If I Could Choose Again, Would I Be A Mother?
(because I'm not sure I'm cut out for this)
This piece is part of my weekly-ish NOISE SERIES, a collection of personal essays where I share lessons from being a mother of ten on a mission to fulfil my own potential too. Themes include work, energy, domesticity, leadership, sex, slow living, childcare, ambition, infertility, productivity, and sleep. I hope you’ll come along on this journey with me.
The NOISE SERIES is designed to activate permission slips, stoke inner fires and spark great conversations.
When I’m sensitive and lonely (which happens more often than any de-fuzz of my legs) it’s mostly because things ‘build up’ to bring on fragility.
It’s often a mix of feelings - part failure, part hopeful, isolated and yearning for more connection. All this and more exposed under a microscope of internalised high standards motherhood. Even though I'm a gazillion percent dedicated to and invested about my life as a mother, in these moments I feel crushed from the sheer weight of mothering life.
I think how I’m not sure I’d do motherhood again if I had the chance to choose over. Scratch that, I wouldn’t bother.
And in a split second of writing those words I know that I would do it all again.
BUT IF I COULD CHOOSE it would be motherhood in supported conditions where being a mother is cherished and valued.
I’m sick of the version of motherhood that’s simultaneously revered and at the same time denigrated. In one hand held up as the holy grail, while in the other treated as a nothing.
Loads of us think this ‘would I do it again?’ question for different personal and structural reasons.
A golden and unspoken rule among us is that, whatever our reasons, we must stay schtum or we let “the side down”.
We let ourselves down.
We let mothers in a faux collective down.
Most of all we let our kids down.
It’s okay to confess that we might not have chosen the right partner to have kids with, but to question if we’d do motherhood again, perish the thought.
Doesn’t this mean [if and when we wish we hadn’t bothered with motherhood], our feelings are driven into hiding?
Which is why I’m writing this.
My motherhood ‘rethinks’ last maybe a few moments or hours. I might have a fleeting thought about how life might have been without children. Or I’ll get into a longer lasting funk that’s more an enquiry. If this thought-outburst rises in me then something is out of kilter. I need to re-evaluate what I’m doing or how I’m doing it.
That doesn’t mean to say I can solve problems, lickety-split, simply because I think “I wouldn’t bother having children if I had another life”. If only things were that simple. Imagine if.
Childcare choices would be transformed as would their impossible to find costs. Domestic equity would become a reality. Paternity leave would be generous across the lands. Maternity leave too. These are list starters - reining myself in here because these systemic mother stoppers must wait for me to write about them at other times, and other days to spit feathers.
Sometimes, I have whole days where I agree with this Mumsnet post:
“I hate being a parent. It’s dull, it’s relentless, it’s worrying, it’s thankless, it’s demanding, it’s monotonous, it’s exhausting. I’d throw myself under a bus for them but being a parent has made me totally and utterly miserable. I can’t wait for them to grow up”.
My actual LOVE for my children doesn’t waver. This ought to be obvious even if I find the experience of parenting all the above, sometimes.
But wait.
I DO need to reiterate I love them or an indignant parent-who-never-feels-this-way is apoplectic on behalf of my innocent (query unloved) kids.
“Calm yer tits” comes to mind, although it’s not a phrase my mouth uses.
My ability to withstand the agonising mess of relentless grunt work, spaghetti-like logistics, and never-ending sock sorting and meal improv, stretches my humour. And patience.
This is a partial picture and I share this in the knowledge that most many some people will appreciate that. There’ll be others determined to cling onto a narrative that demands that I don’t cross a heinous line to share truths in this moment. That includes a change of mind about being a mother.
I’m a glutton for punishment, we can all agree on that. If you credit me with a try it again ten times over spirit, allow me to question whether I’d do it ALL again.
For the concerned among us, I could rave about the brilliant ten souls I’m mother to. The Bigs, the Mediums, and the Littles aka the triplets. They’re my everything. But they’re them and I’m me and I never forget that I’m not my children.
I am my own person.
