A Wonderful Change: The Honest Truth About New Motherhood Nobody Tells You

If you're hoping to become pregnant and fear the weight gain or morning sickness, come talk to me — I can give you hope. If you're pregnant, nearing labor, and anxious about delivery, come talk to me — I can ease that tension. If you have a newborn and you're squinting to see the light at the end of the tunnel... talk to someone with teenagers. I'm squinting too.

Breeze. Breeze. Rough torrential rain; possible flooding; light hail; may tornado — but don't worry, the sun is still shining through the clouds.

It took me four weeks.

As my body was recovering from its pregnant self, it knew it had a baby. My mind... I'm not so sure. There was a terrifying disconnect I felt from my child, as if the months and weeks culminated in an event that didn't go past the delivery room. I blame it on our day apart, but there are medical terms for this feeling regardless of separation at birth. Unlike my usual tendency, I didn't self-diagnose.

It took me about four weeks to accept that this baby boy was mine. I'm still taken aback when someone refers to me as a mom or I'm asked if I have kids and the answer is "yes" — but I'm not looking for his mom to come retrieve him anymore. He's definitely mine. I'm very glad about it. But that reality hasn't come without new struggles.

He is undeniably the cutest baby I've ever seen.

Honor is the joy of my heart. I will debate you and your mom on that. 🤣 He's a great baby who really only fusses when he's tired or hungry. He is jovial, he is smart, and he is healthy. He hits milestones like the champ he is. He loves squash; the jury is still out on broccoli — but he eats both like he's been chomping his whole loooong life. I love that he's a part of our family. I love being his mom. I love him.

None of that, however, stops me from crying when he cries — and I don't mean in the cute mother way, like "Oh my baby." I mean when he's piercing screaming crying, I am also shedding tears of exhaustion, frustration, and despair. My love for him does not negate my disgust when he explodes... and it's always on a Sunday, always at church 🤦🏽‍♀️. I easily tell him he's gross and he stinks. His chubby chunky edible cheeks do not lure me into hugs and kisses when he decides to bite me, pee on me, or spit up on me. Come on, kid.

When this phase is over, it just becomes something else.

They say you forget. As your baby grows you forget about the lack of sleep, the diaper blowups, the food splattered all over your white carpet. I almost believe that. But I think it rings much more true what my mother tells me. She says: "When this phase is over, it just becomes something else. When they can talk, they don't stop. When they can walk, they get into everything. When they're kids, they run, get lost, and beg for all the toys. When they're teenagers, they think they know it all. When they're adults, they're still in your pockets. You're a parent forever. So don't rush him. Enjoy this moment, and the next."

Andrea Wilder for the win. As usual.

But let me tell you — I cannot take the lack of communication. I need my babies to come out telling me what's wrong, what they need, and what's going on. Babies are not expressive in any language I currently speak, and it kills me. Let me also tell you that this extra hour and a half it takes to get out of the house is not it; this feeding and shower balancing act has me looking for circus applications. Let me tell you further how much I miss the days I could hop out of the car without strategy; when I didn't have to plan my stops or only make trips where I could get everything without getting out of the car multiple times. Drive-thrus and stroller-distance destinations only, please and thanks. Not being able to do a quick grocery run is nothing compared to not being able to do a quick beauty supply run. Oh my help.

We're raising a Black man in America.

I also miss, as I knew I would, time to myself... and the freedom of my previous life. There's peace in the ability to walk into your house, dump on your couch, and watch a movie without the baby needing to be fed, changed, or attended to. There's incredible guilt that comes with the exhaustion of being with baby all day and not wanting to give him up when someone offers to take him off your hands. There's much more effort required to maintain any sense of self when you're this responsible for another person's entire existence.

And then there's this.

We're raising a Black man in America. If anything is more stressful, worrisome, and anxiety-raising than that... it's nothing. I worried about the mass. I worried about his health. I worried about surgery. I worried about childcare and still worry about college. I worried about people touching and holding him. I worried about my ability to care for him. But no worry matches the fact that Honor is an African-American male — already suspect.

Life. Gets. Harder. With. Child. It's tiring, frustrating, confusing, difficult, annoying, and stressful.

BUT... it is not over.

Joy will only multiply.

I've heard most people around my age concern themselves with the amount of time, money, and joy that will inevitably be sucked from their lives with the addition of a baby. Time will feel limited — but certainly not in the moments where your baby has babbling conversations with you; when he learns to hold his head up on his own; when he reacts with a laugh to something actually funny on TV way before you ever thought he'd have that ability. Money will be spent significantly more than before — but it will be your pleasure to provide a warm home, warm clothes, and warm food for your growing new infant tenant. Joy will only multiply, day by day, minute by minute; even in the moments with the highest levels of grief, there's unexplainable joy in being responsible for the gift of life that only God can create.

I will go back to work and reengage with adults — presented with a thriving opportunity to use my brain again. I'm determined to keep the mindset that while you do parent forever, one day they will leave and life will reconfigure itself into something new. Cycles will normalize; when there's more, they'll spin out of control, and then normalize again. I will sleep again. I will sleep again. I will sleep again. I will be okay. I won't stop worrying for his life and safety — but I believe in God's protection, goodness, and perfect will. We will raise a Christian, humanitarian, valedictorian, gentleman... one day at a time.

A wonderful change has come out of me. Church joke. I'd do it all again.