I gave birth to a second child a few months ago. I don’t think I will ever get over the fact that this is the way people come into the world. It’s a ridiculous endeavour, from start to finish.
My first pregnancy was almost comically miserable for the first 20 weeks, then glorious for 10 weeks, then scary and stressful for the remainder. And this time? More intense in every way, but with added toddler. Which is to say: no breaks, suck it up, keep on moving.
The soothing bedtime story I told myself whenever pregnancy insomnia let me sleep was: “At least you know what you’re doing this time.” It’s what I told myself as I made a spartan list of things people could buy for the baby, which I then mostly bought myself. It’s what I murmured under my breath as I counted and washed the previous baby’s hand-me-downs. When pregnancy-induced carpal tunnel syndrome showed up and the crib still hadn’t been assembled and the new pushchair hadn’t arrived, I comforted myself with deep breathing. Inhale – atleastyouknowwhatyou’redoing – and exhale – thistime.
And you know what? I did! The new baby bore an uncanny resemblance to the old baby, which seemed to unlock something. That loud hum of postpartum inexperience and anxiety from the first time around was quieted. I knew that babies don’t expire from crying while you eat, or have a quick shower, or run downstairs to answer the door. I knew that the postnatal stink would dissipate and that the night sweats would stop. I anticipated the steep learning curve, for me and the baby, of breastfeeding (God bless silver nursing cups).
But alongside this sublime, bone-deep knowledge has been the often panic-provoking realisation that I have forgotten everything I once swore would be indelible. My Google searches shamed me with how basic they were: what is the right temperature for a baby’s bath? How long can a breastfed baby safely go without doing a poo? Really? I no longer recall the order of teeth appearing, nor first solid foods. What were that baby’s first words? I simply couldn’t tell you.
All that information has dribbled out of my head over the years. It turns out your brain holds on only to the pertinent information and the most important version of your kid is the one in front of you. The one with teeth – not previous years’ sweet gummy model.
My mum has been helping out a lot these past few months and I’ve found myself thinking about the nature of memory. She remembers the most urgent task of all: she still has the knack for soothing a wailing baby. We talk a lot in the wee hours, often about my childhood. Her reminiscences are forcing me to remember, too.
In my mind, my youth was halcyon – long summer holidays of adventures with cousins, travel and movie marathons. But a little reflection offers a new perspective: I was so bored, so often! There were stretches of nothingness: waking, eating, napping, reading the same book for the seventh time, eating again and going to bed. For weeks.
I was 90s free range and my parents weren’t doing anything unique. But it brings up something I thought with my first and still think about. What kind of childhood do I want for my kids?
Boredom was ultimately a positive and formative force in my life – it allowed me to seek what I found truly interesting. I discovered that I liked writing, that I had no painting talent, that I could sing pretty high. I learned how to sit inside my head without wallowing. I think it has made me resilient. My middle-class kids are growing up in the age of scheduled enrichment: parents hoping to imbue tiny minds with sparkly bits of culture, the stuff they will reach for when they are trying to make the world better one day. Being idle feels akin to brain rot and severe parental deficiency.
Part of the reason I didn’t feel neglected as a child is that everybody was bored. What my parents and their working-class peers were doing out of necessity feels to me, now middle-class, like radical counterculture. And yet I think I will persist. Boredom is a gift. And maybe, like me, they will remember only the highlights when they’re grown. And if they don’t – hey, there’s always therapy.
Bim Adewunmi is a freelance journalist
