Confessions of a Terrible Mom (J. Smoker)

From the author

I am not a writer.

Yes, I wrote this book, but I’m not a real writer. At least I don’t see myself that way.

I am a professional designer, and while my children were young, I did not work. I always knew that I would have to return to the profession and earn money, but I tried to prolong life in sweatpants and with a shower only before dinner for as long as possible. I didn’t miss office clothes at all, but it turned out that a relaxed lifestyle has its price. Endless games of hide and seek and picture books soon got fed up, I began to get bored with endless lullabies and other routine activities. And one day I started blogging.

It seemed like a very good idea. On the one hand, I will be able to write a diary for children, which they will be interested in reading when they grow up. On the other hand, this activity will entertain me in the pauses between changing diapers, washing and trips to the grocery store. Plus, I won’t have to compose and send out all those crazy emails with photos attached to family and friends. What did I lose? Nothing. But I could not even imagine how much I would gain.

I described the anguish of getting the perfect baby photo and the pain of my elders’ antics. I posted children’s crafts, drawings and other nice little things, talked about what was happening with us, and did not imagine that someone other than my relatives would read it.

But after a few weeks, a miracle happened: I received a comment from an outsider. At a distance of several thousand miles, there was someone who looked like me. I clicked on the name, and it turned out that this woman also maintains her own blog, which shares her views on motherhood and parenting. These views differed from mine, but it was interesting to read. I clicked again and found out that there are thousands of mothers on the Web describing their lives and experiences. I got into a completely new, huge world. And I got hooked.

Our community has grown along with my site. If earlier I lived alone with my disappointments and fatigue, now there are mothers from all over the world who understand and share my feelings. I considered my thoughts about motherhood too frank to share, but gradually they penetrated the blog pages. My posts became the occasion for wider discussions unfolding in the comments. Mothers described their own stories that I laughed at or cried about and learned from. We all had something to talk about, and I was happy that people share their thoughts on my blog.

A few years later, I created a section on the site for anonymous confessions. I felt that my readers would be more frank if they were given the opportunity to express themselves without a nickname and a photo. The result was stunning. Some stories were sad, others could be laughed at, some were striking in their frankness, but they were all real. The confessions that precede each of the chapters of my book are taken from this section. Real moms express their true thoughts and feelings without fear of public judgment or backlash. I am sure that some of them will be close to you. We are not so different from each other.

I hope this book will serve as well as my blog. Although you won’t be able to post comments online, what you read can change the way you communicate with others on a variety of serious and non-serious occasions. You will be able to openly discuss with friends the difficulties of raising a girl. You will tell your neighbors how much you hate the pool. Use the book as a saving straw for those drowning in the abyss of motherhood.

To the members of my Scary Mommy community, thank you. Thank you for helping me open up from a side I didn’t know before, and for making things happen that I never dreamed of.

Chapter 1

Mom Confessions

• I admit, most of the time I don’t even know what I’m doing. It seems to others that everything worked out for me: a good wife, a good mother, a successful career. But actually it is not. Now I’m ready to stop pretending to be the epitome of perfection.
• For seven years I tried to get pregnant, and when I became a mother, I think: did I really need it?
• Rather than look at Barney the dinosaur again, I’d rather poke my eye out with a fork. At least they will pay attention to me, in the end. Not bad idea!
• Sometimes I deliberately try to get sick so that I can go to bed at six in the evening.
• I signed up for the gym. I rent children to a free children’s room at the gym, and I myself sit for hours in the locker room with magazines or on the Internet.
• I pretend to be a happy mommy who doesn’t go to work. In fact, I’m slowly dying. Every night I cry in the shower. It’s not at all what I imagined.
• Every morning I kiss my daughter goodbye as she heads off to school after her teenage morning tantrums and bickering. I close the door behind her and shake her off me like dust.
• When I go grocery shopping, I miss my career more than my son. But every time I come back to him.
• In my kitchen cupboard, in a jar labeled «flour,» I have a few «jambs» and expensive chocolate hidden away. I rarely use them, but the very thought that they are there is reassuring.

A lot of cool things happen in motherhood: if you change the sheets in the morning, one of the children is sure to pee at night. There are millions of toys and expensive educational games in the house, but your child will definitely want to play with pots and pans from the kitchen cabinet. If you call a babysitter with an hourly rate to entertain the children, they will certainly fall asleep earlier than usual.

It’s unfair, unfair, and wrong, but that’s how it always happens. The biggest joke of motherhood — despite the fact that they never leave you alone (they won’t let you go to the toilet calmly!) — you feel completely isolated.

