Why I Gave Up Motherhood
So many moms say it was the transition from zero to one kid that threw them for the biggest loop. Not I. In July of 2009, my first, my boy, was born, and – dare I say – he was easy! As a baby, he slept well, ate well, and smiled constantly. Everyone wanted a piece of that kid. It didn’t hurt that he was the first grandchild on both sides of the family, or that his huge blue eyes and tuft of white blonde hair gave him an angelic glow. He was, in a word, perfect.
That’s not to say there weren’t a few hiccups along the way, but this child was so incredibly incredible that I was like, “let’s get pregnant again NOW!” I heard the naysayers chiding me that “the second kid would be nothing like the first!” I kept my haughty disbelief under wraps and smiled politely in the faces that were SO WRONG. Pffft. Even if the second were a bit of a challenge, my baby boy was so incredibly incredible that it wouldn’t even be like I had two kids.
May 9, 2011: Enter Karma, also known as our baby girl.
Holy. Crap.
Did this kid hate me? Did she hate life? She sure hated anything that wasn’t my boob. Did she want back inside the womb? Because I was thisclose to shoving her up there anyway.
Adding insult to injury (and I’m not just talking about my nether-regions), my formerly perfect son started acting out. He wasn’t even two-years-old, and in his tiny toddler mind, I had replaced him with this screaming banshee. Also? My hormones were absolutely out of control. My low point came one evening as I barked orders at my husband and essentially told him he wasn’t doing anything right. I didn’t realize what I was saying – or how I was saying it. Nor did I take into consideration the huge amount of stress he was under, too. So me pointing out everything he was doing wrong as our newborn daughter screamed her tiny pink face off while he held her in his arms didn’t exactly make for a relaxing night with the family. The more she cried, the more I yelled. And criticized. And, you guys, I made the love of my life, the father of my babies, cry.
It was official: I sucked.
That’s when I just said screw it. I couldn’t do it all. And if I continued to try, I was going to be institutionalized within a week. I’m talking padded rooms, no belts, and talking to my fingers institutionalized. So I did the unthinkable: I gave up.
That’s right, I. Gave. Up.
I gave up on the idea that asking for help made me less of a woman and mother. I gave up the ridiculous assumption that my poor, wonderful, loving husband could read my mind. I threw away the notion that “my way or the highway” was the only way to accomplish things in our house. Husband and I are a pretty good team and I needed to relinquish some of my Type A “I’ll handle it” attitude and let him in.
We hired a two-day-a-week sitter for the kiddos so I could work without interruption. The grandmas began playing integral roles in our lives by helping with the kids or making us dinners. When my husband got home from work, I took 30 minutes for myself. Sometimes I continued working; other times I took a bubble bath with a good book.
Time passed, our daughter grew out of her Nightmare Phase, and slowly but surely, I was getting my groove back. One day, my husband and I were sitting together on the couch while this adorable pile of kids played at our feet. We actually had a conversation! Like, spoke full sentences to one another about topical issues that didn’t involve breast milk or the Disney Channel. It was almost as though we were… normal.
Giving up was the best thing I have ever done for myself and my family.
Stephanie loves words, hates math, and has a penchant for making people uncomfortable with her honesty. An English teacher by trade and a smack-talker by nature, Stephanie’s blog, WhenCrazyMeetsExhaustion, affords an acceptable medium for her to verbally vomit all over the Interwebs. She would love to be your pal on Facebook and Twitter.