To spell it out: me querying whether I’d do motherhood again doesn’t negate my love for my kids one bit. It’s not about them, it’s about me. Which is tricky since once we become a mother it’s supposed to be all about everyone except ourselves. Being obscured as human beings and as mothers in service of others is embedded in motherhood.
If I took a front of house snapshot of my brutiful1 life it would include good, bad, funny, gross, heartbreaking, and triumphant sides of motherhood. It’s all of these and so much more. This isn’t unique - I’m talking about a mother’s life in the whole.
Behind the scenes is harsher. In a moment of half-baked inspiration, I look up the definition of forlorn. Which I wish I hadn’t because this captures it to a tee. It’s about aloneness. Not being cared for but doing the caring. And desolation springing from emotional labour that seems never-ending. Because it is.
Remember, I’m sharing my fragile and heartsore “I’ve had enough, I wouldn’t do this again” thinking. The day when one of my children is in catatonic breakdown bang smack in the middle of a road. Their crescendo comes from a slow ramp-up of overwhelms. It’s inevitable they reach this point; immobile, rigid, mute. How the memories we made from that situation make us laugh.
Dark humour is a refuge, but only takes this mother so far.
Motherhood brings brutal days and beautiful moments. Swap these around - beautiful days, brutal moments - and the sentiment stands.
In times of feeling more-fragile-than-usual I ask this related question about myself and others,
“What do we do when we’re feeling so fragile, it hurts?’
Hide deep under a duvet? Pop a big old woolly hat on and walk in the rain? Cry buckets till done? Fill the bath, throw in bubbles and sit thinking? Call a friend who listens without injecting their stuff in? Bring ourselves pleasure - candles, orgasms, chocolate, a comedy show, exercise, kid-free reading.
As I list this out I wonder who has the kids when mothers are under the duvet, stomping in the rain, sobbing, in the bath, eating choc while orgasming… [insert your version] of what you do when you’re fragile and had it up to your enough limit. I don’t have someone to have my children while I decompress. I’m not alone in this.
What I know is this: with every worn down and worn out softened version of myself comes deeper wisdom. This rollercoaster of daily efforts, steady presence, and the invisible toil asks me, and all mothers, to MOTHER OURSELVES UP. To do whatever it takes to stay-in-fragility-and-soothe-ourselves till we grow enough bounce backability to rise up again.
Because asking the question, “If I chose again would I be a mother?” isn’t the real shocker.
It’s being asked to mother others 24/7 while not being able to mother ourselves enough.
Giant kicker and a gut punch that this is! That’s what I’m thinking about when I consider if I’d choose motherhood again.
Thank you very much for reading!
Danusia, xx
I’d love to know… Is there a moment when you learned to mother yourself ‘enough’ so you could rise? What was the experience like?
I hope my words prompt you to ask questions and to strike up conversation. Talk to me dang it!
The NOISE SERIES is here. If you enjoyed this article, you may also like:
Clarence Marshall on Linkedin coined this word combining brutal and beautiful.
What a compromising moment Casey! Sounds like you had great control 🥹
Yes to the assault on the nervous system - it’s relentless, seemingly unproductive yet a triumph each day.
Daydreams are lifesavers ❤️
Being a mother is so much. Someone recently said to me when I told that most of my time is spent being a SAHM, “oh that must be so fun! Coloring, playing outside - no corporate culture bullshit.” And I didn’t know this person well enough to fully unload my thoughts. But being a stay at home parent is like having the fire alarm go off every 2-5 minutes for 12-14 hours a day. It’s so much on the nervous system. I’m fairly desensitized to it at this point but it’s SO MUCH all at once but yet you accomplish nothing every day. It’s an odd existence, I’ve had bad bouts of depression but I regret nothing. I can see how much it benefits my kids and I can see how much it’s taught me and how much growth I’ve experienced living it. When I’m in the hard days I try and remember how short these tiny baby and toddler years are in the grand scheme of their lives and I remind myself that diamonds are made under pressure. And I also often daydream about the day where it’s just me and my husband again 😂 and it all helps.