There are millions of toys in the house, but your child will definitely want to play with pots and pans from the kitchen cabinet.

A few years ago, I was a non-working mom of three children aged zero to four. I lived in a new house, in a new city for me, with unfamiliar neighbors. This had a depressing effect on me, I felt lonely and almost fell into despair.

A familiar mother from our street somehow came in to ask how I was doing. “Small is a rare bastard, but with age it will pass,” I answered half in jest. From her offended face, I realized that we were no longer destined to spend our evenings expressing mutual condolences and consolations. She also has three small children, and is she not slowly going crazy? Doesn’t she dream of the days when the older ones don’t wipe their snot on her jeans and the baby doesn’t burp non-stop? She doesn’t lock herself in the bathroom despite the howl from the other side of the door? It seems not. Or she hides it much better than I can.

We like to portray motherhood as a showcase event with idyllic children and radiant mothers. A delightful baby is resting on the mother’s chest. The baby takes the first steps under her caring supervision, and she smiles proudly and wipes tears of joy from her cheeks. The wind blows the long golden curls of a happy mother running hand in hand with her immaculately dressed children. Mom and daughter drink tea, do manicures to each other and share their innermost secrets and dreams. A mother in charge of the Girl Scouts, a mother chairing the school’s parent committee, a mother blowing dust off her daughter’s prom dress as an excited suitor knocks on the door.

Undoubtedly, these are happy and wonderful episodes in the life of mothers; but there are not so many of them, and they can happen with long breaks.

And if the baby does not take the nipple well and feeding turns into endless torment for him and for the mother?

And when, instead of memories of happy hours spent reading together, the mother of a stubborn kid thinks for a second that there should be something else in life besides primers and puzzles?

And what about the mother of a teenager who, having closed the door behind him, realizes that the intermission has come in the performance and you can drink a glass of wine while locking yourself in the bathroom?

Do these things detract from the miracle of motherhood?

No way: they just make it real.

Motherhood is not a chain of happy moments skillfully staged into a beautiful slide show. It can be beautiful, dirty, frightening, difficult, wonderful, exhausting, joyful, thankless, frustrating, and inspiring at the same time.

Motherhood is everything. Every woman who sees only the good in him denies the obvious (or is under the influence of serious drugs). Recognizing that this is hard work does not mean being a bad mother. At least it shouldn’t mean.

We are all in the same boat. We are not the first who at least once advised their child to shut up and from time to time thought about how we would live without children at all.

We are not the first mothers who are overwhelmed by motherhood, for whom it is a difficult task and for whom it is not completely satisfying. And we certainly won’t be the last.

We will lose nothing if we confess to each other our weaknesses and shortcomings. Vice versa. We will become better as mothers, as wives, and as women if we stop playing comedy and return to reality.

Who are we kidding, after all? I hope you don’t feel as lonely as I did during the first months of motherhood.

We are not the first who at least once advised their child to shut up and from time to time thought about how we would live without children at all.

Millions of mothers around the globe experience the same feelings. All we need is to find each other.

Mothers of all countries, unite!

The Terrible Mom Manifesto

Please solemnly read the following before proceeding.

• I will be humorous about everything that happens in my motherhood. Because otherwise I will be handed over to a madhouse or I will become completely unhappy.
• I will not condemn the mother who, having entered the store with her screaming child, immediately plugs his mouth with chocolates. It’s just a self-preservation instinct.
• I will not compete with a mother who bakes cakes without problems, cooks her own baby food and invents fantastic outfits from toilet paper. Motherhood is not a competition. And those who start chasing the leaders may lose.
• I will exchange a look of support, not hate, with the parents of a screaming baby in the cabin. I can get rid of this child right after landing, but they can’t.
• I will never ask a woman if she is pregnant. Never.
• I will never judge a mother who came to pick up her child from school in the same sweatpants, T-shirt and slippers as yesterday. She has a good reason for this.
• I will not pretend to know something about other people’s children (for me, my own remain a mystery).
• I will borrow babies from my relatives and girlfriends so that they can properly wash and take a nap. It’s everything every new mother wants.
• I will strive to convey to my daughter the understanding of a healthy body. She is worthy of a mother who takes care of herself (no stretch marks, cellulite, etc.).
• I will not preach the virtues of breastfeeding, circumcision, homeschooling, organic nutrition, sleeping in the same bed with a child and the like to other mothers, unless my opinion was specifically asked. I don’t need this in fig.
• I’ll try my best to never say «never» — I’m not immune to the fact that my own loud child with a water gun will appear on the beach.
• I will remember that there are no perfect mothers and that my children will grow up thanks to, and sometimes in spite of me.

