Postpartum: I never thought I would

be the kind of mom who thinks her baby is cuter than all the others. I mean, I honestly thought I would be more objective about it. Like, take myself for example. I think I am relatively attractive. There are people less attractive than me and there are people more attractive than me (keeping in mind, of course, that attractiveness all around is extremely subjective). What I'm trying to say is that I feel that I have an objective view of my appearance. I know I'm not a supermodel, yet I know that I'm not considered unattractive. I feel like I'm aight. I felt that I would have the same approach to my baby's appearance. Like, babies are generally cute. Some are more or less attractive than others, and I figured I would place my baby somewhere in the range of reasonable attractiveness. But no. I think my son is THE CUTEST. I really do. I surprised myself with how strongly I feel about how adorable he is. Like, when I'm scrolling through on social media (worst pastime in the world) and see pictures of other babies, I think they're cute for the most part, but I honestly always think my son is cuter. He just is. And I can't believe I believe that.

I never thought I would be nonchalant about getting baby slobber all over me. On my face, hands, shoulders, even occasionally in my mouth. Seriously, getting saliva all over you is gross. And when I would handle other people's slobbery babies in the past, I thought it was gross. But now, I'm just all up in it. His two little cute bottom teeth poking through with drool pouring out. I will literally kiss his little slobbery lips and not think twice about it.

I never thought I would be as chill as I am about having a baby in my life. I thought I would be more overprotective or hyper or something, but when it comes to him, I usually think, "He'll be fine." I don't worry about schedules or sleep training or making sure he's doing enough or getting enough blah, blah, blah. Maybe I'm this way because I've had the privilege to spend a lot of time at home with him. I do give him a Vitamin D supplement regularly, I did make sure to get in extra feedings when the pediatrician said he'd like to see him gain a little weight (he gained a whole pound!), and I am pretty adamant about him exclusively breastfeeding for 6 months (he's already 5), but I feel like I don't generally nit pick. Now, I did freak out about childcare. But that's not nitpicking. On a slightly unrelated note, can I be honest and say that overprotective moms who call themselves "mama bear" annoy me? "Mama bear" is one of those terms that get under my skin, kind of like "hubby" or "preggo." Ugh. Like, if you use the term "mama bear" to describe yourself, to me, that's code for "mom who wants to justify outbursts and other jerk-hat behavior towards others for perceived slights to her kid." I'm a mama bear and if you mess with my kid, I'll mess with you! RAAARRWWW! Like, if you call yourself "mama bear," you might as well call yourself "I want to speak to your manager."

I never thought I would enjoy using the baby as an excuse not to do stuff or to leave early from social events. Oh, you'll have to excuse us, we've got to get the baby to bed. Our lives are "busy" now because we have a baby, so whoever you wanted to ask to do that thing, it's not us. Babies are so time consuming. Oh, my gosh. We never get any sleep. You know how it is. (wink, wink) Ha. It's the polar opposite of when I was single, therefore I had all the time, ever. You ain't got no husband and no kids, girl, you don't have a life, you got time! Not anymore, suckas. I am SO BUSY now. I have like, negative time in my bank account.

Postpartum: Chronicles of a Cosmopolitan Professor Mom in Hicktownville

I see you there. You've got your little library t-shirt (door prize for those who stayed at a technology workshop till the end) and knock-off Toms on (Old Navy), shielding your eyes from the sun with cheap sunglasses (Target?), pushing a parent-purchased stroller (Graco) containing a you-made baby. Well, half-you.

You're on your way to the most wannabe hipster place imaginable in this rural college town. A place where professional aspirations and literal cow pastures collide. A yoga studio/smoothie bar/cafe/happy hour haven. With an open mic stage.

You, professor mom. The kind of person overpriced smoothies were designed to ensnare. Your plan is to read a few Zadie Smith essays while sipping a Pineapple Beach smoothie (pineapple + organic coconut oil + almond butter + protein powder), the kind of smoothie that makes professor moms like you feel righteous about shelling out that much money for. Look at me, I'm so privileged and sophisticated, drinking a healthy smoothie. You even throw in an additional overpriced muffin for good measure. Banana chocolate chip.

You sit on the couch, replete with overstuffed pillows, adjoining a projection of the World Cup on the wall. Because Americans who do yoga and drink organic protein powder smoothies care about soccer, like the rest of the world. But before you can take the first sip, a wail. Oh, no he woke up! Well, what's a cosmopolitan (as cosmopolitan as one can be in Hicktownville) professor mom to do? Whip out the girls and feed him, of course! But you're not the kind of professor mom who literally whips 'em out in plain view. No, you're not that crunchy and free-range and enlightened and vegan and La Leche League, no. First, you don your Bebe au Lait (Target registry) nursing cover and then whip 'em out. But still, you're inundated with waves of self-congratulatory maternal self-righteousness: You're nursing in public and you dare anyone to give you the stink eye. You're FEEDING YOUR BABY for God's sake!

But of course, in an enlightened safe space like the yoga studio/smoothie bar/cafe/happy hour haven, no one would dare give you the stink eye, so you cease to rehearse snappy zingers in your head. Honestly, you don't even get a chance to finish your smoothie or even take a bite of the muffin because little boy isn't satisfied. He's tired and not having it. So, you strap him back in, put your smoothie in the little cup holder thing and go back home, a two-bedroom apartment attached to your landlord's more spacious house in a historic neighborhood (a.k.a "place where the houses are older and more expensive").

