Before the curtain rises on this motherhood performance, you read, study, meditate, share and carefully learn the script. You choose birth underwater or in darkness, a gentle birth breathing the baby out like a holy rite. Then you hold him, draw him to your breast, and of course your baby never leaves you, is in skin-to-skin contact and assured of your love.
You will breastfeed two or three years, do the task properly, create a new radiant creature, a work of art and love and patience.
In all your ways you are consistent, tender, reasonable, liberal, you never say no, are never rejecting, offer all that is fair and sweet.
Then what are these ugly feelings like the slug on the lettuce, the slimy trail of ego, the dog-shit suddenly underneath? Why is your gut twisted, hot anger scalding, thick rage rising like scum on boiling jam, sobs choking like vomit? Why do you want to run away, escape from your child or to wring his neck?
You are grateful to have a partner, home, lilac flowering by the window. Everything's all set for the future. But this hate curdles kindness, snuffs all hope. The pastoral idyll, making babies who shine with trust and a high IQ, your lovely Eden with wing sprouting cherubs in a clean new world is shattered
And you have smashed it. Guilt wraps round like a tired old coat, the sky turns black. And women say, each one in their own prison, her own isolation and despair, "it must all be my fault. I should never have had a child.I don't deserve one...why can't I be happy like other women?"
Sheila Kitzinger
Just read this in her book. Some very interesting issues I thought.