Chapter 2

Mom Confessions

• I look at my pregnant belly and am horrified. I should be beaming with joy, but in fact I feel fat and ugly.
• So wanting to fuck while pregnant is normal? I swear I’m about to jump on our fifty-seven-year-old plumber! What the heck?
• Those three seconds of orgasm were NOT worth nine months of hell.
• I pee when I cough, I fart when I sneeze, and I’ll definitely crap myself on the delivery table.
• My husband is afraid that he will hit the baby’s head during sex. Honey, I saw your dick and you will NEVER get it that deep. You can’t even get close.
• My pregnancy was surprisingly easy, but I pretended to be terribly tired just to be left alone. Otherwise, I would have nailed my husband.
• During my pregnancy, I slept every day for three hours a day. For the sake of this happiness, I would remain pregnant forever.
• When I was pregnant, I ate a can of Nutella in a month. Okay, a bank for a week. Okay, okay, a jar a day. A can of Nutella a day! I’ve never admitted to this before.
• During pregnancy, my bust became like a porn star. Probably, it is necessary to become a surrogate mother so that he remains so.
• Every day I get mad at my unborn baby for feeling so bad about him. He hasn’t been born yet, and I’m already a bad mother.
• I’m afraid that I won’t be able to love my unborn child the way I love my daughter. This fear consumes me.
• If the behavior during pregnancy reflects in any way what kind of mother I will be, I would rather give this child up for adoption.
• I eat for three. The problem is, I’m expecting one baby, and right now it’s the size of a pea.
• Until three in the morning, I did epilation of the legs and bikini area, manicure / pedicure, scrub — everything. I’m not having an erotic date — I’m going to see a gynecologist. This is my only entertainment for the whole month.

My first child was, to put it mildly, a pleasant surprise! No, it’s wrong. It was a complete and utter shock. This shock (no-not-me! I should have-tripled-the-contraceptive-dose!) completely upended the slender, selfish life I had led before. This is how it will be more accurate.

In 2003, I worked as a store decorator for my favorite company. My simple life consisted of shopping, going to restaurants with my husband, drinking with friends and again shopping. Yes, but did I forget to mention shopping? Because he was the most important part of my life. Being able to buy items from the stores I decorated at huge discounts was a blessing for a narcissistic girl like me.

I had to arrive at work early to unpack and arrange the goods that arrived at the store the day before. One fine May day at five in the morning, I was sitting with colleagues on a luxurious, expensive carpet, sorting out large cardboard boxes with objects that had come from somewhere abroad. Brilliant amethyst earrings! Embroidered scarves! Miniature tea cups! I was ready to spend all my salary on these nice little things. Why else do you need money? Don’t hoard them! Who needs these savings and investments?!

After a while, I reached the box, which contained only cookbooks. Beautiful books, which usually make me want to spend the evening over sea bass with grilled vegetables or some other pretty dishes from full-page color pictures. But when I pulled the first one out and looked at the cover, a funny thing happened. That is not very funny. Just looking at the photo of a plate of fried scallops, I rushed to the toilet like a bullet. Scallops, one of my favorite foods, suddenly seemed disgusting to me. So disgusting that I could hardly control myself and, running to the toilet, laid out the entire contents of my stomach on the floor. Strange, I thought. Maybe it’s Cheerio with honey and nuts that I had for breakfast? Exactly they are. Certainly.

This went on all day. I could not look at the food, I was immediately drawn to puke. One of my co-workers was microwaving lunch in the communal kitchen and the smell infuriated me. Don’t others feel how vile this stench from homemade ravioli is? Tomato sauce? Cheese stuffing? Plus the taste of onion and garlic!

It’s impolite to warm up such food in front of everyone and force colleagues to breathe this stink, isn’t it? Turns the soul, isn’t it? Not this way. Except for me, no one was sick of the soul.

«Yes, you are pregnant!» my assistant confidently told me when I returned from my seventh trip to the bathroom. “Pregnant? I? No way… it’s just not my day!” I snorted in response. That’s for sure. I can’t be pregnant! We live in the center on the third floor of a building without an elevator, last weekend I drank three vodkas and tonics, I wear super short denim skirts, and I don’t like children for their constant yelling. No, it’s just not possible. It’s probably some kind of stomach infection. Maybe I’ll drop a couple of kilos in the process! Nothing, I can handle it. But pregnancy? Nonsense. Not to me!

My first child was a complete and utter shock for me. This shock completely upended the slender, selfish life I had led before.

