When I got pregnant with my first son, I couldn?t wait to become a mother. I thought I would be great at it?years spent working as a babysitter and in summer daycare jobs led me to believe that I was a natural with kids. If I loved taking care of other people?s kids so much, it seemed obvious that I would love taking care of my own.
Nine months later, I found myself home with a newborn baby?completely lost, overwhelmed and exhausted (and not in the typical ?I?m a new mom and I haven?t slept in three weeks? kind of way).
I loved my son, but I was constantly desperate for time alone. Unlike my child care jobs, there was no clocking out at the end of the day?this gig was 24/7. I felt suffocated by my responsibilities. I hated being on demand, on call and on tap (hello, breastfeeding) every hour of every day. I craved physical and mental space away from him. The first time I had an opportunity to leave him at home with a babysitter, I got in the car and drove around for an hour: windows rolled down, radio blasting, no destination in mind. It was a kind of freedom I hadn?t experienced in weeks?my mind and body were mine again, at least for a little while. I started to believe I was somehow defective, that maybe I just wasn?t cut out for motherhood, until I took a Myers-Briggs personality test (for once, taking Facebook quizzes during a late-night nursing session turned out to be beneficial). When I was done, the diagnosis was clear: I wasn?t defective, I was just an introvert?an...