You sip the smoothie on the way home, and by the time you arrive, it's gone. You open the door and peek inside the stroller. He's asleep. You sit down on your couch, down the muffin and contemplate whether you have enough time to pump before he wakes up again.

Postpartum: Babies cry.

A failed attempt at a 4-month belly badge pic

Allow me a moment of maternal venting, if you will. Ahem.

I think it's safe to say there's a general consensus that one of the most frequent things babies do is cry. Like, this is not an earth-shattering revelation, a counter-intuitive discovery, or some sort of paradigm shift to conventional wisdom. Literally, baby in your presence = high probability you will hear it cry. We get this, right? We're all on the same page with this, are we not?

As a church-goer, one of the places my baby tends to cry in public is in the middle of church. Again, not a shocker.

So, if I may so humbly ask, why the heck do people feel the need to

1. Watch your every maneuver to a. soothe your baby or b. exit the sanctuary with your baby?
2. Inform you after service that your baby cried/Jokingly suggest that you (the parent) "did something" to "their baby" (not the parent) to make them cry/Ask if the baby is okay/Comment on the volume and/or pitch of your baby's cry?

Bruh. Babies cry. Especially teething 4-month olds. Often loudly. Almost always at the most inopportune times. I get it if the baby starts wailing and people fail to suppress their involuntary response to crane their necks to determine the source of the disturbance. I understand that. As a parent, I agree that part of what I signed up for is accepting the initial looks of innocent bystanders when your little one decides to disturb the peace. But what I don't understand is the subsequent ogling of my every move once it's been determined that the sound is my baby crying. What I didn't sign up for was my baby's crying to be the theme music to The Attempted Baby Soothing and Eventual Exit Show. I don't need you to tune in, my friend. There are no Nielsen ratings to be kept track of. No witty recaps to seek out. No #spoileralerts to avoid. So, get your eyeballs off of me and little boy and back on the deliverer of the Word of God. Which is supposedly a large part of the reason you're at church to begin with, is it not? I swurr.

Additionally, the fake smiles and empty laughs I offer in response to your inane questions and commentary (e.g. "He's got a set of lungs on him, don't he?" "Wow, he was fussy today!" "Y'all better leave my baby alone! Haha." "Awww, what was the matter with little man today?") mask a deep, barely-contained wave of annoyance which courses through my entire being. Truly, what is the purpose of reminding me of not only the obvious, but the virtually unforgettable: My son behaved like an entirely normal human baby during service by crying? Does it give you a little thrill, a sense of satisfaction, a source of condescending entertainment?  Haha, look at the poor little new parents struggling to manage their baby. Perhaps I should comment or ask a question to remind them their child made a ton of noise during service. It'll be so fun! You, ma'am and sir, can go saddown. In fact, you can go have a stadium full of seats. Surriously. Like, you ain't helping, so you can keep your little funny commentary after the fact to yourself.

This message has been brought to you by Passive-Aggressive Mothers of America.

Postpartum: Mom’s Club

We celebrated our third anniversary a few weeks ago. I posted on social media about the fact that on our last anniversary we found out that we were expecting and that this year was our first anniversary as parents, and included a family portrait. Throughout the day, I found myself looking at the picture of us on my phone again and again. I’m slightly leaning into my husband and have the baby on my lap. Is this me? Later on that day, a friend messages me about the picture, suggesting that I’m now who I always wanted to be.  After a bit of back and forth, I had to admit that overall, he was right; although being a wife and mother is not all I want to be, nor do they completely define me, they are major things that I’d longed for.

One of my best friends sent me a Mother’s Day card this year. We’ve been friends for a long time, but this year is the first year that we’ve both been mothers together. I had a sense of being able to understand my friend in a way that maybe I hadn’t been able to for a while and of her maybe being able to relate to me in a way she hadn’t before. Now, we’re in the same club.

It’s strange. This knowledge that now, whether you want to be or not, you’re in a club.

I participated in a pedagogy workshop a little over a week ago and saw lots of my colleagues that I hadn’t seen since having the baby. Of course, I was ready with pictures on my phone and regaled them with tales of my little one’s latest—he can roll over from his stomach to his back, he sleeps in his crib now, he’s slept through the night. To people without kids, this bit of developmental minutiae is kind of boring. But for people with kids, there’s an immediate understanding of how big a deal these things are. There’s an instant recognition, a bond, even, that I now have with colleagues who are parents that I didn’t have before. People that I sort of knew of but never really talked to before were now talking to me at length about their children and their parenting experiences. It comes with being in the club.

Just as I’m now a part of the mom club, I’m also no longer a part of the no-kid club. Before, my colleague next door to me and I were both in the no-kid club. But when I go back to work, will we not be as close as we were before? Will things be weird /different between us because I’m a mom now?

I still find it hard to grasp the fact that I have a son. I’m a mom. A baby literally came out of my body and made me a mom. Sometimes it’s almost as if I’m watching myself go through the motions of caring for my child. I see myself holding him, nursing him, changing him, cuddling him, bathing him, rocking him to sleep. Is that me? Is he mine?

I’m the same person. No matter what, I’m the same person. Becoming a mom hasn’t transformed me into someone somehow more confident, more secure, more grown-up. Yes, I have more responsibilities now, and yes, my priorities have shifted even more than they did when I got married. But no matter what club I find myself in, I will never not be the me I’ve always been.