On the way home, I looked into the pharmacy to buy peptobismol and some tabloid magazine. I passed a shelf of contraceptives, where I was looked at kindly by pregnancy tests, neatly arranged by name. Of course, the result will be negative. «What did I say?» I will tell my colleagues tomorrow. And ten dollars is not such a big price to pay to prove it to them, if other arguments do not work for them. I’ve spent money on far more stupid things in my life. And the test ended up in my basket.

At home, I opened the package and followed the instructions exactly. While waiting for the result, I leafed through the latest issue of People magazine in the bathroom with the latest gossip about a couple of Hollywood stars: are they expecting a baby? Did she cheat on him? Did he cheat on her? When was the last time he shaved? Her hair was too blonde, but overall it was okay. Will these suit me? Probably, yes, it will look good.

These were my priorities before I saw two blue lines on a strip of paper. Suddenly, I had more important things to worry about.

Shaking, I dialed my husband’s number. «Jeff,» I muttered, «I just took a pregnancy test… It’s positive.» There was dead silence on the other end. «Hello-oh?» — «I’m coming!» he whispered and hung up that.eu. Jeff arrived in record time, laden with drugstore bags. Five minutes later, our bathroom was adorned with a full assortment of every possible variety of pregnancy tests. They had different colors and package sizes, names, manufacturers. They coincided in only one thing, and this coincidence left no doubt that our former life was over.

Actually, it shouldn’t have been such a shock. I got off birth control pills a few months ago. But, damn it, not to get pregnant! I decided to cleanse my skin and give my body a rest before taking other pills.

My gynecologist’s recommendation to use alternative contraceptives somehow blew past my ears.

I never ceased to be amazed that a tiny creature smaller than a pea could bring my entire body into a state of complete chaos.

When the initial shock and attempts to deny the obvious subsided, I decided to look at the situation from the positive side. We are a happy married couple. And happy married couples tend to engage in self-reproduction. In the end, I myself chose this man to live my life with him. And if I wanted children, I would definitely want from him. Maybe exactly what was destined to happen happened, and all this happened at some cosmic level incomprehensible to me? Maybe this pregnancy isn’t so bad after all?

And I immediately threw up.

Morning sickness was just the beginning. I never ceased to be amazed that a tiny creature smaller than a pea could bring my entire body into a state of complete chaos. I was tired like I had never been tired before. I was exhausted, but at the same time I could not sleep properly — a completely idiotic state. The skin went pimples, like a teenager. Back hurt. Her hair curled in a strange way. The nails peeled off. I was in complete shit. And they call it beautiful? Tell me what exactly is beautiful from the above, I myself somehow don’t really understand!

To top it off, my body and my affairs suddenly became public property. I hadn’t even become a mother yet, and I was already being judged on the decisions I didn’t have time to make. It was a motherhood competition where I was enrolled without my informed consent. Strangers stopped me in restaurant toilets and asked if I was going to breastfeed. And in what way does it concern them? The old women doubted my choice of meat for dinner — they themselves were last pregnant about fifty years ago. Friends supplied me with objective evaluations of cloth diapers and breast pumps — and I had a very vague idea of ​​why both might be needed. About sleep training and circumcision, I’d rather not say anything. When you are carrying a child, everyone around you is eager to express an opinion about any of your decisions, despite the fact that they have nothing to do with either these decisions or their results. The fact that this is considered normal remains beyond my understanding, especially given the high hormonal background of a pregnant woman. Has there ever been a case of a woman in the ninth month killing a particularly curious character? I swear I will if I get pregnant again. For you.

And then a husband. My sweet, wonderful, loving man, who, as I inspired myself, could give the only child in the world that could not cause rejection in me. The best features of each of us will be embodied in this baby, with the help of which I will be able to take a fresh look at the entire young generation. There must have been something instinctive in my attachment to my husband. Everything went well, I thought.

But suddenly my chosen one turned into the most annoying phenomenon of all. What have I done! Humor, which used to be funny to the point of colic, began to seem simply depressing. His snoring kept me awake at night. I was sick of the smell of his skin. He also had the audacity to tell me that pregnant women look irresistibly sexy in high heels. I wonder how he would have managed to hobble on them with swollen legs, while trying to keep his balance? Not a fig would have worked out for him, and for others too.

I hadn’t even become a mother yet, and I was already being judged on the decisions I didn’t have time to make. It was a motherhood competition where I was enrolled without my consent.

All this made me think: who are all these women whose pregnancy goes smoothly? I have girlfriends who say that they love every step of the way to the land of newborns. They have neat little bellies and glowing skin, and they walk around the poolside lawn in their maternity bikinis, making us ashamed of their swollen veins and stretch marks. If not for their situation, I would gladly kick them in the belly with my foot. In a heeled shoe.

