Matrescence: Becoming a Mother
When I was pregnant I was fascinated by the journey to motherhood. I read countless books on pregnancy and birth. I learned about the optimal diet and what to eat postpartum in Real Food for Pregnancy. I learned about growing an extra organ for my baby and labor that comes in three stages in The Mama Natural. I researched statistics in Gentle Birth, Gentle Mothering that confirmed what I already knew: homebirth is safe. And I found confidence in my birth plan by reading birth stories from Ina May’s Guide to Childbirth.
At around seven months pregnant, I went looking for books on becoming a mother. What was it like? How was my identity about to shift? Would my relationships change? I found a few essays and a memoir or two, but nothing profound. I wasn’t looking for someone to teach me how to change a diaper or a comedian's take on unplanned motherhood. I was looking for someone to help me understand the process of matrescence.
The developmental phase of new motherhood, is like adolescence — a transition when hormones surge, bodies change, and identity and relationships shift.
Now having experienced matrecense for myself, I understand why it is difficult to find writing on the topic. Becoming a mother has been my most profound transformation to date. Yet, when someone asks how it’s going, it’s as if along with full nights of sleep I’ve lost my ability to articulate my thoughts. Usually my response is something like “Great! It’s wild.” Wild? That’s the best I can come up with?
By looking at brains of women who have given birth versus those who have not, we know mothers lose a significant amount of grey matter to encourage the facilitation of new connections needed for parenthood. Our brain’s grey matter plays a huge role in processing memories and emotions. So it is not surprising that I cannot find writing on the topic of matrescene, or that I have a hard time describing it myself. But, I will try.
At the 20 week anatomy scan, I became obsessed with the ultrasound image of my baby’s feet. All the other images looked like a baby not fully cooked, but a chubby foot pressing firmly against my belly felt real. I couldn’t believe my body made toes. When Rex was born and sat before me, I was in even more disbelief. I grew a whole human. I gave birth to a baby.
When Rex was born; I was re-born. The newborn stage was exhausting and terrifying. Despite this, I often find myself daydreaming and wishing I could go back in time. Our days were simple and sweet—cuddled under the warmth of fresh sheets with snacks periodically brought to our bedside. Sure my nipples were sore and my only alone time was a daily shower, but I had countless hours to simply stare at my child. I felt like I’ve finally accomplished something big enough that was worthy of rest. So I did just that.
Having a baby gives you perspective. The things that caused me stress pre-baby seem trivial. When I was pregnant I “set a boundary” with work and tried not to work past 7pm. I think back and laugh. When Rex was going through a sleep regression around 6 months, I’d go to bed with him at 7pm. If that sounds depressing, it wasn’t. It was fantastic. I filled up my water bottle and made a snack. As I tucked myself into bed next to Rex, I would pull out my book, or turn on house hunters. Periodically, I’d glance over at my baby, watching his miniature sized chest rise up and down with deep sleepy breaths.
Rex is half me and half my husband, the love of my life. Somehow, he is even better than both our best parts. He is loud like Mama and expressive like Dada. He was crawling at seven months and standing at nine. He has four tricks which I proudly showcase to anyone we meet.
Trick 1: Blows bubbles
Trick 2: Waves hello and goodbye
Trick 3: Sticks his tongue out on command
Trick 4: Can say ‘dada’ and ‘dog’
The lack of excitement about my baby’s latest development leaves me feeling disconnected from my friends without children. How could they not be blown away? Then, as the gray matter builds back into my brain, I realize this expectation is unreasonable. How could anyone know the astonishment of parenthood until you are a part of the club?
By month ten, you’d think we’d have the whole bedtime routine down to a T, but every night is a new adventure. Sometimes, I know exactly how to lull Rex into a deep slumber. Other times I’m simultaneously nursing, rocking, and squatting trying to convince him he’s safe enough to close his eyes and rest.
The night that I’m writing this, it’s the former. His eyes are heavy and his suckle slows to an almost nonexistent pace. I look down at his face and it feels familiar. It’s the same feeling of comfort you have around an old friend. On some level it makes sense. We know each other on a cellular wavelength.
On the nights where I can’t soothe him as easily and he tries to communicate through cries, I’m reminded there is so much about Rex I have yet to learn. What does he want right now? What is he thinking? How does his little brain work? I don’t even know what color his eyes will be.
This space of knowing and not knowing all at once has been the cornerstone of my matrescence—and not just when it comes to my baby, but also myself. I know who I once was. I do not know who I will be.
This sentiment of the unknown, or mother and baby limbo, exists in some cultures who see infants as “not yet ripe.” In Raising Children: Surprising Insights from Other Cultures, author David F Lancy writes that in many cultures babies are seen as vulnerable and are thought to exist in an intermediate state between a spirit world and the world of the living. In other words, infants are not seen as fully human. So much so, that in Japanese culture the baby is seen as an extension of their mother rather than their own person.
Willem de Kooning, Mother and Child, 1970
If Rex isn’t ripe enough to be fully human and we are connected as one, am I ripe enough to carry the title of mother? When I hear someone use the word ‘mother’ to describe me it still feels foreign. I’m the first of my friends in New York to have a baby. I joke with my support group leader that sometimes this makes me feel like a teen mom. I’m thirty years old.
Just like Rex, I too am vulnerable in this new world. This makes me miss my close friends who now feel like acquaintances. Between prenatal yoga, a new moms support group, friendly neighbors on the sidewalk, and my midwives, I’ve managed to meet some incredible mom friends. While these relationships are deep and meaningful, they lack one vital ingredient: time. Because of this, matrescence can feel lonely at times. I think of all the other times I’ve felt lonely—freshman year at college, the months after a breakup, and moving to Philadelphia. I look back on these times fondly as I can now recognize they led to much needed growth.
When preparing for natural birth, my midwives and doula reminded me the only way out is through. They encouraged me to surrender to the feeling of the unknown. I’ve found this to be required of matrescence as well.
I’m writing this now and starting this blog as a way to embrace this journey. It is for exploring who I was and who I am becoming. It’s living in a city with ample opportunity, but slowing down to raise a family. It’s pushing for growth in all aspects of life, but not at the expense of embracing the present. It’s asking what I value in motherhood and in my career. It’s carrying a portable pump in my designer handbag. Its spending 24 hours making bone broth, but two minutes on my makeup.
I’m excited to share interests old and new, write about some of my most vulnerable thoughts on motherhood, and (if I’m lucky) build community.
Thank you for being here.
♡ Tay
