It was absolutely stunning. The room was dressed in shades of beige, white, and a soft blush pink. There was a delightful pastel bunting hanging by the window, a plush rocking chair that looked like it belonged in a magazine, and a crib that perfectly coordinated with everything else. It was like a Pinterest dream come to life. I stumbled upon this picture during an early morning scroll through Facebook, chuckled at the new parents and their spare time, and then felt the jealousy bubble up.
I mean, she had a crib. We didn’t have one—at least not a matching set. We had already decided our son would sleep with us, so we made do with a co-sleeper attached to our queen-sized bed in our chaotic, clothes-covered master bedroom, which was definitely not Pinterest-approved.
We opted for cloth diapers, so we skipped the cute diaper cakes at a baby shower we didn’t even have, considering our family lives hundreds of miles away and our friends were all broke grad students. We did transform an old Ethan Allen wet bar into a changing table, but it was more utilitarian than adorable, mismatched with the thrift store rocker we picked up on sale. Our baby gear just got shoved into a yellow room, which we never bothered to repaint, alongside a dresser from a deceased relative and some Dr. Seuss stickers.
I know we made the right choices for our family. I’m not one for Pinterest perfection; I can’t stand ribbons and don’t want to waste money on a fancy crib set with all the frills. Still, I find myself mourning the lack of a picture-perfect pregnancy and the less-than-ideal baby stage. That mourning often manifests as a sharp pang of envy. Beautiful nurseries make me simmer inside. Diaper cakes make me feel stabby.
My own pregnancy was far from Pinterest-worthy. I dealt with morning sickness and battled prenatal depression and anxiety, often choking down panic attacks while sipping on Chick-Fil-A sweet tea. With that struggle, plus a midwife urging me to lower my blood sugar, there was no chance of achieving that mythical pregnancy glow.
And I know I’m not alone. A quick Google search for “percentage of people who hate being pregnant” leads down a rabbit hole of collective misery. There are articles discussing why women should speak up about their experiences, others exploring the reasons behind the disdain, and some with tips to cope. One article bluntly titled “Pregnant and Miserable: Prenatal Depression” sums it up well. According to the American Congress of Obstetricians and Gynecologists, between 14-23% of women experience depressive symptoms during pregnancy. That’s a hefty number of women who aren’t exactly in the mood to decorate a nursery, let alone enjoy a baby shower.
But as the depression lifts or is treated, you find yourself with your life in your hands and your baby in your arms. You see those gorgeous Pinterest nurseries and think, “Why didn’t I do that?” The radiant glow of the perfectly pregnant mother becomes a smug smirk of superiority. She glows. You don’t. You didn’t post heart-filled Facebook updates with fluttering curtains and neatly stacked baby toys. As a seasoned mom, you know those toys will gather dust. But the theme? You didn’t have one. Unlike them, you just tossed items into a room and hoped for the best.
I understand life isn’t a social media highlight reel. That pristine nursery will soon be smeared with baby messes—poop, vomit, and everything in between. Mom will spill milk on that gorgeous white rocker, even if she’s not nursing. Babies scream, and moms return to the crib again and again. A Pinterest-perfect nursery can’t shield you from the chaos of parenthood. That charming outfit with the oversized bow? It will be the target of an explosive diaper incident. I take solace in knowing this happens to everyone.
Yet a part of me will always long for that Pinterest nursery. It’s a symbol of that fleeting moment when parenthood felt like a perfect dream: feeling your baby kick gently as you imagine tea parties, mother-daughter outings, and adorable outfits. You stand on the brink of this exciting parenting journey, filled with hope and joy, surrounded by pastel serenity.
Some of us experienced those blissful moments; others did not. And those who missed out have every right to feel, even if it’s messy and painful, a twinge of envy toward those who did. So go ahead and embrace that feeling. Just remember, it reflects your own journey, not the curated nursery on social media.
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Summary
The author reflects on the allure of picture-perfect nurseries in contrast to their own less glamorous experience of pregnancy and babyhood. They acknowledge the feelings of envy that arise while understanding that life isn’t as tidy as social media portrays. It’s okay to crave that idealized version of parenthood, even if it didn’t happen for you.