When I first started writing about my journey to motherhood, I was reeling from a miscarriage. I found the act of sharing publicly about my story and the feedback I received therapeutic. It felt good to realize I was not alone in my struggles or my grief.
My second pregnancy took and I continued to enjoy writing my about my experience openly and honestly, farts and all. I was looking forward to the love and pure joy that I was ready to experience when my son arrived.
Unfortunately, new motherhood was not what I expected, nor was I prepared for the wallop that was postpartum depression. So after I had my son, I attempted to guard the ultimate secret: I was not enjoying motherhood.
Instead, I persevered. I made mom friends. I struggled. I went on medication for depression. I ditched my stay-at-home mom dreams and found a full-time job.
Don’t get me wrong, my son is well cared for, fed, cuddled, kissed, dressed to the nines. I have over 5,000 pictures of him on my phone that I can’t bear to delete. When I’m working late, I FaceTime him because I just want to see that little face and hear him yell, “Mama!” I whisper into his hair and cheeks at any and all opportunities that I love him more than anything and that I will take care of him forever.
And yet... I do not enjoy taking care of him.
I find it boring, tedious and at times, gross. I hate when another mother tells me how much they love motherhood. How grateful they are, how excited they are to be trying for another baby. In fact, when one of my mom friends tells me they're pregnant again, I feel betrayed.
I can’t be the only woman to become a mother that's feeling this way, can I?
I want to be honest and raw about my feelings and experiences—it's part of who I am. But I'm starting to think my snarkiness about motherhood and my openly regretful musings are starting to turn people off. One mom even said to me, “Jeez why did you even have a kid?”
I got a pass when I first had my son, but now that I’m almost two years into this never-ending project of motherhood and still not enjoying myself, people just don't seem to empathize.
I’ve noticed my mom friends have been dropping like flies. I don’t see them anymore, I don’t talk to them anymore and the worst part is, I don’t even miss them because they're enjoying motherhood and I am not.
I feel deficient. I’m sure there's something wrong with me. Why don’t I feel like it’s all worth it? Am I just not made to be a mom? These are thoughts I’m having on a regular basis, and I know I shouldn’t share them publicly and yet, I think I should.
I can’t be the only woman to become a mother that's feeling this way, can I? Is feeling endless guilt when I’m on my phone or feeling annoyed that I have to keep chasing him around when I really just want to sit down and watch TV for six hours normal?
When people tell me they don’t have kids or don’t want kids, I’m like, “You're on the right path. Don’t do it. It’s way harder than I thought it would be. WAY. HARDER.”
I’m bracing myself for all the comments about what a terrible person I am and how ungrateful I am to have a little miracle, but as I wipe poop off of my watch from a massive blow out, I’m having a hard time feeling miraculous.
I want to be real and I want to be raw about my experience but it’s making me unpopular in the mommy social scene.
I promised myself that I wouldn’t write any mushy gushy stuff about my son at the end of this post in order to redeem myself in the judging eyes of the Mommyverse, but lest everyone think I’m a soulless monster for saying I don’t enjoy motherhood, I will leave you with this: sometimes at night when he cries, I go pick him up. He falls asleep in my arms and he snuggles into my neck and my heart feels full of love… so that part doesn’t suck.