Oh, new motherhood. Has there ever been any stage of life so raw, so real, and so utterly revealing?
I dreamed of bliss and the milky smell of a newborn’s head as I waited for my due date to arrive―and I kept dreaming as I waited the twenty-two extra days it took my Little Star to finally show her precious face.
In those last months of pregnancy, I remembered scenes from my first child’s infancy: hanging out on the couch with my book while she nursed, moving slowly through our days as we explored this new and vibrant world where one had magically become two. I remembered drowsing in the rocking chair at midday, and taking long walks down my country road with Moonbeam in her stroller and the sun on my back. Most of all, I remembered the sense of spaciousness I experienced in those first weeks as a mother. Even though I needed to dive back into work projects when Moonbeam was only seven weeks old, those first weeks, in retrospect, were slow, open, full of possibility and devoid of expectation. I was, naively, looking forward to more of the same with my second daughter, knowing that I’d have the support of my hubby, my parents, and my in-laws.
Crash! Reality hit on my first day home from the hospital, when I discovered that, no matter how much help one has, parenting a newborn when one already has a precocious toddler is a far different experience. There is no slow unfolding or leisurely exploration. It’s all about putting out fires―and, in the case of my headstrong toddler, repeatedly saving both her and our furniture from permanent damage of one kind or another.
For the first few weeks, everything felt overwhelming. I wondered how I could ever be the parent I wanted to be when I was struggling just to meet everyone’s basic needs. With spit-up in my hair and breast milk staining my shirt, my Little Star in one arm and my Moonbeam tugging on the other, I closed my eyes, ran through my to-do list―which had not, despite my fond daydreaming, miraculously shrunk after Little Star’s birth―and promptly burst into tears.
Don’t get me wrong: I wouldn’t trade my family for the world. My daughters are the biggest joys in my life. But they are also my greatest teachers―and, like all great teachers, they push me to my limits and beyond. They have shed their moonlight, starlight, and heart lights on the patterns in my life that are no longer helpful―most prominently, my complete and total inability to prioritize my own self-care.
You see, I’m a natural workaholic. I thrive in a state of busyness―which my brain, conditioned in my early life by the middle-class bootstrap narrative, translates as “usefulness.” Give me three minutes and I can fill a leisurely day with any number of moderately necessary tasks, none of which include making time for me to nourish myself. After all, in my habitual narrative, self-care is a luxury, not a necessity: it’s not useful.
Before kids, this tendency was balanced by seemingly vast stretches of time when there was simply nothing to do. Days when my husband was working, but I didn’t have deadlines. Mornings when I could put off the laundry because, what the heck, I still had plenty of clean panties. Random hours when taking a brisk walk and smiling at the sun actually seemed like the most productive thing to do. Before kids, I was effectively forced into self-care by virtue of having only a limited number of tasks with which to occupy myself. And the more I paused to take care of myself, the better and more connected I felt.
These days, though, the to-do list is miles long, punctuated by cluster feeding and diaper changes, underscored by not a small amount of guilt. The things I once did to care for myself and my creative soul are all-too-easy to shove to the bottom of the pile.
That’s where my little teachers come in.
I can’t be my best self as a mother if I am worn ragged. I can’t pause to appreciate my newborn’s beautiful, gassy smiles, or give my toddler’s games my full attention, if I’m constantly ticking off my to-do list in my head.
And, here’s the thing: my kids need me to be present. I need me to be present, so I can access the deep well of joy that they have brought into my world. Otherwise, they might become just two more beloved responsibilities that I need to manage―and that would be a tragedy beyond words.
I know this lesson is broader than my personal experience. I see the same tendencies toward ultra-busyness in my friends and colleagues of all ages and lifestyles. When we don’t take the time to care for and nourish ourselves, the things that once lit up our lives―like our businesses, our creative projects, or our relationships―start to feel like burdens instead. When we have nothing to give, even the most brilliant ideas and inspired ventures just feel like … work.
No one, not even a dedicated workaholic like me, loves work for work’s sake. It’s what that work produces that keeps us going. But if we want to sustain that level of accomplishment, we need to care for ourselves in whatever way keeps those beloved tasks feeling joyful, light, and inspired, or risk losing what we value most―the very things that motivate us in the first place.
That is the ultimate balance, the place where what we give and what we receive are equal, and in flow.
And so, today, I’m asking myself: do I want more work, or more joy? Do I want more connection, or more responsibility? Can I take a few moments to step away from the fray and do something that nourishes my soul, even if it means letting other tasks slide?
I get the feeling that I will be asking this question every day, in every moment, for the rest of my life. I hope I keep choosing the best answer.
As I type this, my Little Star is dozing on her nursing pillow on my lap. I have spit-up in my hair and breast milk staining my shirt. In fact, I’m still in my pajamas. I know that today, and many of the days to come, might be challenging, and even push me to my limits. But I also know that I can choose, over and over again, to seek that ultimate balance between doing and being, and pause every so often to sip from that deep well of joy that is my life.
