So You Became a Mom

The pathways to motherhood are romanticized as labors of love. But they're often harder than they need to be.

Three big things happened the summer I turned 14. I found out my aunt was pregnant. We finally got MTV. And the 1988 summer heat wave convinced my mom and stepdad that A/C was a must-have. With high school about to start, my life seemed to be on fast forward.

On top of back-to-school shopping that August, I got to go mall-shopping with my aunt to help her pick out maternity clothes. I remember the bright colors, boxy shapes, and lots of bows. But better than the clothes, were the conversations I had with my mom’s younger sister. 

My aunt had an earthiness about her, a comfort in her body that was so new to me. She actually used anatomically correct names. My mom referred to anything between the legs as “down there” and blushed at anything beyond that. 

Besides personality, there was another key difference between my mom and her younger sister: my aunt was a younger boomer. She went to high school during the ‘70s, rather than the future-homemakers-of-America 60s like my mom. It always fascinated me how coming of age less than a decade apart could cause such a difference in perspective. 

But I knew I was coming of age during a shift in perspectives too. Few women I knew ever went to college and no one in my family did. They married by 20, had kids right away, and a lot of what happened after that depended on whether they were still married — and whether that was a good thing.

The new path to becoming a mom

My friends and I grew up expecting a very different path: college right after high school, marriage soon after college, and two kids (max) right around 30. What happened after the kids was less clear. Working mom vs SAHM? The mommy wars made it look like you’d be damned either way: judged by others, guilt-ridden, and either missing out or falling behind. 

But just before high school, I was focused on the getting-there part. And I described my dream scenario in my diary on my 14th birthday:

I did end up marrying a funny, gentle, and caring man! But, my dream to be a newspaper reporter never materialized. My stepdad died the month I graduated high school and my mom was faced with piles of medical bills she had no way of paying. And by 17, I decided that getting financial help from my dad was never worth the price. 

So I worked my way through community college, picking a major guaranteed to have an immediate payoff, while still giving me a feeling of making a difference: nursing. Admittedly, paying for college was much easier then.

By 24, I had the first two boxes checked. I was married, and after changing majors, just graduated from pharmacy school. I figured I had a good five years before my baby-by-30 hopes would be on my radar, so I accepted a PhD fellowship program in Medicinal Chemistry. I was SO excited and SO hungry for this opportunity. We planned a move to Kansas. My husband found a new job and we had a house under contract. Compared to today, houses were shockingly cheap in the 90s.

But then, as it got closer to my start date, I started hearing this growing voice inside me: Don’t you want a baby, NOW? Deep down, I kinda knew that even if “having it all” were possible — for me personally — it’d be overwhelming. So instead, we settled near Chicago and had our first baby the following year.

Childbirth: the lessons delivered

Days before my daughter was born, I had no clue how this over nine pound baby was gonna come out. No matter how many books I read, it just didn’t seem possible. Feeling so clueless is probably why I made the mistake of heading to the hospital too soon, still in very early labor. But they admitted me and the young resident reassured: slow labors are quite common with first babies and everything looked good. 

A few hours later, my doctor came in, did a quick exam, broke my bag of waters, and left the room. She didn’t even ask me, or tell me. I felt like she was annoyed that my body was taking so long, wasting time in the hospital’s commoditized delivery room.

But the worst part came during the pushing phase. The flat-on-my-back position combined with the monitor strapped tightly around my belly made the nausea so much worse. Half-way through the pushing phase, a new replacement nurse came in while I was having dry-heaves. “You’re wasting all of your energy. You still have a long way to go,” she said, in what felt like a scolding way.

That’s when I lost it. I know I yelled some swear words, followed immediately by guilt and embarrassment. I gave up pushing, and I blamed myself for it. In the end, everything turned out OK, other than a really bad vaginal tear from the forceps. 

I knew how lucky I was with the overall outcome. And I also knew the nurse helping me did the best she could with the resources and training she had. But still, the whole process seemed to be more traumatic than needed. And for what? 

“If you come to the hospital, you’re gonna get the pit”

The next time around, I found a new provider. At my first 8-week appointment, I talked to the doctor about wanting a chance for a different experience. Annoyed and hurried, the doctor said “Well, if you come to the hospital, you’re gonna get the pit,” just before walking out of the room. I was relieved she was upfront about it though, because I had time to find somewhere else to have my baby. 

The problem wasn’t the Pitocin (the brand name for oxytocin). I’d be fine if they explained why it was medically needed to induce or speed up my labor. Or if they explained right as they were injecting it in an emergency situation, like they did when I started hemorrhaging right after my last birth. As I’ve written about before: “Au naturel is not always better.” 

The problem was the “you’re gonna get it” message: we’ll decide what happens to your body and we don’t even need to ask. 

A wonderfully, wise midwife

After that, I turned to the La Leche moms for a provider recommendation. They seemed to know a lot about giving birth. And I still ran into one of the moms during my early morning gym-rat days. In the locker room after kick-boxing class, she gave me the name and number for her midwife. 

She had me at hello. During my first conversation with the midwife, she did something so magical: she talked to me like a person. She explained her path to becoming a midwife. She had her first baby in Italy with a midwife and then her second baby in a U.S. hospital. The difference in experiences were stark, and the U.S. hospital one was clearly lacking in very human ways. Already a nurse, she soon trained to become a midwife. 

I’m so grateful I had her support when I birthed my second — an over-ten pounder butterball-sized baby. Instead of the doctor showing up at the end in Brooks Brothers wool pants and leather pumps, my midwife stayed with me, dressed in scrubs, there to support me through the messy, unpredictable, and sometimes loud process of giving birth. 

Five years later, I showed up in her office for a check-in, already 7 cm dilated. Thankfully, it was just across the street from Evanston Hospital, where she helped me give birth to my next son — a bit early, but still over 9 pounds. 

