How I'm Changing My Idea of Motherhood

Untangling my own preconceived notions of loneliness

Sometime last year, I picked up Leslie Jamison’s most recent book, Splinters. It’s a memoir about motherhood and divorce, building lives and breaking them, too. The first time I read it, the book didn’t really speak to me. (I’ve got my qualms about Jamison’s later work—namely, I think the editors could work a little harder instead of seemingly sitting back, going, everything she does is perfect! We don’t even need to review—so I wasn’t totally surprised this book didn’t hit as hard as her earlier work for me.)

But lately, Splinters has been popping into my head more and more, especially as I’m on the precipice of motherhood myself. Her reality of motherhood represents some of my greatest fears. She feels like a milk machine. She and her husband drift apart into divorce. She struggles to find the balance between her career and care work. Besides visits from her mother, who can only stay for so long, Jamison paints a lonely picture of motherhood. Of course, there are moments of joy sprinkled throughout, but overall, I felt bleak and overwhelmed reading about her situation.

Now, I think I focused so much on the negative while reading because of my own fears. The phrase I kept repeating to my husband after finding out I was pregnant was, “I don’t want to be alone.” Over and over, like a song stuck in my head: I don’t want to be alone I don’t want to be alone I don’t want to be alone.

Jamison’s late night feedings, her long walks with the baby around New York City, her museum trips pushing a stroller hoping to connect with something outside her bubble. Or what about when she laid on the floor, sick as a dog, trying to keep her child alive while nearly dead herself?

Somehow, it’s all I could picture for myself, too. Like a television split in two: me up all night alone, shirt soaked with bodily fluids. Me, taking long walks to feel something. Me, going to museums to keep the child and myself entertained. Me, on the floor, crying and wishing for help.

*Record scratch noise*

Wait, remember how I mentioned “my husband” only a few paragraphs earlier?

I’ve been trying to figure out why my mind is so set on the idea of aloneness when I have a life partner who’s been there every step of the way, reminding me of all the different ways he will be involved in our child’s life. We live in a place where dads are at the park, dads are carrying babies in slings while strolling the neighborhood, dads are walking their kids to school in the mornings. And even if we didn’t live in a place with such examples, my husband has always been planning on doing those things.

This will surprise no one, but my best hypothesis is—drumroll please—my Mormon upbringing may have played a part in the way I think about myself and my purpose. Shocker! I say this a lot throughout the book I’m writing about growing up in the Mormon church, but it bears repeating: I was raised by two people who told me I could do anything I wanted. The problem is, I had a third parent whose voice was pretty loud: the church.

My mind was always split in two while growing up. I wanted to be a writer who lived in a big city. I also didn’t fully believe that I would get there, and assumed I would do what I was “supposed” to do: namely, get married young and have a bunch of kids. I knew I didn’t want that life, necessarily, but I had a feeling I’d do it anyway, because that’s just what my general community did.

Not to mention, my general community chose young marriage and parenthood because the church told them it was the best possible thing they could do with their lives, and a sure path to living with your family forever in heaven. Kind of hard to argue when your morality and afterlife situation are on the line.

Though I’m sure the mothers around me were fulfilled in their own ways, I still tended to view the role as a lonely and exhausting one. I suffered through hundreds of church talks that focused on how wonderful mothers are while no actual practical support was given to them. Just about every mother I knew asked for the same thing on their birthdays or Mother’s Days: they just wanted to be alone. They seemed overstimulated and overworked and starving for some time to themselves. And this, this bleak picture I’m painting, is with the backdrop that Mormon men are some of the most involved fathers thanks to teachings about eternal families. And still, their wives were carrying most of the physical, mental, and emotional burden of parenthood.

It’s not just Mormons, of course. Women largely bear the physical, mental, and emotional burdens of parenthood. It’s evident not only in their stories and experiences, but also in news articles and the broader content churn. Some examples:

Via Slate.

Via Psychology Today.

Via The Atlantic.

Ever since getting pregnant, my Instagram For You page is inundated with pregnancy and new-parent content that has my brain spinning. A lot of it is overly dramatic, a way to get easy views, but they tend to focus on how draining, life-altering, and even painful new motherhood can be. They tell me I’ll hate my husband. They tell me I won’t recognize myself for up to seven years. They tell me to build my village or else I’ll regret it. Everything is dire, no one is willing to help, my only purpose is to be a life-giving force to my child, and, most importantly, I’m on my own.

It’s hard to not believe it, honestly. I’ve witnessed it happen! But I’ve also spent so much time planning ways to combat this loneliness. My husband and I both have somewhat flexible jobs. He’s a coach at a university and tells me stories about all the other coaches bringing their babies to work. I will give birth during his off-season. His summers are quite flexible. It’s his dream job, and he is so excited to show our child that world. I’m a freelancer, and I can choose how many hours I work per week. We also have an amazing group of friends who have voiced many times how excited they are to be a part of our baby’s life.

So, I think this is a classic case of me planning for the worst and hoping for the best. Planning for the worst demands that I confront what the worst could be, which is my fear of being alone and miserable. But the fear of being alone and miserable isn’t actually new—and it doesn’t only apply to parenthood. In fact, it feels like the U.S. as a whole is going through something similar; everyone is looking for a built-in community, for groups of people they can rely on, for found family. And at the same time, we’re retreating into our own little worlds, refusing to ask for help, and often refusing to give help, too.

I’m working on fostering that community even more than I already have, starting by asking for and accepting help from others. I’m not going to say no, to pretend I can do everything on my own. I don’t want to do everything on my own, so why would I force myself? I have nothing to prove outside of Mormonism—I don’t have to be a martyr based on some old guy’s idea of what’s best for me. My friend asked me if she could bake me cookies that help with lactation. Yes, I said, knowing full well I could bake them myself. My friend told me she’s excited to come over and do the dishes for me while I hold my newborn. Yes, I said, knowing full well I’ll be apologizing for the mess every time she’s around. A friend told me to bring the baby to her when I just can’t handle it for another second. Yes, I said, thank you for offering. Another friend who’s pregnant and I discussed how we could work together and take turns with child care. Yes, I said, a thousand times yes.

And, of course, back to the whole husband thing. We’ve been together for ten years. And during those ten years, we’ve discussed whether or not to have kids hundreds of times. We’ve discussed the mental load, and different ways we could organize our schedules to make sure the childcare scales are as equal as possible. It’s also been so fun to talk about our ideas of parenting styles and find we agree already on basically everything. I love listening to my husband’s examples of how he’s already used a gentle, team-like approach when working with kids while teaching and coaching. He’s basically been training for parenting for most of his life.

This isn’t something we chose to do out of the blue. And I have to remind myself of that, over and over.

I will not be alone I will not be alone I will not be alone.

It’s been a wild trip untangling all my preconceived notions from my youth, not only about motherhood, but about purpose and fulfillment, too. I’m still reminding myself every day that my version of motherhood will not look like the version of motherhood I fear.

To help with that is one of my favorite aspects of pregnancy so far: something in my hormones has balanced out and made me kind of…indifferent to situations that used to cause me stress. I hope this can continue on afterwards—though I know postpartum can be unpredictable. Still, a friend who just gave birth told me about some studies that show that postpartum depression in mothers can often stem from a lack of support. So, knowing all the support and love I have now and will have later, I’m hoping for the best: that this will be a natural, really sweet time that I want to take advantage of—not wish away. Or, I should say: that we won’t wish away.

Spewing love,

Abi