And what about those bugs of nature that manage to go through the entire nine months without knowing they’re expecting a baby? Who is this anyway? With my subsequent pregnancies, everything became clear right from the moment of conception. Bouts of nausea, constipation, slight changes in everything … I can not imagine how you can not understand in a few weeks, not to mention months? I will forever envy such women.

Within a short period of time in the region of seven months, I was able to get a taste of normal life. For a few weeks, I stopped being a hell of an evil bitch. I didn’t feel sick and I enjoyed my food. So much so that I quickly put on a dozen pounds — it really was a medical miracle, given my inability to digest food in the previous few months.

I began to look like a pregnant woman, and not like a fat woman, and gained some amount of energy. Life began to improve. And then came the ninth month.

I want the government to learn how to preserve the sensations of this period: the swelling, the pain, the kicking of the baby. Using the concentrate of this torment will be the most perfect torture in the world. Under it, even the most persistent men will crack. I thought that it would not be worse than at the beginning of pregnancy. I was sorely mistaken. Its ending is just awful.

At thirty-ninth week, I woke up in the middle of the night feeling unwell. I was restless, sweat was pouring from me, and stomach cramps began. These were not «baby coming» spasms, but «gotta go to the toilet» spasms. Of this I was absolutely certain. I called my mom and asked her advice. Pepto? Kolax? Coke? It didn’t feel like contractions at all (of course, I had no idea what labor pains were like), so I asked what I could do to feel better. “Honey,” Mom said calmly, “this is labor pains.”

So I started to become a mother. Those who have experienced this will understand me. It starts with a very unpleasant and completely unexpected sensation. In other words, with a shitty feel.

And this is just the beginning.

Chapter 3

Mom Confessions

• During childbirth, I would like to see anyone nearby, except for my husband. I love him, but he annoys me.
• The newborn looks like an alien. Do I have to consider her cute?
• I hate kids for what they did to my body. My chest sags, my stomach bulges, I’m covered in stretch marks. Thanks kids!
• To those young mothers who come out of the hospital and look like a million: I hate you!
• The son was born like two drops of water similar to my former lover. My first thought when I saw him: what a bastard!
• I had a cesarean. I never told anyone that there was no medical indication for this: I just didn’t want to experience my body in childbirth.
• Would rather give birth. This hospital stay is just as much like a vacation as this whole fucking year.
• The fear of death on the delivery table gnaws at me.
• Childbearing is the most disgusting experience of my life.
• After giving birth, my husband does not satisfy me. We need to change his penis to a larger model.
• Some woman asked if I was going to feed myself? In response, I asked if she shaves her crotch. Oh, I’m sorry, you don’t like being asked intimate questions about things that don’t concern you?
• Since giving birth, during sex, I only imagine the reflection that I saw in the mirror during childbirth. I will never be able to look at my vagina differently again.
• Childbirth was the pinnacle of my motherhood career. My children are eight, ten and twelve.
• There are even stretch marks on my vagina.

When I was six months old, Jeff and I signed up for a birth preparation course at the local hospital where I was due to give birth. We sat in the back row as the elderly midwife talked about the «wonderful event in life» that awaited us. I was never a good student, and instead of listening, I went over the baby names in my mind, waiting for the moment when we could go eat pizza at the place across the street. Mmmm, pizza.

Before that, we were cut into a sea battle and tic-tac-toe, while the rest of the future parents listened carefully and took notes. Judging by the attitude to the courses, we have already completely failed the parenting exam. Suffice it to say that we almost didn’t understand anything from the first lesson, and we simply didn’t go to the rest, imagining that everything would slip through and so — what’s so difficult about childbirth, right? Women from century to century gave birth without any courses; everything will happen naturally. Like conception. Everything will be fine with us.

When the deadline was approaching, I accidentally mentioned to a friend that we had not completed the preparation courses for childbirth. Instead of laughing with me, she was indignant: how do we know what to do when the time comes? What is our birth plan? What positions for childbirth have we chosen? What do I think about anesthesia? What about fetal monitoring? How about speeding up labor? Each of her new words got on my nerves more than the previous one. It’s good to drive a blizzard, woman! My fucking birth plan is to have this damn baby! I’ll push and puff and push the baby out… isn’t that a plan? Nothing, she assured me. After all, I have to know. If not for yourself, then for your child. Well, the feeling of maternal guilt has already appeared.

Judging by the attitude towards childbirth preparation courses, we completely failed the parenthood exam.