And when I showed up to the hospital one last time, five years after that, I was so relieved to see her standing outside the hospital. She and a younger midwife in training were both looking up in awe at the blood moon that late September night.

My last son came fast, really fast. My midwife was so attuned to me, she knew I was ready to push just by the expression on my face. Another big baby just under ten, I was so grateful I had someone there who I trusted and felt safe with.

The key differences: trust, support, and feeling safe

The issue isn’t “natural” vs “medicated” childbirth, a debate that seems to be more about dividing or judging women. My midwife would have supported whatever I wanted or needed. And besides, things can change quickly, and so too can plans.

The difference was having a trusted and informed support person. Yes my partner was great, but he doesn't know anything about birthing babies. My midwife knew a lot, because on top of her formal training, she spent a ton of time supporting people throughout the process of giving birth. 

I’m sure her presence made my child births safer, and I know she taught me life lessons I’ll always carry with me. I learned:

• It’s more than okay to feel vulnerable, need help, and want to have someone trusted nearby.

• I can nurture myself with confidence if I let go of worrying about how I look or what might happen next.

• When I need to do something really hard, I can give myself a boost by telling myself, “It’s time. You’re ready. You can do this.” 

Everyone deserves a feeling of safety during childbirth. Support from someone they trust. Someone they feel has their back.

Better pregnancy support: the whole way through

Babies are born every second of every day, but for the person who’s pregnant or giving birth, it’s a once in a lifetime moment, with lifelong impacts.

Pregnancy needs much more support — the whole way through. Everyone deserves a feeling of safety and support during childbirth. Someone they trust. Someone they feel has their back. The onus shouldn’t be on the person who’s pregnant to find trusted birthing support, letting privileges, or luck, determine the outcome.

I’d take home less pay, knowing that paid time off during pregnancy was available to everyone. And I’d pay more in taxes to improve maternity care and support and eliminate the stark racial disparities in maternal and infant health.

While it’s encouraging to see attention and some steps made, access to maternity care is actually getting worse, according to a recent report by the March of Dimes. A sustained and broad commitment still needs to happen … and keep happening. 

Motherhood: your life become everyone’s business

As soon as I became pregnant, I felt my boundaries dissolved by the baby growing inside me. And in other ways too. I felt more connected to anyone who’s ever been pregnant. And I felt like I needed others in a way that I hadn’t since I was a kid.

It’s one thing to feel that way in your own body, but it’s another when others assume they can overstep your boundaries because you’re pregnant. Touching your belly. Telling you that you look like you’re about to pop. Asking you when you’re due. Or if your baby’s “healthy.” 

The curiosity is all understandable. But it can be annoying. And in some cases, really awkward, or even hurtful. Like when someone I barely knew asked me when I had my baby. The one I never got to bring home. And I can only imagine how questions like that feel in this post-Roe period. Why are women’s bodies someone else’s business anyways? 

If you’re out and about with a baby, the questions and comments keep coming too: “Is he a good baby?” or “Well she’s certainly not underfed.” It’s like the moment they see someone with a baby, they want to know everything. Are there siblings? Do you work? Are you married? Is this your last? Is your baby (insert milestone) yet? 

Being a mom can feel like a tightrope walk between being a “good” one and a “bad.” But I’ve never known a mom who didn’t love her kids and do the best she could.

“So that’s what you decided to do with your life, be a mom”

I remember one encounter when I was out grocery shopping with my last baby. That was definitely my most frazzled-mom year, for many reasons, including a big one: my daughter was a sophomore in high school. I really think that’s universally the suckiest year for both mother and daughter. 

During checkout, the person behind me in line struck up a conversation as I unloaded the cart, while my newborn baby was asleep, nuzzled up close to my chest, snug in his sling. I answered the questions she quickly rattled off, leading to her comment on my every-five-years times four baby spacing. She thought about it, looked at me and said “So that’s what you decided to do with your life? Be a mom.”

It feels weird when a stranger sums up your life in one sentence. I know it happens all the time. Especially to people who get othered in some way. I got just a tiny little speck of a taste, and not even a bad one at that. But I think it shows how the culture defines motherhood as everyone’s business, at least when it comes to judgment. 

In that context, it’s OK to define a complete stranger’s life as a mom, including every “decision” they make. Being a mom can feel like a tightrope walk. At any moment you can go from being a “good” mom to a “bad” one. Growing up, I saw shaming happen to so many moms, including my own. But I also never knew a mom who didn’t love her kids and do the best she could for them.

Moms were always judged on a completely different scale than dads. Being a “good” dad was pretty simple: provide some financial support and do something fun with the kids now and then. “Good” moms had to do everything else. Today, parenting isn’t just a mom-thing — which is great! And many dads are feeling the tightrope walk too.

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Gen Z’s turn

My daughter’s in her early 20s, facing those same dreams and decisions that feel out-sized and life-defining. If she does become a parent, I want her to decide what that means, allowing herself to change along the way, while owning her body the whole way through. And the same thing goes for my sons.

Generational change is felt on a very personal level in close relationships. You see it happen, slowly, slowly, and then it’s startlingly fast. And then you look around and see how your story is just a tiny speck in a pool too big to imagine.

As I’m shifting into the older generation, I want to remember, really remember, how past experiences felt. Remembering the bad stuff can help keep me empathetic with younger people’s struggles. And remembering the good, can help me grow more generous with age, wanting to share whatever good I’ve got. 

And now it’s Gen Z’s turn. I want to be available as a support person, like my midwife was to me. Letting them know it’s okay to be vulnerable and need help. Because I want to help. And telling them “It’s time. You’re ready. You can do this.” Because I know they can.

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