From the moment I had my first child. No wait, from the moment I got pregnant with my first child. No, from the moment I started trying to get pregnant with my first child (there we go!) I have changed my habits, choices, and thoughts to accommodate a new life. I stopped thinking about myself as an individual with singular wants or needs. I forced myself to set aside my personal desires to make room for someone else’s – someone who I had yet to meet, someone who didn’t even exist yet.
In many ways I’ve had the unfair advantage (let’s call it that, flatteringly) of being able to practice this parental empathy for months and years beyond my husband. I stopped drinking alcohol in August 2013, when we started “trying” for our first kid. It was the first time I had to put my own desires aside and say to myself, “this isn’t about you anymore, so buck up, buttercup!” It wasn’t “hard” per se, but it was a choice and I stuck to it even when it was inconveniently noticeable or just plain not fun.
I gave up more when I got pregnant. I gave up more when he was born – sleep being the most memorable and affecting. I continued having to think about the baby first, myself second (maybe). And around the time I felt like I was finally able to think about myself again, we thought another kid sounded like a good idea. And so the process started over.
How do you explain to someone who has never HAD to, what it is like to never have the luxury of thinking of yourself first? How much detail is required when describing my inner monologue? How it races with “to dos” for everyone else, constantly and automatically bumping my own needs to the bottom of list, until I simply cannot take it anymore (whatever “it” is). How can I explain that my “wants” no longer exist? They linger, stagnant at the bottom of that invisible list until they can be ignored no longer and rise up as an urgent rage of “must” simply to get my attention.
How do I explain my frustration when this practice, so second-nature to me now, must be taught to my partner? By trade I am a teacher; this is what I do. I take something that I am quite good at and I break it down for students who are not yet good at it. But I find it increasingly hard to remember the (untrue) adage, “there are no stupid questions.” All the questions feel stupid. All the answers so obvious.
I have to remember that I’ve had more practice thinking about what everyone else needs, and putting those needs above my own, whether out of medical necessity or familial obligation. Yet the fact that I’ve had more practice creates frustration in and of itself. The inequity of it causes me to seethe internally. Why haven’t you been burdened this way? Why haven’t you had to sacrifice like I have? Why are you so unchanged by the process?
They aren’t fair questions, because it’s not a fair process. It will never be equal in the way I want – totally shared responsibility with equal resulting pride and inconvenience. I am proud of what I’ve done, and continue to do, for my children, but that pride comes at the cost of sacrifice. Does he have the same opportunities to feel the pride I have felt? Is that fair to him? Again, it’s not about fairness.
It’s a cruel paradox that much of what brings me so much pride also brings me so much frustration. I love that I can breastfeed my daughter, giving her nourishment and relaxation, but it frustrates me that often that is the only thing that she wants, despite having many other options. I love when my son chooses me to read him a story at bedtime, but I hate that when I can’t (or just plain don’t feel like it) he will bawl and fall to exhausted pieces.
I’ve seen the look on my husband’s face. When H says, “Not you, Daddy, just Mama.” When G babbles, “Mamamamamama” much more clearly than anything else. To me, the look reads as disappointment. As if to say, “Why am I even here?” In those moments I struggle to explain how hard it is to be wanted and needed constantly. How noisy and busy my brain is, organizing, prioritizing, and executing the needs of these tiny humans. How unfair it is that what he sees as an advantage, I see as a burden.
It can, after all, be both. It can be an advantage and a burden. It can be both positive and negative. Humans are incredibly complex after all. I recognize how petty my concerns can sound. Simultaneously, I can’t help but think I’ve been conditioned to believe I should just be quiet and be happy with my situation. Years of verbal and non-verbal repetitions of “you should just be grateful” ring in my ears. As women, we are taught that our feelings are not valid. We downplay, minimize, bottle up, fill with shame, and ultimately believe it must be a problem with “us.” As men, you are taught that parenting is optional, and your participation, in even the most minimal way, is admirable, but nothing to sacrifice your other ambitions for. Neither is fair.
I guess no one has the advantage in this situation, or we both do. I guess it’s up to us to decide what we will do with the situation we are given, and always demand as much empathy for one another as we we want for our children.