This friend, who is no longer a friend, turned me on so that I began to nervously flip through the pages of the pregnancy and childbirth guide. Maybe she’s right. Having at least a general idea of ​​the process is not a bad idea. Better get ready. Am I missing anything?

The first chapters of the handbook were still nothing, but then I began to be horrified. First there was a mucus plug. That is, is it a cork that clogs everything there? It is the cork and it is from the mucus? I nearly choked. Then there was a chapter on episiotomy and vaginal tears. I naively thought that the body would open up and then close back without any problems — like a gateway gate. As it turned out, this is not always the case. Will my vagina rupture? And will it be sewn back? The feminine parts of my body got sick even from reading these details. But the worst was the little warning at the very end of the book. It looked like an afterthought, as if not worth serious attention. It was written there that in the process of straining, other substances can also come out. And this is a common occurrence.

My God.

Seriously? «Other Substances»?! I can’t pee with the door open! During the first five years of our life together, Jeff was convinced that my body did not produce gases (so that you do not suffer from doubts, everything was done quietly and attributed to an innocent dog). The idea that I could naturally crap myself in his presence, and even with a bunch of other people in the room, just did not fit in my head. Maybe it’s better to sign up for a voluntary caesarean? Better an operation than such a humiliation. Maybe I’m not ready for all this at all.

And after a few weeks, I had no choice. I paced the hospital hall nervously, waiting for the water to break. As a lover of comic scenes, I imagined a huge puddle of water that would form at one fine moment. When I get up after dinner or hobble down the hall. Did not happen. Waters broke after manual stimulation (which is not nearly as pleasant as its name might sound). The beginning of my birth was not at all Hollywood. And you should have figured it out earlier. There is nothing glamorous about childbearing.

The rest went exactly the same. How is it in the movies and on TV? She pushed three times, and here he is, a baby! Dream, dream. All of my births have consisted of hours and hours of waiting, monitoring, pacing and pushing. I was bored. When it finally came time to push, I was ready. I was at the start. Let’s! I am a woman, hear me roar!

But they didn’t hear me. In the sense that I did not yell. I decided on early anesthesia, and I was anesthetized. Fully. It was probably the best decision I ever made. No, seriously, I recommend — five points! My only regret is that Jeff knows it didn’t hurt at all. And now, because of my honesty (my very serious flaw, damn it), I cannot play the birthing trump card. It is clear that now that Jeff is complaining about a cold, my comment like “I didn’t endure this when I gave birth” will not have the desired effect on him. And that sucks. My advice to you, mothers-to-be: take pain, but pretend to be in pain. Everyone wins.

When I finally shoved Lily out into the world, something else came out, too, but it wasn’t worth any attention. In fact, the idea that I was able to pee and poop in public was surprisingly inspiring. Even a little soothing. Besides, I now had something to pay attention to. It still pisses me off, eight years later. From the moment my daughter was born, it became clear that she was completely different from me. And eerily similar to another source of its DNA, which we will now call «the hell that crushed my genes.»

I mean, really, what the hell? I walked with this child for nine months. It pressed against my insides, my feet grew and my hips splayed out, and my stomach turned into a traffic pattern. Because of her, I had to give away my favorite high heels. And skinny jeans! And what did he do? I invested, so to speak, and moved on. One thing is clear: the genetic pool is complete crap. And I got angry.

What else? The postpartum moment I’ve been waiting for. From movies and soap operas, I knew how it would be: a sister would bring me a screaming baby, the baby would immediately take the breast, and I would immediately begin to feel like a mother. The clouds will part, the sun will come out, butterflies will circle around us, a rainbow will appear in the sky and there will be complete happiness.

Or will not be.

Give me back my money.

Instead of a beautiful pink baby, they brought me something covered in slime. She was sticky, stained, and looked like she had been in a serious fight in which she had been severely beaten. She also looked like a loser. Luckily, it was easy to clean up. (God bless.)

But even in a washed state, it did not cause in me the expected surge of love. I felt relieved that months of stuffing myself with vitamins didn’t turn into six fingers and two heads. I was glad that neither the neonatal intensive care unit nor complex analyzes were required. I was delighted that I was no longer pregnant. And of course, I felt responsible for this little body. But love? How can you love someone you don’t know at all?

But I was eager to get to know her and wanted to do it at home. I was ready to start our life together. I missed my dog ​​and wanted to sleep in my bed. I also needed a good shower and all my delicious shampoos and gels that were missing in the hospital. Home Sweet Home. I felt like I could taste it.

