It is often presumed that women and doctors opt for c-sections so that babies can be born sooner, at the most convenient date, with a quick cut of a knife. Not my case.
Anyhow, at this point I wasn't convinced that this was what I wanted. What I really hoped was for my son to decide when he was ready to join us. I wanted to go into labor, to feel contractions. I wanted my water to break in an awkward situation (While out for dinner! During a stroll at the mall!) and have confused onlookers cheer me on as I ugly-cried of joy. Vaginal birth or whatever - I just wanted a healthy, full-term, strong baby, ready to come out.
But life doesn't quite work like that, does it? The 38th week ultrasound showed that our baby had the umbilical cord looped twice around his neck. He was perfectly fine otherwise, but now the c-section was a reality. At first I felt oddly and guiltily relieved; I had a legitimate excuse to let my vagina be. However, as the due date approached and I showed no signs of labor, I started to grieve my lack of options.
To be honest, not one woman I know has actually opted for a c-section. Yet most of them feel somehow guilty, or somewhat embarrassed, for needing to go down that road.
I still held on to the hope that at least I'd go into labor up to the very last minute of July 12th. I never did. My son was born via c-section in the morning of July 13th. I know the moment was right, though I joke that he really didn't want to leave the womb. But his lungs were already perfectly formed, and meconium was starting to leak, so there was no reason to wait any longer.
I do still wish I'd gone into labor. After 9 months of reading everything there is about "how to differentiate Braxton-Hicks from real contractions" or "when to call your doctor and head to the hospital", it is obviously frustrating to miss out on the experience. But still, I was there.
My body had nurtured a new life from scratch, and there I was, being cut open so he could come out safely. I got a cold on that very day and felt life I would die with every cough post-op. The first pee after they removed the catheter made me cry (think full bladder being emptied drop by drop). And you know what they say about "feeling like your organs are going to come out through the scar when you poop for the first time"? Totally true.
Now you wonder if I regret getting a c-section? Not for a second. As my scar heals, I sleep as soundly as it's possible with an infant, knowing that my private parts have never been better. But c-sections are still massively intrusive surgeries, and I never felt as scared as I did while lying tied down on the operating table, fully aware and feeling perfectly fine, while getting a spinal tap and about to be cut open. The risks are real, and the recovery sucks.
Long story short: I would love to deliver my second baby "vaginally" once the day comes - pain, poop, incontinence and all. I would also love to not feel less of a mother if things don't go as planned, for what should really matter is that we're here, and we're ok.
First things first
I guess we all have the right to share about our lives and the way we choose to live them. As a new mother (or simply parent), I am constantly flooded with conflicting articles and friendly, but many times unhelpful, advice. I am a firm believer that you do you, fed is best and whatever floats your boat. I recently read that as long as you keep your baby happy and "not-broken", you're doing a good job as a parent. I guess you can do a bit more than just that, but I agree with the sentiment.
As I write this, the familiar dark cloud of guilt hangs over my head ("Did I talk to my baby enough today?","Did he eat well?","Is his poop normal???"), as it does over most people responsible for itty bitty humans. I must make a daily conscious effort to not judge myself, just as I wouldn't judge others as parents or caretakers. I am now ready to go on a whim to even suggest that hey, maybe I am doing something somewhat correctly. My boy is healthy, putting on weight, growing respectfully, laughing and passing a healthy amount of gas.
The moment I found out I was pregnant, I had about 937287 questions that not even the most obscure Yahoo forum from 2004 could answer. I was just too scared to Google the other 8374923 pressing issues in my head. I had to try many things on my own, and despite an ongoing crippling anxiety, I had an otherwise healthy pregnancy.
In July 2017, I gave birth to the most wonderful baby boy, and I now feel like I could/should share what I've learned, hoping it'll help a new mama or papa out there. I am not an expert nor do I claim to be one, and every single parenthood is different, but I'm being there and doing that my own way. So here goes nothing.
