Having a newborn in your house is difficult. No doubt about it. The sleep deprivation and the sore boobs are not even the half of it. Having a newborn in your house with other young children can be nothing short of traumatic.
However as I move closer to the end of my third pregnancy I can’t help but think that some of the most stressful parts of my previous newborn experiences were the result of certain pressures and expectations I placed upon myself.
You see, I like routine. I like rules and lines and black and white. This is the world in which I like to exist. A newborn doesn’t know black and white. Grey is mostly where they exist.
A newborn doesn’t always stay within the regular lines of waking, feeding and sleeping that I set. This alone can be enough to send any sane, control freak over the edge. But it’s not even the attempt to squash a newborn into a routine that is most stressful.
It is the unreal expectations of how a newborn experience is supposed to be and how it’s supposed to feel and when those expectations don’t meet reality, well that can be downright heartbreaking.
It can become the most isolating and loneliest of times.