Image: iStock. By Lisa Romeo for Your Tango.
It’s true: My husband wanted kids more than I did. Wanted them in the way it seemed other (normal?) women did, with a longing, a yearning, a confidence that parenthood was vital to adult life.
Me? I figured we’d have a pretty good life either with children … or without.
Then, I experienced three years of infertility, which made getting pregnant its own goal. I wanted pregnancy to work, which of course isn’t the same as wanting motherhood.
Still, a husband’s heart’s desire is something strong. So, eventually, we had a baby.
Fatherhood enraptured Frank. Nothing threw him — not colic, reflux and regurgitation, or even the heart murmur scare.
For me, though, something was very wrong, and 18 months of severe postpartum depression confirmed it—motherhood was for other people.
(Jamila Rizvi tells us the five things no one ever tells you about pregnancy. Post continues after video.)
As I recovered, however, a curious thing happened: I found that I was good at this mothering business. I had another baby and, the more I experimented, the more I liked the fit.
Still, while my kids now delight me in endless ways, motherhood fairly often sucks. Many days, I hate it. I hate knowing that mistakes I make now may mar two terrific people for decades. I hate homework hassles. I hate parts of puberty, and I hate the price of everything.