In a recent faculty meeting, I remarked, “I simply cannot teach anyone younger than a senior.” It was late spring, and the sounds of baseball practice echoed from the field behind the school. If I stood, I could glimpse the meticulously manicured lawn, the neatly defined lines of the diamond, now coated in red dirt.
As we entered that phase of the academic year, when students begin to mentally check out and educators start planning ahead, I reiterated, “I’m done with freshmen.” After years of navigating the tumultuous waters of 15-year-olds, whose voices and emotional maturity were still in flux, I craved a class where the hormones were less chaotic. I needed students who could maintain their composure through discussions of Romeo and Juliet’s nurse swearing by her “maidenhead.” A few extra years of life experience in the classroom would be a welcome change.
Then, unexpectedly, I found myself pregnant. I had minimal experience with infants; being the youngest sibling meant that I spent little time around babies. My husband was in a similar boat. By the time we arrived at social gatherings, many of our friends already had children, and we felt awkward around their kids. We were clumsy, struggling to feed them applesauce or decode the baby sign language for “more.” The concept of a sippy cup was foreign, and no one ever entrusted us with babysitting duties.
Although we had yearned for children before conceiving, that desire didn’t equip us with the knowledge needed for the challenges ahead. Much like a child who begs their mother for a puppy without understanding the responsibilities involved, we were naive about parenthood. We envisioned the quintessential baby—soft, sweet-smelling, and blissfully uncomplicated. However, our son arrived prematurely, leaving us ill-prepared for the storm that lay ahead.
Truthfully, I never experienced that magical moment of connection often described by new parents. The chaotic circumstances surrounding my son’s birth robbed me of that. A brief kiss on his damp forehead was all I managed before medical staff rushed him away to the NICU. For weeks, I could only place a hand on him through a maze of wires and beeping machines. Fear gripped me; I was terrified of my own child, unsure if I could be the mother he needed.
The early days of infancy were grueling. They were the stuff of horror stories that mothers often claim they won’t share but inevitably do. My son was medically fragile, and while my initial fears shifted to a sense of competence, the experience lacked joy.
Then, over time, things began to change. Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, and eventually years, and I found my rhythm—a comfortable, satisfying routine.
I no longer teach high school; instead, I focus on educating my three children, who are all still young enough to count on one hand. I now teach them letters and numbers, how to apologize sincerely, and I have traded in Shakespeare for Llama Llama. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I love my kids wholeheartedly, embracing their unique quirks and interests.
However, I still do not love babies. The infant phase is behind us, and I do not miss it. Some individuals are naturally drawn to babies, relishing the tiny outfits and baby-wearing carriers that reconnect parent and child. That’s not me—I’m just glad to have moved past that stage.
It’s entirely normal not to enjoy every phase of motherhood. Disliking the early days does not preclude one from cherishing the later stages (with the exception of puberty, perhaps). It’s crucial to express your thoughts to your partner during discussions about parenting. Strategizing for survival is vital, as is the understanding that this difficult phase won’t last forever. You will sleep again, find your footing, and learn as you navigate through the complexities of motherhood. Remember, you don’t have to adore infants to be a great mother.
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In summary, being a mother is a multifaceted journey that does not hinge on a love for infants. You can still be an exceptional parent while navigating your own preferences and experiences.
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