“Juniors,” I declared during our English department meeting. “I simply can’t teach anyone younger than a junior.” It was late spring, and the echoes of cheers from the baseball field drifted in through the windows. If I stood up, I could see the neatly lined grass and the baseball diamonds now dusted with a layer of red dirt.
This is that season, the downhill slide post-spring break when students start to check out while teachers look ahead—considering which classes we’ll teach, clubs we’ll lead, and what our schedules will look like in the fall. “I refuse to go back to teaching freshmen,” I reiterated emphatically.
After years of being surrounded by 15-year-olds whose voices and maturity were still in flux, I yearned for a class where the hormones were a little quieter. I needed at least half of the students to hold it together when the nurse in Romeo and Juliet mentioned her “maidenhead.” I craved a class with a bit more life experience.
And then, I unexpectedly found out I was pregnant. Aside from being a baby myself, my experience with infants was nonexistent. I was the youngest in my family, and my familiarity with kids was limited to the Baby-Sitters Club series.
My husband was no better equipped. Most of our friends had already started families by the time we arrived at gatherings, where we felt like clumsy newcomers struggling to manage their children. We were awkward, all elbows and stiff laps, fumbling while trying to feed applesauce. We couldn’t decipher baby sign language for “more” or “all done.” What even was a sippy cup? Why did this child keep asking for one? No one ever entrusted us with babysitting duties.
Although we eagerly anticipated parenthood, we were far from prepared for what it entailed. A kindergartner might beg his mom for a puppy, but that doesn’t mean he understands how to clean up after it or what “de-worming” involves.
We envisioned a generic, adorable baby—the kind with sweet-smelling hair. Then our son arrived prematurely, leaving us without the full nine months to mentally, physically, and emotionally brace ourselves for the whirlwind ahead.
Let’s be real: is anyone truly ready for their first child? Explaining sleep deprivation to someone who hasn’t experienced it is akin to describing the color orange to someone who’s blind or explaining snow to a parrot in the tropics.
Here’s the truth: I didn’t have that magical moment. You know the one—where you first see your child, and everything falls into place, accompanied by a swell of music and clarity. No, my son’s birth was too chaotic, too laden with peril to savor. I received a fleeting kiss on a damp head before they whisked him away to the NICU.
Weeks passed before I could do anything beyond gently placing a hand on him. There were too many wires and beeping machines, and I felt terrified—terrified of my own son. Terrified that the machines were doing a better job than I was.
The early days of parenting were tough. They were filled with the kind of horror stories that mothers often claim they won’t tell you but inevitably do. My son was medically fragile. My fear eventually transformed into competence, yet it rarely felt playful.
Then came the passage of time. Weeks turned into months, and months into years. Before I knew it, I fell into a rhythm—a wonderfully comfortable groove.
I no longer teach at the high school level. Instead, I now educate my three young kids, all still at ages you can count on one hand. I teach them the alphabet, numbers, and the importance of saying “sorry” and truly meaning it. I traded Shakespeare for Llama Llama, and I wouldn’t change a thing. I love my children wholeheartedly, embracing their unique quirks and personalities.
Yet, I still don’t have a fondness for infants. You couldn’t convince me to relive those early days. Some people are just “baby” people—they cherish the tiny onesies and the baby carriers that bond you like a postnatal suction cup. Not me. I’m relieved to have moved beyond that phase.
You won’t adore every moment of the journey. Just because you don’t love the infant stage doesn’t mean you won’t cherish the later ones (well, except for puberty). That’s perfectly fine. Feel free to express your concerns to your partner, as it’s essential to voice your thoughts and create a survival game plan. Remember, this phase won’t last forever, and you’ll find rest again. You’ll grow into your role and learn, just as so many others do, even amidst the chaos. You don’t have to adore infants to be a great mother.
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In summary, the journey of motherhood doesn’t require a love for infants. Many mothers find fulfillment and joy in later stages of their child’s development, even if they don’t connect with the early days. It’s essential to communicate with your partner, plan for the challenges ahead, and remember that each phase of motherhood offers unique experiences and rewards.