consider this a warning

People did not warn me about motherhood. Of course, I heard it would be difficult. “Difficult, but worth it!” Lots of things are difficult, though. Bombing in front of hundreds of people. Getting fired from a job you love. Dealing with a mice infestation the morning you’re hosting Thanksgiving. But when I became a mother, I felt almost deceived. You didn’t tell me how difficult, I wanted to scream at every other mother I’d ever encountered. 

And I’m sure it’s a spectrum. I’m sure it’s less difficult for some, more difficult for others. Still, I wish someone had warned me, had sat me down to tell me that when you become a mother, your life is no longer yours. 

And a baby? A baby kills you.

There have been articles coming up on my newsfeed about anti-depression drugs specifically for treating postpartum. Your chemistry changes after giving birth, I guess, which leads to depression. But from where I am, you don’t need shifting hormones or a change in your brain chemistry to be depressed after having a baby. The sheer realization that your life is over is enough to paralyze you. 

My first child, my son, was born in the pandemic. He came two months early, and so he was in the NICU for six weeks. I visited him every day, dropped off frozen baggies of breast milk, and held him skin-to-skin as I was advised. And every time I was there, I wondered how long I needed to stay in order to not seem like a bad mom. It was just so…boring. For someone who likes doing, who is driven by accomplishing things, sitting and holding a baby for an hour and a half was a challenge, especially when I kept thinking that it shouldn’t be a challenge. This is my son, I reminded myself. He is alive and healthy, and I’m so lucky to have him, I’m so lucky to be his mom. And those things were true, but they didn’t make me thrilled to sit there, holding his tiny warm body. If I’d been holding him at home, I would’ve put on a podcast to help pass the time, but I couldn’t do that in the shared space that is the NICU. Headphones would’ve been difficult to manage. Maybe I should’ve invested in ear buds. Would they have saved me? 

So that’s how the first six weeks went - spending time with a baby but not really wanting to. Holding him, but wanting to go home. Thinking, I wanted this, didn’t I? Reminding myself, It won’t be like this forever. 

My daughter is two months old now. I’m breastfeeding her, which means I feel like she’s surgically attached to my tits. I am literally her lifeline. When she cries in the night, sure, my husband can pick her up. He can change her. But it’s my boobs that will put her back to sleep. In the day, anytime she fusses, I’m the answer. I can’t go anywhere without her. The farthest I’ve gone is a walk through the subdivision across the street. My mom was helping out for a couple hours. She walked my daughter to sleep. She said, “Why don’t you get out of the house? Take a walk? It’s so nice out.” As I walked, I thought, Wow, I’m alive. I thought, Maybe I should just keep walking. My husband will freak out, but my mom’s there - she’ll help him figure it out, they’ll be okay. I thought, It would feel really good to keep walking. 

In these early months with a baby, your life stops. This was easier in the pandemic, because everyone’s lives were on hold. I wasn’t doing standup, but no one was. I was trapped at home, but so were all my child-less friends. In this sense, it was the best time to have a baby. But now, with no pandemic, I feel the discrepancy. “Your comedy career is just on pause,” a friend tried to reassure me. But it doesn’t feel like a pause. If everyone else’s lives are continuing, am I not falling behind? Going backward? And, probably, I am. I was getting momentum, and by the time I’m back, the momentum will largely be gone. I will have to rebuild. My colleagues will have been writing new jokes, getting stagetime, making fucking TikToks, posting fucking Reels, and I will have been keeping a baby alive. They will have moved forward, and this leaking breastmilk will have shot me back. 

I wanted to be a mother. I feel grateful to be a mother, to have two healthy children. But having a baby demands sacrifice, and it’s sacrifice I was willing to make, but I forgot how it would hurt. I forgot the boredom, the panic of being trapped, the loneliness. 

Before I had children, I was very judgmental of mommy bloggers. Or, not mommy bloggers, but even just women whose identities seemed to revolve around their kids. Women I knew from high school or college whose instagram bios read, “Candace: mom of three!” I remember scrolling on my phone, bemoaning this to my husband. “Candace is more than a mom!” I said.

I’m of a different mind now. Now, I don’t care what the hell Candace posts about herself. She’s raising three kids? She hasn’t murdered any of them in their sleep? Incredible. And maybe Candace doesn’t have a lot going on outside of her kids, but how could she? My own baby has consumed me since her birth. I haven’t done standup in two and a half months. I haven’t taught all summer. I am Rachel, mother of two, and I want to be more than that, I need to be more than that, but right now it’s all I can do.