To be honest, the first couple weeks of this parent thing, in the midst of healing physically, processing the ins and outs of my birth experience and the two new lives that were 100% dependent on me, and feeling panicked and anxious as I navigated breast feeding two infants, I was certainly not the best version of myself. I remember laying in bed waiting for a baby to cry, too anxious to sleep. I remained in this half awake, half asleep state, too exhausted to function fully but too anxious to do anything about it. I remember hearing myself mumbling to my husband about how hard it was as he brought me a baby to feed for the 5th time and making unintelligible sighs and grunts out of pure exhaustion and frustration and not recognizing who I’d become. I remember feeling taken aback when he asked me a very serious “are you okay?” the next morning, and then getting livid when he followed it with a “are you happy?” Of course I was happy! I’d just had two babies. And the insinuation that I was not absolutely elated and handling all the newness of motherhood perfectly made me absolutely furious. But then, after a snappy response and a few tears, I realized in that exact moment I WAS happy, yes, but I was also so tired and scared and anxious and sad and numb. And it was not a silly question to ask.
Being a new parent, let alone a new parent to two newborns, is not for the faint of heart. After the most physically traumatic thing I’ve ever experienced, I was supposed to keep two new babies alive. That meant barely being able to sit up out of soreness, but tandem breastfeeding, anyway. That meant wearing a diaper while I changed theirs. It meant shushing and rocking and desperately trying to get a baby to sleep when I’ve only had about 45 minutes of it in the past 48 hours. And with two, it meant my husband could never offer me a break and take the baby off my hands so I could care for myself because his hands were already full with the other. He was doing even more of the bouncing and shushing on his 45 minutes of sleep, trying to take as much as physically possible off of my plate. He was getting up, passing a baby to me in bed so I could at least get physical rest, even if I wasn’t sleeping. He was cooking and cleaning and paying bills. And we were keeping our head above water.
We thankfully had family and friends on and off at the very beginning helping, and we’ll forever be thankful. But, man, even though I KNEW parenting would be difficult, I didn’t KNOW. And I think it’s like that for everyone. You might know, but until you’ve experienced it, you don’t understand the extent.
Now, as I’m laying in bed with my 9 month old babies who I’ve come to love more than I ever thought possible, the tables have turned a bit. I finally found my footing, got a bit of rest and have physically healed from birth. I’m exhausted, which I’ve come to learn is just the new normal as a parent of young kids, but I’m okay. Although some days I reach my capacity a little earlier than I expect while working and cleaning and cooking and caring for our babies, I mostly am able to manage. And now, my husband has found a bit of burnout. The first few months of life with the babies it’s like Jesus gave this guy supernatural energy. He was going so hard and doing so much for all of us. And now? He’s tired, he’s sick, he’s mentally burnout and he needs a break. And although I take the brunt of the day to day with care for the babies, with two, it’s never like he’s ever fully off. As a parent, you’re never fully off. It’s impossible. And his experience has given light to something that I want to scream at every Christian man I know. Where were you?
Parenthood is hard. Life transitions are hard. Grief and loss is hard. I’ve been affected by it all. But, I’ve had my friends and my family, mainly women in my life, reach out and check in and show up for me. My husband was there for me during those early days because he’s wonderful, but I also had friends and sisters, my mom and his, and even past and present coworkers reaching out to me, praying for me, asking me how I was doing and if they could help. My sister stayed with us a couple months. My friends travelled and held babies and bought dinner. Another friend came and stayed two weeks. I had people showing up for me and it truly changed my ability to cope and to manage and to now be mostly alright navigating working full-time while carrying for these babies.
But where is his support? His family has helped us, of course. But where were his texts from fellow fathers checking on him and his mental health? Where were his males friends offering to take him out for dinner or to come over and offer some community and adult interaction? It’s not just that I happen to have a greater number of girlfriends than he does guy friends, which I know is pretty typical anyway, because it wasn’t just my close friends that were reaching out to me and offering support. It was moms on social media or who knew me from work or church. It was women who knew Jesus and knew parenthood and all the difficulties that came with it and saw outside of themselves and wanted to make sure I was surrounded with love and support.
Men, where were you? Where are you? This experience has really highlighted to me the great disservice this society (and dare I say, patriarchy 🥴) has done for men in general, but especially in light of men and their mental health and men new to parenthood. Check on each other! Lift one another up! Especially as Christians, die to yourself and your messed up view of masculinity or your anxiety or selfishness or whatever is holding you back and ask your friend or even a random dude you met once at church who you see is a new father if he’s doing okay. Offer advice or support or at least solidarity. Maybe fatherhood was easy for you because your wife and her people did it all and all you had to do was make a paycheck and call it a day, but some dads aren’t okay with living like that. They are on the throes of no sleep and fussy babies with their wives and they need a hug or a pat on the back or firm handshake or whatever it is you men do, and they need to know they aren’t in it alone.
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