It’s Not A Hollywood movie…

Roanna - 14 Mar 16

When we’re little, if we’re lucky, we think our parents are perfect. We think that they know everything and can do everything. The have the answers and cures to of our little life’s problems. It’s a common observation that, at some point, usually before we’re adults ourselves, we realise that our parents are in fact mere human beings. Plenty has been written about this, more eloquently and poignantly than I could ever hope to match. It’s a very well-established idea. So if we already know that parents are human, why do we fall into the trap of believing that we can be perfect people when we have our own children?

When I was six months pregnant, I watched a film called Waitress. Set in the modern-day American south, it tells the story of a – yes – waitress, who is pregnant. Her life isn’t much fun – her husband is violent, her boss is a bully, and she’s having an empty affair with her married gynaecologist. She bitterly resents her pregnancy (referring to it as the ‘damn baby’ throughout) – she had been planning to escape but is now trapped in a miserable life. However, from the whimsical tone and bright colours I thought that there must be a happy ending in store. Sure enough…

The moment she gives birth, her life is transformed. Seconds after delivery she feels a euphoric rush of love for the baby. She turns to her vile husband and tells him they’re getting divorced. Minutes later she ends her affair. Her love for her baby is so strong that she is instantly empowered to stride confidently away from everything negative in her life. In the final minutes of the film she opens her own restaurant, raises her beautiful daughter single-handedly, and they live happily ever after. Everything is perfect. The end.

Other than being pregnant, my life didn’t mirror that of the waitress. But one part of her story got its hooks into me. That epiphany, the eureka moment – I couldn’t get it out of my head. I became obsessed with the idea of birth as a transformative act. Could I be like the waitress? Could I give birth and set about tearing down everything that held me back in life? Would giving birth make me perfect? I hoped so.

For most of my adult life I’d been told that I should have more confidence in myself – ‘if only you could see what we see!’ etc. This simple piece of advice was the broad banner under which all my internal struggles sat. If I could just have more confidence, everything would fall into place and be wonderful. I waited out the rest of my pregnancy in anticipation. I became certain that the instant my baby arrived I would become ‘better’. Things would be perfect.

You might be not at all surprised to learn that it didn’t happen like that in the end. After a straight-forward birth, a healthy baby was placed on my chest. I stared at him for a moment before my hormones sky-rocketed and I felt a love so enormous it made my heart physically ache. Like the waitress, I felt euphoric. What I did not feel, however, was a dramatic psychological shift. I was still me. I didn’t feel suddenly stronger, more capable or that golden condition – confident.

For first few weeks I continued in my familiar state of self-doubt. Deep down I knew that I was doing a good job with him – he was putting on weight, clean, cared for, so loved. But I cringed whenever somebody was kind enough to tell me I was doing well. I couldn’t own that achievement. I couldn’t let myself be proud of it. All I could think about was everything I couldn’t do perfectly (breast-feeding, for example, but that’s another story). That was my ‘safe zone’, where I could sit comfortably the low self-confidence I was so used to.

Then something happened. Just before the six week mark I had started to put more and more pressure on myself (uncomfortable with how competently I was taking to motherhood I had created some unnecessary artificial challenges). Amongst other things, I decided I needed to lose weight – immediately. I had gained the recommended amount of weight during my pregnancy and no more. My maternity jeans were already officially too big. But I became so fixated with ‘being fat’ that I weighed myself at 3.30am (I know) and texted a friend to moan that I hadn’t lost a single pound. Their reply was frustrated, kind and sane. This was not good behaviour, I was told. This was ridiculous, they said. I was seeking out reasons to beat myself up. I was wilfully ignoring all the nice things people had said to me. I was not ‘fat’ – I’d just had a baby. And finally – if I dedicated as much time to positive things as I did to negative things then I could be anything I wanted to be.

Whilst this was not quite an epiphany moment either (do these actually exist?), it did make me think. I had been hoping for the cheat’s way out – waiting for someone else (a new-born baby, of all people) to sort my life out for me, preferably in an instant, with neat, easy resolutions and a happy ending. I now saw that this responsibility was, of course, mine alone. Other people could help, say nice things, but it was me, and only me, who had the power to begin to reshape my thoughts and build my confidence up piece by piece. This would take work, and would take much more than just a moment to achieve, but that was OK. The ‘waitress spell’ was broken. My baby can’t – and shouldn’t – fundamentally change who I am. He can’t make me a ‘better’ person or parent. That is my job. And it’ll be a work in progress, possibly for the rest of my life. I’m sure I’m not alone in that. It’s not a Hollywood movie, it’s not perfect, and I’m not perfect, but that’s all OK.

Roanna

View profile for posts, events and more info