In a recent staff meeting, I found myself declaring, “I just can’t teach anyone younger than seniors anymore.” It was that time of year when the excitement of impending summer mingled with the sound of students engaging in baseball practice outside. I could almost see the neatly kept field from my chair, a nostalgic reminder of simpler days.
As the school year wound down, my mind began to race ahead. I thought about the classes I would teach and the clubs I would lead in the fall. “No more freshmen for me,” I reiterated, my resolve firm. After years of navigating the tumultuous seas of 15-year-olds whose emotions were all over the place, I craved a classroom filled with a little more maturity. I needed students who would keep their composure during a dramatic reading of Romeo and Juliet. But then, life threw me a curveball—I became pregnant.
My experience with infants was virtually nonexistent; I was the youngest sibling in my family. The closest I had come to caring for a child was flipping through the pages of the Baby-Sitters Club series. My husband, Mark, was equally inexperienced. As our friends welcomed children into their lives, we felt out of place, clumsy around their little ones. We were awkward when handling babies, unsure of the signs for “more” or “all done.” And what on earth was a sippy cup? Babysitting never crossed our minds.
Though we were eager to start a family, we didn’t fully grasp what that meant. It’s like a child asking for a puppy without understanding the responsibilities it involves. We envisioned a stereotypical baby—sweet and innocent. Instead, we welcomed our son prematurely, throwing us into a whirlwind of chaos before we had a chance to prepare.
Let’s be honest: no one is truly ready for their first child. Explaining the exhaustion that comes with new parenthood is akin to trying to describe the sensation of a color to someone who cannot see.
Here’s the truth: I never experienced that cinematic moment of instant connection upon seeing my newborn. My son’s birth was intense and frightening, and before I could cherish the moment, he was taken to the NICU. For weeks, I could do little more than place my hand on his tiny body, overwhelmed by the beeping machines and tangled wires. I was terrified—terrified of being a mother and worried that the machines were doing a better job than I was.
The early days of motherhood were grueling; they fit the horror stories that seasoned mothers often tell. My son was delicate, and my anxiety transformed into a sense of competence, though it didn’t come with much joy.
But then, time worked its magic. As the weeks turned into months and eventually years, I found my rhythm. I transitioned from teaching high schoolers to nurturing my three children, all of whom are still young enough for me to count their ages on one hand. I swapped Shakespeare for Llama Llama, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. I adore my kids—quirks and all.
Yet, there’s a truth I must confess: I still don’t enjoy babies. The thought of returning to those early days is unappealing. Some individuals thrive on the baby stage, reveling in tiny outfits and the sweet sounds of infants. Not me—I’m relieved to have moved past that chapter.
Remember, it’s perfectly normal not to cherish every moment of the parenting journey. Disliking the baby stage doesn’t diminish your ability to love your child as they grow. It’s okay to voice your concerns and strategize with your partner about how to navigate this tumultuous time. Know that this challenging phase will not last forever; you will find your footing, learn along the way, and emerge stronger. You don’t have to adore babies to be a wonderful mother.
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In summary, you can be an exceptional mother even if you don’t have a fondness for the baby stage. Embrace your journey and know that every phase brings its own joys and challenges.