I felt relieved that months of stuffing myself with vitamins didn’t turn into six fingers and two heads. But love? How can you love someone you don’t know at all?

Now, after the lapse of time, it is difficult for me to understand this garbage. With the next children, I wised up and well understood that the hospital is a pleasure trip compared to what awaits me at home. With my last one, I was dragged home almost in handcuffs. Honestly, if I had them, I would chain myself to a hospital bed.

The hospital has XNUMX/XNUMX nurses. You are served in the room (of course, not at the level of a five-star hotel, but you do not need to cook). There is a staff call button and a remote monitoring system for the child. You have a separate bed and a separate bathroom. And if you are especially smart, you can give the child to the nannies and just sleep as much as you like. This is the quietest time in the previous few months. Then you will not have such peace for a long, long time. This peace is something that you cannot properly appreciate at the moment of the birth of the firstborn. Indeed, just for him it would be worth having another child.

But it’s still great to go home, whether it’s with your first or tenth (God forbid!) child. You have a newborn in your arms, new perspectives are in front of you, and the world is at your feet.

Until the moment when you cross the threshold of the house.

Chapter 4 Will They Really Let Me Take This Home?

Mom Confessions

• I made coffee, and it turned out that there was no milk at home. Used breastfeeding. Nothing, okay.
• Probably, many are jealous that I have such cute babies … you could stop already. It’s finished.
• The vibrating rocker broke yesterday, and now the “favorite toy” is lying on the edge of the seat, wrapped in a diaper. Extreme measures for extreme cases.
• I will never understand where babies get gas and why they scream all night because of it. Is something similar going on somewhere else?
• These nervous mothers of the firstborns get the full program.
• The first time I couldn’t lull my crying son to sleep, I burst into tears. I felt like a failure and did not understand why God allowed me to become a mother.
• Newborn babies are ugly. Yes, mine too.
• I am so happy that I have such an irresistibly cute little baby.
• When we first got married, my husband made no mistakes. When we have kids, he can’t do anything right.
• Everyone loves the smell of newborns, but I thought mine stink!
• “Sleep when the baby sleeps” is the most stupid and pointless advice to a young mother. The next woman who says this will get punched in the face by me. Because I know she didn’t sleep when her baby slept. And no one is sleeping.
• If at the age of ten months the children slept at night, I would give birth to seven more.
• I love my newborns so much! And every year I love them less and less.
• Women, hide your kids’ fat butts from me… I can’t hold my hand!
• Except for my own, all other babies look like scary bald old men.

The first weekend after we returned from our honeymoon, Jeff and I rushed to buy a puppy. I remember how, after several hours of driving, we drove up to the breeder’s house and saw all these incredibly cute puppies playing happily in the yard of the house. After we chose our fluffy redhead, the hostess gave us an interview about all the details of our life. What about our housing? How many floors are in the house? How flexible is our work schedule? Are we leaving for the weekend? What do we know about raising puppies? Do we have other dogs? What about children? How are we going to housetrain a puppy? “Wow, check,” we thought, exchanging glances. But they answered all her questions in detail. We were then given an adorable two-month-old Golden Retriever bitch, whom we immediately named Penelope. The owner handed us the dog papers and a list of veterinarians and puppy care resources. And the small family departed home in full confidence that they had everything necessary to raise a healthy and happy dog.

But leaving the hospital with Lily looked completely different. I was shocked that we were never asked if we knew how to feed, change diapers and lull a baby. They were not going to inspect the dwelling and find out in detail what we are, they did not ask us for copies of diplomas and were not interested in the presence of a criminal record. We could be a couple of serial killers, and no one was interested. At the end of my two-day stay in the hospital, they simply put me in a wheelchair and wheeled me to the exit. Jeff and I looked at each other in disbelief — is that all? Why is it a thousand times harder to take home a puppy? Where is the description and detailed instructions that could be turned to in the middle of the night, when we don’t understand a damn thing what to do with the baby? Where is my money back guarantee? Never in my life have I felt more unprepared.

It also seemed to be clear to those around me that I had no idea what to do: all of a sudden, all our acquaintances and their motherfucking mothers became prominent experts in baby care. One neighbor walked in with a tray of overcooked lasagna and spent two hours expounding her knowledge of sleep patterns to me. Another came in with chicken stew and reported that the pacifiers had irrevocably ruined her daughter’s bite, now a teenager. Baked ziti with meatballs explained to me that the less often a child is washed, the better his skin becomes. The mother-in-law thought she knew the best way to lull a crying baby to sleep. Cousins, uncles, aunts, and other distant relatives and acquaintances shared their experiences and knowledge about regurgitation, spitting, bathing, and navel care.

