In a recent departmental meeting, I expressed my reluctance to teach anyone below the senior level. The vibrant sounds of students engaging in baseball practice outside painted a lively backdrop to our conversation. With spring in full swing, teachers often shift their focus toward future planning—considering classes, clubs, and schedules for the upcoming fall. “I cannot imagine returning to freshmen,” I reiterated, determinedly.
After years of navigating the complexities of 15-year-olds, I craved a classroom where hormonal chaos was less prevalent. I longed for students who could handle the nuances of Shakespeare’s “Romeo and Juliet” without giggling at the nurse’s reference to her “maidenhead.” I needed a more mature group.
However, life took an unexpected turn when I discovered I was pregnant. My knowledge of infants was non-existent; I was the youngest in my family, with my experience largely limited to reading the Baby-Sitters Club series. My husband, equally inexperienced, and I felt out of our element among our peers whose children were already running around.
We had yearned for children, but the reality of parenting was daunting. Much like a kindergartner desiring a puppy, we were unprepared for the intricacies of child-rearing. We envisioned a perfect, cherubic infant but ended up welcoming our son prematurely, without the luxury of time to prepare for the overwhelming journey ahead.
Let’s be honest—nobody is truly ready for their first child. Attempting to convey the reality of sleep deprivation to someone who hasn’t experienced it is akin to describing the color orange to someone who has never seen.
I never experienced that hallmark moment of pure joy upon seeing my baby for the first time. The circumstances surrounding his birth were too intense for me to savor the occasion. A swift kiss on his damp head was all I managed before he was whisked away to the NICU. Weeks passed where I could do little more than place a hand on him, surrounded by beeping machines and tangled wires. I felt an overwhelming fear of inadequacy as a mother.
The challenges of infancy were immense, often resembling the horror stories shared by mothers who claim they won’t tell you the truth but inevitably do. My son’s medical fragility transformed my fear into a sense of competence, yet it rarely felt joyful.
As time flowed on, I transitioned from counting weeks to months and eventually years. Gradually, I settled into a rhythm of motherhood—a fulfilling and comfortable routine.
Today, I no longer teach high school; instead, I educate my three children, all of whom are at an age where their fingers can count their years. My focus has shifted from Shakespeare to teaching them letters, numbers, and the importance of sincerity in apologies. I’ve traded classic literature for tales of Llama Llama, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.
Despite my deep love for my children, I still don’t have an affinity for babies. The idea of revisiting infancy does not appeal to me. Some thrive in that stage, enamored by the tiny onesies and baby carriers that connect parent and child. I’m grateful to have moved past it.
Emphasizing that it’s perfectly acceptable to not cherish every moment of the parenting journey is crucial. Disliking the infant stage doesn’t indicate a lack of love for later stages (excluding the tumult of puberty). It’s important to voice your feelings to your partner, as discussing concerns is vital for survival. Remember, this phase is temporary; you will sleep again and discover your footing as a parent, learning amidst the chaos. The truth is, you don’t need to love babies to be a good mother.
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In summary, navigating motherhood doesn’t require an affinity for babies. You can embrace the later stages of parenting, even if the early ones aren’t your favorite.
Keyphrase: Not Loving Babies as a Mother
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