We had been together for seven years when we decided it was time to grow our family and have a child. Like most, if not all, first time parents, we had no idea what we were getting ourselves into. And we definitely didn’t know what we didn’t know.
As the high achievers that we are, we went into parenthood as we go into everything else in our lives: we hear people’s advice, we assimilate it and them we think “Okay we got this”. Except we didn’t, this time.
The post-partum was tough: sleep deprivation tested our limits and there was a profound, lingering sense that we had no clue what we were doing. We felt insecure, I felt depressed. I felt guilty for not having felt immediate love explosions when my baby left my body. My husband felt they couldn’t bond, that he had nothing to add to our mother-newborn daughter dynamics. We fought all the time and after just a few months we considered getting divorced. Maybe we’re only good together when we’re happy and having fun. Maybe we don’t know how to deal with real problems.
See, the thing is, our daughter was the most incredible baby in the world. She was beautiful, smart, healthy, strong, cute. Everything we dreamed of. But she challenged every ounce of our souls, every inch of our bodies. We felt crippled by the paralyzing fear of not being what she needed us to be. We wanted to be perfect, but in parenthood, you’re never perfect and, even if you are, you’ll never know that because you never feel like you are.
And while all of this was happening, I found out I was pregnant again. Our daughter was seven months, she still woke up every two hours and I still cried often in the middle of the night: I felt lost, I missed my old life, our old life, I missed myself. And I felt so guilty for all that.
But yes, baby number two was on the way. And, in his own special way, he saved us. Because this time we knew the process and we knew that nothing happens immediately, everything requires patience and a relentless trust on the every day mundane tasks that, all added up, make you a parent. Hopefully a good one.
The second time around, we tried to talk more, to be more vulnerable, to be more supportive. We still fail, many times, but at least this time we knew we had to try. We knew the unknown a little better.
This time we knew we were not born to be parents. We were reborn, when we became so.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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