It also seemed to be clear to those around me that I had no idea what to do: suddenly, all our acquaintances became prominent experts in infant care.

One decision I made completely on my own, without taking into account the divided opinions of this corps de ballet: I will feed myself. This is the best solution for the baby and will also help me lose weight after pregnancy — and I desperately needed any help on this issue. From a practical point of view, baby food looked expensive — why would I have to spend thirty on some jar if my body produces a similar product for free? For me it was clear. I don’t want to know anything, I will definitely feed myself. Well, and one more of the distant relatives will think that his advice was heeded.

Unfortunately, everything turned out to be not so simple. In hindsight, my ability to fit into the same bras I wore before pregnancy all the way was suspicious at first. I grew in size everywhere, but the chest remained the same size zero. Well, what the hell — the only thing that could be happy during pregnancy, and then they threw it! Well, when the milk comes, I will finally have a real bust, I thought. Buy some low-cut blouses and stop running into speeding tickets and other minor annoyances. This perspective was very supportive during my pregnancy. And she was not destined to become a reality.

Immediately after the birth, Lily confidently took the breast, and experienced midwives said that we should not have problems with feeding. But no matter how hard she sucked, she couldn’t seem to get enough. I was told that the problem would go away when we moved to a sitting position. And I fed her, holding her in my arms. I changed the position of my hands. I fed her sitting, standing and lying down. I fed her, holding her in half-bent arms, like a soccer ball (which I never held in my life). Nothing helped, and she became a very resentful little girl.

To determine exactly how much milk I had, a home lactation consultant provided me with a double breast pump, like an old-fashioned milking machine. I sat in bed for an hour with two bottles to each breast and burst into tears when I couldn’t milk more than a few drops. It became clear that nothing would work and nothing would save the situation. Feeling like the last loser, I sobbed my daughter to artificial feeding.

When the milk comes, I will finally have a real bust, I thought. Buy low-cut tops and stop getting speeding tickets.

It turned out that, to the annoyance of hard-nosed breastfeeding fanatics, baby food is not such a terrible evil at all. Actually, it turned out to be magically useful. As soon as Lily began to fill up, the tantrums (both her and mine) subsided. With a full stomach, she was a much nicer girl. She began to gain weight, and the pediatrician was very pleased with her condition. Yes, it didn’t go the way I planned, but it certainly wasn’t terrible. And that certainly doesn’t make me a bad mother, I told myself as I pulled out a bottle of baby food to the astonished gazes of those around me.

Yes, there was nothing particularly nasty about artificial feeding. I ate and drank what I wanted without worrying about how it would affect the child’s digestion. My mother, Jeff, or one of my friends could feed Lily as well as I myself — at first it even upset me a little. But the best thing is that now, when I didn’t have to feed and pump all day long, I could leave the house. And my mother really needed this opportunity.

The young mother looks dumbfounded, has circles under her eyes, and involuntarily sways, lulling herself instead of the absent child in her arms. She is mentally and physically exhausted and may cry at your command.

On my first trip outside the house, I was wearing pajamas. Well, maybe not exactly pajamas, but I definitely slept in this at night. Or maybe the night before. Motherhood allowed me not to worry about my appearance, and I used this advantage to the fullest. I thought that society would not condemn my difficulty using the ATM and leaving my car between parking spaces in the parking lot. I am a young mother, everything is forgivable to me.

Identifying new mothers with a first child is easier than anyone else. I never paid attention to it until I became one of them myself. After joining their company, I realized that this type is simply impossible to ignore. It seems like they are everywhere. The next time you find yourself in a store, cafe or bank, just look around — I know you will notice it. The young mother will have a completely dumbfounded look, her left shoulder may be adorned with a spitting mark, and a slight scent of fatigue emanates from disheveled hair. She has circles under her eyes, and she involuntarily sways, lulling herself instead of an absent child in her arms. She is mentally and physically exhausted and may cry at your command.

Young mothers who have already had children are not so easy to distinguish. They are not so depressed and tired and do not twitch about the sleep and feeding regimen.

They have acquired a skill that only experienced mothers have: the ability to appreciate their newborns even before they are no longer newborns.

But to an even greater extent, they are characterized by the understanding that, no matter how tedious and monotonous the constant feeding, spitting up and changing diapers may look, all this is complete nonsense compared to what lies ahead. A little scary secret that no one tells new mothers about is that a newborn is just flowers. Wait until the age of three and you’ll be dying to return to the good old days.

Unless, of course, your baby has colic. That’s when you hit it all the way.