My son’s first birthday has arrived, which feels like a much bigger milestone for us than it is for him. I had to let go of any expectations around motherhood early. At eight months pregnant I learnt that I could not have the calm, candlelit water birth I had planned (does anyone actually have one of those?). It transpired that I had a condition called placenta previa, and so would need a planned caesarean. The midwife cheerily told me not to worry about him ‘coming out the sunroof’ – a rather grating expression as it implies an easy way out, when I am, as it happens, a car without a sunroof.
Then came the rather startling announcement from the surgeon that my baby was ginger (my husband and I are more Draco Malfoy than Ron Weasley). It turned out that this was a joke, but it was perhaps a poorly timed one given that I was rather distracted by being completely numb from the chest down. Plus our postman is a redhead.
I was also surprised, given my relatively petite stature, that I produced a baby who has been consistently over the 99th weight percentile; when he lost his beautiful (black) newborn hair he spent a few months looking like an unfortunate cross between Dan Cole and Phil Mitchell. The upside of carrying around an infant the size of an easyJet cabin bag and daily sumo-wrestling him into a nappy is that for the first time in my life I have some semblance of upper-body strength (although I fear my physical prodigy progeny may still beat me in an arm wrestle by the time he is two).
It has not all been unexpected. Friends who are already mothers told me that the days are long but the years are short. They joked that I would crave a break, and then when I finally had one I would spend that precious time scrolling through my camera roll looking at photos of him. I was told that there would be hard days and happy days – days when I would look and feel like Tom Hanks in Castaway, and days when I would simply stare at him in miraculous belief: how did I make that? This has all come true, and I want to thank these friends for not laughing in my face when I said that having a baby would not change our lives that much.
Of course, there have been tough times. There have been plenty of moments where I have struggled with sleep deprivation, decision fatigue, sensory overload, the hellish periods of teething when even mainlining Calpol does not work.
If comparison is the thief of joy, then Instagram is the armed robber. Without the traditional ‘village’ to turn to, I have wasted far too many hours being held hostage by social media algorithms. I have been shown videos of influencers promising the secrets to postnatal weight loss, sleep consultants obsessing over wake windows and the ever-elusive state of ‘drowsy but awake’, or #blessed mummies comparing babies’ milestones. How are you supposed to trust your own instincts when you are bombarded with so many opinions, even when you are not looking for them?
If comparison is the thief of joy, then Instagram is the armed robber
Yet, dare I say it, motherhood is wonderful. I do not mean this in a trad-wife kind of way: I have no feminine urge to make bread from my own sourdough starter or vlog my spotless (ha!) countertops. No, I mean motherhood is wonderful in that children are full of wonder, and this gives you simplicity and purpose and a whole new perspective.
I think about myself a lot less now, and that is probably a good thing. All of those things that are so easy to worry about – traffic jams, promotions, wellness trends, what on earth I should be doing with my life – suddenly pale in significance compared with the unadulterated joy my son expresses at finding a conker, or the pure peace I feel when he falls asleep in my arms, blissfully milk-drunk.
People often talk about how we do not teach young people resilience. I think it is not that it doesn’t get taught, but that it is lost. Babies are remarkably resilient. I have watched my son learn to walk with amazement: partly because it is hilarious (he picks his knees up so high it looks like he is either competing in dressage or imitating a cartoon burglar trying not to make a sound), but partly because it is testament to the drive and determination we are all born with. His resolve to use his hands, to crawl, run, walk, climb, explore, is unwavering and undaunted; he falls or fails again and he picks himself up every time.
Parenting is hard. Yet I look at my son, falling into a pile of autumn leaves and emerging, unfazed, clutching a stick as if it is the most precious trophy in the world, and I remember that old therapeutic mantra: I can do hard things.
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