Being a successful woman might not make you a successful mum
My twelve-week-old baby had closed his beautiful blue eyes approximately three times in his entire life. I wasn’t just tired, I was WIRED. My brain was hurtling around my skull, breaking the sound barrier, and I felt like I was on fast-forward as I arrived early for our second mums’ group session at the local health clinic.
I couldn’t get into the classroom because the nurses were having a meeting, so I sat down outside, hugging my wide-eyed baby and mentally reviewing everything I’d read about baby sleep in the last couple of months. I thought about all the questions I was going to ask the nurse when the session started. I kicked myself for not bringing a notebook.
As I waited, on that hard plastic chair, rocking the tiny president of the ‘Sleep is for Losers’ club, I could hear the nurses inside the room having a laugh. They were talking about mothers—specifically the kind of mothers that came to this particular clinic, in a suburb filled with middle-class career women in their thirties.
‘These mums are so much harder,’ I heard a nurse laugh. Huh? My ears pricked up.
‘They have to know everything,’ said another. ‘They overthink everything!’
More laughter.
‘Yes!’ (Actual cackling now.) ’They treat their babies like their job! They don’t listen to their instincts and they panic about EVERYTHING!’
Did I mention how tired I was? I was probably sitting there with my shirt wide open, maternity bra unclipped, a damp breast pad sitting in my lap … but through the fog, I was fairly sure I’d just been insulted.
When our class started, I looked around the group of first-time mothers. Almost all of them were in their thirties; almost all of them were successful in their careers. Almost all of them looked a little frazzled, stressed and determined to ‘figure out’ these strange little creatures and wondering if they’d ever find that elusive ‘mother’s instinct’.
We spent the first few months of our kids’ lives swapping research papers and articles we’d read and sharing reviews of baby products to make sure we were doing everything the ‘right way’. We overanalysed every sleep regression, every weird poo, every feed that didn’t go to plan.
I started to think those cackling nurses might’ve been a tiny bit right.
It kinda makes sense. At a certain point in your life, you stop flying by the seat of your pants. You take on responsibility; you make decisions, solve problems, innovate, meet targets and goals. You feel like you have control over your life. You know who you are and where you’re going.
But then you have a baby, and suddenly you’re at the mercy of the most insubordinate human being ever.
In the workplace, this would definitely be a matter for HR. There’d be a meeting of some sort, possibly an awkward mediation where HR makes you both talk about your needs, the team’s needs and your strategies for working together as a cohesive unit.
At the very least, you’d be bitching to your workmates about this little turd who has no respect for seniority.
But there’s no HR at home. There’s no organisational flow chart to show this kid who’s boss. There are no standard operating procedures to follow.
There’s just you and a baby who will literally crap on you if he feels like it.
So you try to outsmart this kid by reading every book and article you can find. You figure the answers are there … you just need to find them. But the answers just make everything worse.
FAAAARK.
If you’re used to being good at things, it might just send you over the edge.
I calmed down, eventually. As I gave up control and stopped trying to rationalise everything, I embraced the lack of rules and structure. I finally understood that there are things I’ll never understand. I felt okay about not knowing it all. And it all started to feel a lot more natural, and a LOT more fun.
I found my mother’s instinct. It was hiding behind a pile of books.