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On June 14, 2020, I "celebrated" my first month anniversary of being a mom. I remember watching in relief as my newborn slept in her bassinet for the first time ever. That week, I had been battling a bad bout of mastitis in our dim 500-square-foot apartment in Queens while my husband had returned to work in our living room. One thin wall between us, he took Zoom calls and loudly typed away on his keyboard while screeching sirens from ambulances blared outside our bedroom window.
My heart began to race as my postpartum anxiety began to soar. I knew my daughter would wake any minute and that this moment of reprieve would end. And in that micro-moment of despair and anguish, I regretted my decision to have a child: Why did I give up my old life? What had I done? I fantasized about days of old, sauntering through the city that never sleeps with spontaneous adventure and impetuous curiosity.
And now, ironically, there I was, sleep-deprived, sitting upright in bed, unable to nap, with a deflated tummy, engorged breasts, and a tender pelvic floor, fantasizing about sleep. I daydreamed about resting for more than four hours.
Under my breath, I pleaded that my husband's audible typing or the shrieking sirens beyond our bedroom walls wouldn't pull our daughter out of her slumber. I prayed that she wouldn't wake up scream-crying (again), demanding my breast (again). I started to weep and wonder, Am I strong enough to be who I need to be for my daughter?
As I turned my gaze back to my babe, the feelings of regret and self-doubt made their exit, allowing room for guilt to make its grand entrance: How could I possibly regret this miracle before me? I was ashamed of myself, and I realized then that I had to figure out how to be my own safe harbor, in addition to being my daughter's.
That very day, I did something radical: I advocated for myself and my own needs. I outlined areas where I was struggling in relation to household and caregiving duties and asked my husband where he could tag in. I reached out to a lactation specialist and scheduled a consultation via Zoom. I booked an appointment with my OB/GYN to troubleshoot recurring issues with breastfeeding. And after taking action, I began to feel more at ease, more capable — stronger.
By month three, with the help of the lactation consultant, breastfeeding became effortless. Clogs and lumps began to dissipate, and my daughter learned how to nurse more efficiently and happily. I remember smiling at her "milk-drunk" sleepy face after a successful nursing session and feeling proud of her and of myself for working together and finally figuring it out.
As my maternity leave ended, I felt that the 12 weeks off wasn't adequate time to learn to be a mother. Moreover, my mental health remained in a fragile state. I needed more time and more help. I ended up keeping my promise and returning to work for the last two weeks of "remote" school.
I said my goodbyes to my eighth-grade students as their English teacher, but by then, I had already decided to extend my childcare leave through the following school year with my husband's support. Fortunately, we had saved nearly a year's worth of my salary while I was pregnant to afford the extended time home.
Two years later, we were living in a different city and had another daughter, and in that same year, my oldest entered pre-school part-time, three days a week. I struggled with balancing the wants and needs of two tiny humans. The small sliver of time I got alone with my youngest while my oldest received attention elsewhere was one way to steady the scale.
Now, my daughters are 4 and 2, and I'm still a stay-at-home mother to my youngest, but my time at home is about to come to a gradual end. Both of my children will start preschool in the fall. My oldest will attend full-time, and my youngest will begin part-time, likely moving to full-time by the spring. For myriad reasons, I've chosen not to return to teaching, but instead, I will embark on a new career as a writer. I'm terrified.
I spent the last four years mastering the art of being a mother, and now that wonderfully messy and intricately beautiful chapter is turning a new page, one where the central focus of my day will be on me. The idea of moving about my day without tending to the every need and want of my children seems outlandish. Daily, I grapple with these questions: Is there room for me to be more than a mother? Who am I now? How will I balance life and work?
However, one truth that I've learned through the painful and precarious process of matrescence is that I'm capable of more than I give myself credit for. I've spent the last four years providing for and nurturing two magnificent beings who will surely continue to grow and brighten the world around them, just as they have brightened our tiny home.
I'll miss our slow mornings, our daytime adventures, and our spontaneous travels. They are who they are because of how I've cared for them — the physical products of my actual blood, sweat, and tears. They are, by a large margin, my greatest work. And, as I set out into the unknown, I must continue to remind myself of this truth and celebrate the fact that I am a mother: a human being who has survived a massive shift in identity and is now mostly thriving in mind, body, and soul.
