What to Expect After Your First

When my firstborn was within weeks of arrival, I was the most stressed I have ever been in my life. In the middle of a major project at work, I was placed on bed rest at about 35 weeks.

I hit a low point after a baby shower when I sat in the middle of my living room, surrounded by huge boxes and dozens of pink-and-blue gift bags, all generously stuffed with neutral yellow and green baby gear. 

My sister saw how overwhelmed I was and came to the rescue, swooping in to clean and organize my house like a madwoman. She advise me on how many teethers one baby could possibly need (certainly not the 17 spilling over the side of the coffee table). 

Six and a half years and three kids later, my kids have never used a teether for teething (though two round ones were repurposed as imaginary steering wheels). As my fourth child is due to arrive in December, it’s amazing how much my approach to motherhood has changed. 

When my oldest was born, we listened to the advice of friends and lined the walls of our house with all the baby gear we could possibly need. We had the swing, the bouncy seat, the exer-saucer, and a floor gym. We were ready. 

And yet, we were not ready. I was delusional in so many ways, just knowing that I could kick my own personality to the curb and become a Type A when it comes to parenting. My fantasy centered on beautifully-dressed children who all read proficiently at the age of four. I would also have a meticulously clean kitchen floor and great hair to boot. 

But I never became Type A. I gave my baby a pacifier in his early days against the advice I had read about nipple confusion. We held our baby and let him sleep on us, despite warnings that we would spoil him. We even skipped the much-heralded tummy time the second our pediatrician expressed his doubts that it was the key to a well-rounded baby head. We did everything wrong, and it turns out, it didn’t matter that much. 

Somehow, over the course of having my three kids, I’ve come to appreciate my own right-brained, sometimes even scatter-brained parenting. When my firstborn arrived, I let myself get caught up in the fussiness of parenting instead of the guts of it. But over time, I have come to feel pretty strongly that I have found my calling, and it wears diapers. 

I’m embarrassingly out of the loop for the latest advice on babies now. My sister-in-law and I have agreed, though, that sometimes an experienced sister or friend is a far more valuable source of information than any PhD expert. For instance, I’m not well-read on car seats or allergy guidelines, but I feel better about more timeless skills, such as getting a baby to sleep through the night. 

Sometimes experience makes us a little jaded. Recently I stopped into the Motherhood store for the first time this pregnancy to exchange a dress given to me as a gift. The sales associate should have been tipped off that this was not my first pregnancy by my quick beeline to the register, without stopping to longingly admire any other maternity styles. 

She quickly steered me into a conversation about pregnancy hormones, telling me that she remembered being pregnant and “how it is.” It occurred to me later that during my first pregnancy I would have jumped on this conversation and reveled in a chance to swap war stories with an experienced mom. Instead, I found myself grumbling something like, “Yeah, I don’t know that I can tell the difference between pregnancy-crabby and regular-crabby anymore,” and snatched my bag before I stalked out. 

Yikes. While most of my experiences with pregnancy and child-rearing have made me more excited about kids and family, I’m sorry to say that once in a while I don’t like the effect, like I’ve been under the careful tutelage of Roseanne Barr. 

Needless to say, this kid may throw us something we’ve never dealt with before, like colic or a much more serious problem. If that’s the case, I’ll still be thankful that it was my fourth and not my first experience. But overall, I think I’ll still be in much better shape than when I was trying to make myself into a Type A, by-the-book parent.