Parenthood
Have you seen this woman?
Christina Pickworth, is a mother of two, who blogs openly, honestly, and hilariously about her experiences of motherhood. In this article, she shares her experience of the pain of losing her identity to motherhood.
So pain. Pain isn't just a physical thing - mental suffering or distress also counts. Which (lucky for you) means I don't have to bang on about childbirth, or recommend you have your first post-birth wee in the shower (though I wish someone had suggested that to me!). Instead I wanted to share something about one of the emotionally painful aspects of motherhood which, I’ll be honest, has rather hit me from nowhere.
When I got pregnant with the Little Man I was fully expecting, being the woefully realistic ray of sunshine that I am, horrific stretch marks, extreme tiredness and someone I didn’t know scooping up bits of my own poo while a small person ejected itself from my nether regions. Those things, whilst not exactly a barrel of laughs, did not, at least, take me by surprise.
But what I wasn’t expecting was the complete loss of identity becoming a mother would make me feel. I’d always thought of having children as being this life-enriching, happiness-creating, overwhelmingly joyful thing. And it is, of course it is. Well, sometimes it is. Because what I underestimated was all the things that having children would take away from my life. And I don’t just mean all hope of ever getting a flat stomach back or going on a trampoline without pissing myself.
My spontaneity, my social life, my financial independence, my ability to remember people’s names. And in so many more ways than just the obvious ones. A quiet, creeping assault on who I was before. Two of the biggest things for me have been my wardrobe (or lack of it) and a social life which now revolves around how many episodes of The West Wing we can watch in a row without falling asleep.
I realised early on that I wasn’t a big fan of breastfeeding under scarves with my top down and a massive burger-nippled boob out. I felt exposed and self-conscious, and so I opted for the more discreet and less anxiety-inducing, jeans and jumper scenario. But I’ve always been a girly girl. I used to live in dresses which are completely impossible when you’re breastfeeding and don’t want to use a shawl or just slam a boob out (mine definitely slam, it’s like dropping ham from a great height). And when your milk-filled noughts are now swinging around your waistline (and you’ve never had very strong arms), then frankly just lifting a jumper is easier for everyone.
I also loved a heel, but when you have an insane toddler you’re constantly running after as they peg it in the direction of the A23, and with a back fairly ruined from growing massive babies, then chucking one of those on isn’t so easy either. Don’t get me wrong, pre-babies I was no fashionista, but I did at least regularly wear socks that matched. Now my old wardrobe has become redundant, not that most stuff probably fits me anymore anyway (it’s all ribcage expansion you understand), and I don’t have the cash (or the shopping time) to just replace it. For all but five months of the last four and a half years I have been pregnant or breastfeeding (and still am, DRINK THE BLOODY COW’S MILK CHILD), I have been dressing, every day, in clothes that aren’t really ‘me’. That’s almost half a decade.