The Truth About Motherhood!
by Barbara Gurr

Motherhood. It’s like a club—you’re either in it or you’re not. I just became a card-carrying member myself about ten months ago, and let me tell you, it’s not what you think from the outside. Everyone tells you being a mother is the hardest job in the world. But you think, how hard can it be? Virtually countless numbers of women do it every year. So you read all the books, you go to your breast-feeding class (where you and all the other women waiting to be inducted into the club learn how to position the motionless head of a stuffed toy to your breast and gaze lovingly at its expressionless face, imagining the peaceful succor the fruit of your loins will enjoy there in just a matter of weeks). You buy cute clothes and maybe a breast pump and loads of children’s books, which will gather dust on the shelf for years – no, your six month old does not want to sit through chapter one of Charlotte’s Web, no matter how endearing a tradition you thought that would become. You endure bloated feet and loss of sensation in your hands and back-ache and nausea and the constant urge to pee, knowing it will all be worth it.

And then the happiest day of your life arrives. And it is the happiest day of your life. After the cramping, pushing, sweating, bleeding, tearing, swearing agony of natural childbirth in a bathtub of all places—Give me the drugs! Give me the !@*&* drugs! Oh. Sorry. Were we talking about me?

I love my son. He is, hands down, the cutest baby who was ever born. And probably the smartest. Undoubtedly the sweetest. And I knew my life would change. I thought I was prepared for that change, like a caterpillar’s beautiful and painless metamorphosis into a butterfly or some such ridiculous crap. In my former life, I was a full-time teacher.

I was a coach. I sponsored the sophomore class. I took a class at the local college on Tuesday nights and taught a class there on Monday nights before heading over to my friend’s house for “Boston Public” and “Ally McBeal” (I’m gonna miss that show). I went to Church every Sunday and inipi ceremony every Wednesday. Sometimes students would stop by to visit and we’d hang out and talk about music, parents, boys. When I had Charlie, I decided to quit teaching for the rest of the year and stay home with him. It was a great decision – he’s a lot of fun, and I couldn’t bear to miss a single magical moment with him. It was also the worst decision of my life.

Because all of a sudden, Barb the teacher, Barb the student, Barb the coach, Barb the friend, virtually every previous aspect of Barb disappeared. And all that was left was—MOM-BARB (dun, dun, dun!) In one day (actually, only 6 hours—Charlie was pretty easy on me) I went from living a life that was very externally focused to one which had virtually no external focus whatsoever. For nine months, I spent just about all day, just about every day inside the house with a beautiful human being who couldn’t walk, talk, or eat by himself. I went from being in complete control of my destiny—let’s see, should I go to Starbuck’s or Dunkin Donuts on the way to work?—to stumbling around the house with the jaws of death clamped on my nipple. Church? Forget about it. That was Charlie’s nap time. Hanging with friends? They were all busy taking classes and watching “Boston Public.” I think I forgot how to speak English for a while.

The point is this: we all talk about how parenting—and mothering in particular—is the hardest job in the world. Well, it really is. It is not for the weak or the foolhardy. It doesn’t pay a dime, but costs a fortune. It is isolating and frightening, lonely and exhausting. Yes, it is also exhilarating and satisfying and fun—for me, the best part of my life so far. But it’s hard. It’s really, really hard. And diapers? Don’t get me started!