Birds, bare legs, and bicycles. After months of gray, spring has finally begun to show its sunny face in Michigan. Suddenly, moods—like the days—are brighter for longer. I’m wiping the built-up dust off of last summer’s memories, brushing away the stray dried leaves. I won’t mind tending to the flowers in our yard because it’ll also mean we’re out of the weeds.
Michigan winters are brutal, long, and cruel, yet as I prepared to become a mom six years ago, the idea of indulging in the cozy aspects of winter leading up to my early March due date was a welcome one. So was the thought of holing up with my husband and newborn daughter, leaning in to every reasonable excuse to sit and veg until spring came around. And we did just that, occasionally escaping the house on a rare 50-degree day for a walk around the block. We welcomed visitors with their casseroles; they eagerly held our new little girl and posed for photos while we did our best to make conversation on such little sleep.
Such. Little. Sleep. The time I spent preparing my mind and body for what would happen in the hospital delivery room ought to have been spent waking up every two hours to understand life with a newborn. It might have been less of a shock that way. But beyond the physical exhaustion, there were also brand-new emotions.
Suddenly, I felt more alone than ever before—despite having a supportive husband and family, let alone another tiny human being in my arms or at my side at all times. “You, me, and the baby makes three,” right? Yet in the blur of both of my girls’ first years on this earth, what I remember are the times of complete elation and isolation.
All it takes is a moment to bring my mind back to those hours in the middle of the night that I spent nursing and rocking and swaying my daughters, feeling like that would be my reality forever. Or the time I stood in a bathroom stall during a family party, nursing my firstborn, still years and a second baby away from feeling comfortable enough to breastfeed in public.
When I decided to switch to part-time employment and primarily work from home after having my first daughter, the isolation became overwhelming. The wellspring of visitors had long since dried up, and the majority of my adult interactions were now over work email. I became adept at typing on my laptop over the Boppy pillow, but trying to return to my pre-baby work self was harder than I expected. I attempted to fit my full-time tasks into my new, part-time schedule, wanting to show I could still balance it all. When I let my daughter cry in her crib an extra few minutes so that I could wrap up a conference call, I felt like a bad mom. When I took breaks from editing news articles to snuggle with her, I felt like a bad employee. Staying home alleviated the worries of pumping milk and separation anxiety, but it also kept me in a limbo state.
I longed for the early newborn days when my only job had been to keep my baby alive. Showering could be optional. Emails weren’t piling up in my inbox. How strange that at my peak of accountability, I was looking to opt out of any extraneous responsibilities. But as our daughter grew older, I found it easier to make my way back into the pace and social atmosphere of the workplace.
Despite my fears of the isolation I’d experienced the first time around, having our second baby in yet another Michigan winter only enhanced my desire to dive deeply into hibernation. Perhaps it was because I knew she was going to be my last baby, or because I was overwhelmed by the prospect of balancing everything as many of my peers do, so gracefully, each and every day.
In addition, we experienced challenges with our second daughter that we never faced with our first. While nursing went fine, she never took a bottle, even after a tongue and lip-tie correction and weeks of craniosacral therapy. We visited the pediatrician and a dermatologist on several occasions for her sensitive skin. I remember wondering how I would be able to leave my sweet second-born, who seemed to need more of me than our first, to return to work.
It only took a week back from maternity leave—with a perpetual lump in my throat and a baby who refused to eat for our babysitter—for me to make the decision clear in my mind. With support from my husband, family, and friends, I left my job for full-time motherhood, which I felt drawn to even more than to the work I loved.
Now, there are days my husband will come home from work and I’ll realize I haven’t spoken to anyone over the age of six all day. Sometimes I catch myself giving him an extended verbal download of the day just to reach my daily word count; it’s as if the words build up inside of me, my mom mode like a kink in the hose for all of the things I wish I could say.
The decision to quit my job was not easy, nor have the two years since been. But once I decided to do it, it was like shrugging off the weight of a woolen winter coat. It was one less thing on my plate. I could focus all of my energy on my family instead of letting deadlines and meetings crowd my mind, which was already swirling with doctors’ appointments, grocery lists, and craft project ideas. While I gave up workplace interactions, my network of mom friends grew. Instead of complaining about a coworker, we complain about potty training. Even when we feel like we’re alone, we’re in the trenches together.
The promise of spring also keeps me moving forward. Now as a mom with a toddler, grade schooler, and a growing pile of infant toys ready to be donated, I see those early baby years as their own winter of sorts, too. I’ve made it through that season of my life as a mom, with its endlessly long days punctuated by joy-filled moments. I am finding time to be something other than mama, whether it’s writing or taking barre classes. New challenges are certain to bloom, but I know it’s okay to stop, take a breath, and focus on the flowers.