Motherhood, Through the Back Roads
I stare at my child’s face, framed by strawberry blonde curls. Her pink cheeks and her inquisitive blue eyes. She beams back at me, hopeful. “Mommy, you want to play with me?”
And I do, even though imaginative play is not my strong suit. It requires a softening and a slowness that throws my body into dysregulation. Sitting still with her, my mind speeds up to 100 miles an hour. Let’s run through the scenarios of all our worst fears! Let’s obsess about the dishes left in the sink! Let’s meticulously go through our to-do list! Anything to keep from being right here, right now.
The remorse at my inability to be present sets in alongside my ruminations and I find myself getting up to go change the laundry. What a shitty mom.
I know what fear is coiling underneath the surface as I shove the 20th load of wet clothes into the dryer. It’s imposter syndrome. She is too perfect. She is untarnished by life. I don’t deserve her. You’ll wake up one day and none of this will be real. Because—I was never supposed to be a mother.
“It’s called unexplained infertility.” “Once you stop trying, I bet it will just happen.” “It’s the stress.” “We just don’t know.” “The pregnancy test was negative.” The nurse calling me, I could hear her voice shaking, a sniffle, “The transfer didn’t take. I’m so sorry.” Four long years of “No.” Four years of questioning my otherwise healthy body, wondering why she was secretly broken. Four years of being poked and prodded with acupuncture needles and speculums and sonogram wands and dye tests and cervical biopsies. Four years of bargaining with every deity and especially with my dead father, “Why is this happening to me? Why can’t you help me?”
Endlessly trying every alternative treatment until finally throwing my hands up and doing IVF. At least it would give me back some semblance of control after feeling utterly helpless for so long. More needles? My 1,000th blood test? Who cares!
When we did our second transfer, it was the holiday season and the whole clinic was lit with Christmas lights. As I lay on the table, the doctor, who thankfully had the bedside manner of an actual angel, said, “This one’s ready, you can even see the embryo trying to peek out.” Internally, I felt the energy in the room shift into a soft buzzing. Even though I didn’t know the sex, I looked at the little embryo on the screen and I knew. That’s my daughter.
Nine months later, I gave birth to my girl.
Both the beginning and the end of my pregnancy held a lot of the trauma of the previous years. I was so sure something was going to go wrong. Yet once she was born, that seemed to melt away. I thought I was in the clear. Every time I pushed her stroller and walked past another mom, I felt so gleeful that I was actually let into the club. The exchanged smiles and knowing looks of loving exhaustion felt like a secret handshake I was at long last privy to. Now I could have “mom’s night out” or “mommy and me” classes. Now Mother’s Day would be light and flowery and celebratory instead of excruciatingly painful.
The baby stage was easier for me, because after everything, I truly did not sweat the small stuff. She had finally arrived, and in turn, I had finally arrived too. But then came parenting a toddler, whose secondary goal in life (the primary one being snacks) is to push every single button and dredge up any leftover PTSD I think I may have evaded.
In sudden tsunamis of emotion, she shows that she needs me, even as she pushes me away. She wants to be held, but also to ferociously squirm and assert her independence. I have to all at once be calm yet firm, loving yet boundaried. In my best instances, I hold that paradoxical space for both of us. In my worst instances, I take her tantrums personally or let them get under my skin. Then I’m doing my own work to step back—while also still being there for her. And by the evening, I am drained by a day of mental and emotional tetras.
None of this is made easier by the fact that she looks just like me. There are flashes of my little self in her meltdowns. My inner child work quite literally screaming in my face. Oh, did you still need to unpack some childhood wounding? We’ve got you!
All of which reinforces my guilt as an IVF mom: I worked so hard for this and now I’m failing. What if the years of physiological anguish it took to have this baby have taken too great a toll, and prevent me from fully showing up for her? In my hardest moments of parenting, I find myself shutting down because the love I have for her feels so great and big that it terrifies me. I’m convinced some tragedy will imminently take place, that insidious inner voice saying, See. It was too good to be true.
I’m still hard-wired for motherhood’s continual rejection of me. I still have more years of infertility than I do of motherhood, and I can only hope that as time goes on, that phase of my life becomes further in the rearview. That new challenges will fill this hole that was created. I can’t wait to be exhausted from endless soccer games or dance classes, or to soothe the first heartbreak, or navigate difficult tween girls. I long to be kept up all night worrying before a big recital or her first sleepover. Milestones that felt achingly out of reach each month I realized I wasn’t pregnant.
Whatever I amassed by the time I reached parenthood, it followed me here. And my personal experiences and hardships continue to morph as I do. Perhaps I’m experiencing what most mothers do—an identity shift that continues as my child grows alongside me. As I learn to rebalance work and creativity and marriage and friendship and sexuality and all the ever-shifting priorities for both of us. Each new chapter for her is another one for me.
People like to reassure me that, “Now she’s here” and that I can “put it all behind me.” But maybe that’s too simplistic. Maybe there’s also something that was opened inside me, a greater capacity for empathy and reflection, or wisdom that perfectly coexists with all the pain and neurosis. Could it be that I am both stronger and more fragile? Is that what motherhood is, in its essence?
I come back upstairs from the laundry room to the call of “Mommy! Mommy!” Words I didn’t know if I’d ever hear and now come from the most precious of all gifts. She runs to me, wrapping her small but sturdy frame around my legs. She wants to wear her butterfly wings and rain boots. I steady myself, overwhelmed with the perfection of this moment. It’s time to go play.
About the Author
Ashley Hudson is a New York City native, who grew up inspired by the culture and chaos of being a city kid in the late 90s. Coming from a multi-generational film family, she quickly took to the business and has worked in production for nearly 20 years. There, she gained invaluable insight into the importance of the written word. Now, Ashley has returned to her true love and purpose – storytelling – writing and developing her own screenplays, essays, and novels. Her educational background is in writing, fine art, and sociology, with a Bachelor of Science from The New School.
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