I am a terrible housekeeper. I say that with no sense of false modesty, but in complete truth. Laundry is almost never done, my living room table is constantly cluttered with personal projects, and I’d really rather not discuss what my dining room looks like. I have always loved the idea of domesticity, but I have fallen very short of the mark, so you can imagine what being a mother is like for me. It is one of the most insane experiences of my life.
My son, Judah, was not planned. I had accepted that I more than likely wouldn’t have children, so when my son came, I was not prepared emotionally or mentally. This little roly-poly of poop and vomit was so alien to me. I felt confused because I didn’t have the instant connection everyone gushes about. My son preferred his daddy to me. I felt useless and unhelpful. Judah had acid reflux which meant he was constantly vomiting Exorcist style three or four times an hour, not to mention the crying from discomfort. It hurt me to see him in pain but I had no idea how to help him. A stranger approached me in a store when he was weeping and actually told me, a baby’s cry is the sweetest sound on Earth. I have never wanted to punch an old woman so badly. No one warns you about all of the internal debates and confusion you have when you have a baby. All I got was a bunch of advice that everyone knows and comments that triggered my anger like Zoolander hearing Relax while walking down the catwalk towards the Prime Minister of Malaysia. Those first months were so confusing and guilt laden. I had high hopes of what motherhood would be for me and they were dying fast.
The turning point for me came, as cliché as it may sound, one night at a bar. I had just stopped breast feeding because I never produced more than a couple of ounces at a time, no matter how much water I drank or how often I pumped, and I was depressed because to me it was just another failure. My partner, Sean, decided I needed some time away, and so while he stayed home with Judah, I went out and drank whiskey with my friends. We were sitting at the bar when the very intoxicated middle aged woman next to me said she liked my top.We started talking and I told her it was my first night out since my son had been born. For whatever reason, probably the whiskey, I poured my heart out to her about my postpartum and how frustrating other mothers were with their constantly clean homes, well done hair and non-vomiting children. I even felt guilty about leaving Sean home alone; he was the one after all working overtime every week to support us. She patted me on my back and said, oh honey; screw those women (some words have been changed to protect the ears of the innocent). She told me about when she had her first son and it sounded so much like what I was going through. She said to go out as often as it was responsible to and enjoy it. That being home with a newborn is never what people tell you it will be, everyone has different experiences. I laughed when she told me she thought that was why women murdered their children; because the world is telling us everything is instinct and giving us standards we have to meet. She said those women needed whiskey as much as we did.
I am aware that infanticide is not a laughing matter, but those words gave me courage to accept the kind of momma I am. I am not a stay at home momma. I need to work; not saying I always love my job, but having breaks gives my sanity a rest. I love cooking and baking, and am even trying to slowly push my family into eating healthier and more organically, but I do NOT want to spend lunches with friends discussing broccoli. I need my own identity outside of being momma, and I’m okay with that. Some women are great at being home with their five children, breaking up fights, clipping coupons, making homemade play dough and having three home cooked meals a day. I’m not. But I know what I am good at. I’m good at talking with my son, making a conscience effort to make sure when he says momma that I listen, no matter if its gibberish so that he not only feels heard, but learns to listen to others. I teach him kindness and comfort so that when he’s an adult, he nurtures the humanity not only in himself and his children, but in his relationship with his future partner, friends and even strangers. I hold his hand and let him climb stairs to show him that even small things can be challenging, but I will help him if he needs me to and that he isn’t alone. I aim to make mundane details of everyday life preparation for him as a person. I’m not raising a baby, I’m raising a human being.
Ashlee A. is an exhausted 28 year old mother of an exuberant 2 year old bear, Judah. When she's not keeping hairspray, screwdrivers and dishwasher tablets out of curious hands, she loves to crochet, knit, embroider, sew, paint, draw, read and bake. Her and partner Sean cumulatively collect Batman, Dr. Who and Star Wars memorabilia, comic books, vinyl records, local art, and all things sci-fi. They all live in the great republic of Texas with their two cats, Rorschach and Lola.
You can follow her on Instagram & Pinterest @ashleejacoe
