Letter 1 was originally published in This parenting business on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

And that is that motherhood can feel like the disintegration of the self, after which the original form is quite gone. Sarah Manguso calls it the grand shattering, and I think that’s just about perfect. You spend so many years creating who you are and then kids come along and burn it down…

I don’t mean for this letter to be scary. It’s ok, we are designed to survive these fires. We are just never the same afterwards. And that can be a difficult and beautiful thing.

Once your baby is born, everyone will give you advice. Advice on what temperature your baby’s bedroom should be, how to soothe them and whether their first food should be avocado or mashed pumpkin.

That’s the advice you’ll get too much of, Mum to Be. It’s the sort of advice that you’ll be given by old ladies at the Post Office or that you’ll Google in a panic at 2:26am. But all too rarely will people talk to you about you. About becoming a parent. About the shattering, the survival and the rebuilding.

I am writing from beyond the ashes (although I still have a fair bit of soot here and there), as the mum of a two-year-old.

I want to share with you the sort of advice that could be a companion to you as you become a parent. Not advice about the baby, but words you might reach for in the dark of the night. Words that might make you feel less alone. Words that might challenge you too.

The first thing I would say is that becoming a parent is not easy. Unlike almost anything else in your life, it is not something you can learn from a book or simply master. It’s a craft. It’s a relationship. The aim is not perfection or success. It’s a long game. One that will require you to let go of the need to be in control. Not that I’m suggesting this is easy! In my experience however, I have found three words to be very helpful: This shall pass.

Long-term, none of the small stuff really matters. The sleep they refused that one afternoon in mid-July? This shall pass. That your baby doesn’t like baths? This shall pass. Whilst every phase seems like it will never end; it does. Doing it “right” doesn’t matter. What I see in hindsight is that that it’s all as simple and difficult as forming a relationship with another person. A small person. Your small person.

So my advice is, go gently Mum to Be. Breathe a bit more. And know that this time passes quickly. I still remember holding my daughter moments after she was born when she started to cry. I remember genuinely being surprised: I didn’t think that my baby would cry. Well, they all do. And then, after the longest shortest two years, your baby, out of the blue, counts to nine in the bath.

In my first year as a mother, I felt really topsy-turvy. Even today I would say that, like struggling AFL side, I am in the rebuilding phase. I am still trying to see how I can be bold, adventurous and also be a present parent to my daughter. What kind of work can I do part-time and still make a difference? How and where should we raise our daughter? I am grappling with my priorities and the unshakeable responsibility of being a parent. I am still wondering: Who am I now?

I don’t have all the answers to these big questions; far from it. So far, though, I have come to two important realisations (at least for myself).

The first is that we do not want to be a nuclear family. I don’t think that children are meant to be raised by their parents alone, Mum to Be. This feature of modern life — the white picket fence, private lives within the family home, “doing it all” — just feels like isolation, pressure and madness to me. Yet our extended family lives interstate, so our task is to nurture a village of our own. Since our daughter was born, we have instituted our own version of Friday Night Meatballs, a weekly drop-in dinner for friends, which has sparked offers of babysitting and the idea of a food co-op.

I’ve started a weekly play date with our neighbours and their kids. And, inspired by Carolyn Creswell (the founder of Carman’s Muesli), we are drafting an ad for our local newspaper searching for a “local nanna”.

For me, Mum to Be, becoming a Mum has forced me to reject self-sufficiency and invite in help and community in a way I never would have imagined. Having a community gives me the space to be me, as well as a Mum. It gives me a forum in which to talk about the big stuff. It makes me feel bold, and held — all whilst holding a wriggling toddler.

The second realisation is that I am now seeing my life in seasons.

There is a season for working like a mad person and a season for slowing down and enjoying being around little people. I feel like I am in a season where I prioritise mothering, while also knowing that in the next season I can have more independence. Seeing life in seasons helps me feel less anxious, Mum to Be, and more able to accept the now.

I am grappling with some big unknowns, Mum to Be, asking a lot of questions, and trying out some new ways of being. There aren’t many times in life you get the chance to rebuild yourself from the ground up. The birth of our children presents this opportunity. It’s the chance to evaluate life to date and reassess what you need.

I hope that when your little one comes along, you’re never the same again. And not just that your house is messy, and your hair ain’t right and you don’t sleep in anymore. I hope that being a Mum lets you ask some of life’s big questions.

That’s my advice.

With love,

Another mum who’s two years in (and rebuilding)

Dear Mum to be was originally published in This parenting business on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

And that is that motherhood can feel like the disintegration of the self, after which the original form is quite gone. Sarah Manguso calls it the grand shattering, and I think that’s just about perfect. You spend so many years creating who you are and then kids come along and burn it down…

I don’t mean for this letter to be scary. It’s ok, we are designed to survive these fires. We are just never the same afterwards. And that can be a difficult and beautiful thing.

Once your baby is born, everyone will give you advice. Advice on what temperature your baby’s bedroom should be, how to soothe them and whether their first food should be avocado or mashed pumpkin.

That’s the advice you’ll get too much of, Mum to Be. It’s the sort of advice that you’ll be given by old ladies at the Post Office or that you’ll Google in a panic at 2:26am. But all too rarely will people talk to you about you. About becoming a parent. About the shattering, the survival and the rebuilding.

I am writing from beyond the ashes (although I still have a fair bit of soot here and there), as the mum of a two-year-old.

I want to share with you the sort of advice that could be a companion to you as you become a parent. Not advice about the baby, but words you might reach for in the dark of the night. Words that might make you feel less alone. Words that might challenge you too.

The first thing I would say is that becoming a parent is not easy. Unlike almost anything else in your life, it is not something you can learn from a book or simply master. It’s a craft. It’s a relationship. The aim is not perfection or success. It’s a long game. One that will require you to let go of the need to be in control. Not that I’m suggesting this is easy! In my experience however, I have found three words to be very helpful: This shall pass.

Long-term, none of the small stuff really matters. The sleep they refused that one afternoon in mid-July? This shall pass. That your baby doesn’t like baths? This shall pass. Whilst every phase seems like it will never end; it does. Doing it “right” doesn’t matter. What I see in hindsight is that that it’s all as simple and difficult as forming a relationship with another person. A small person. Your small person.

So my advice is, go gently Mum to Be. Breathe a bit more. And know that this time passes quickly. I still remember holding my daughter moments after she was born when she started to cry. I remember genuinely being surprised: I didn’t think that my baby would cry. Well, they all do. And then, after the longest shortest two years, your baby, out of the blue, counts to nine in the bath.

In my first year as a mother, I felt really topsy-turvy. Even today I would say that, like struggling AFL side, I am in the rebuilding phase. I am still trying to see how I can be bold, adventurous and also be a present parent to my daughter. What kind of work can I do part-time and still make a difference? How and where should we raise our daughter? I am grappling with my priorities and the unshakeable responsibility of being a parent. I am still wondering: Who am I now?

I don’t have all the answers to these big questions; far from it. So far, though, I have come to two important realisations (at least for myself).

The first is that we do not want to be a nuclear family. I don’t think that children are meant to be raised by their parents alone, Mum to Be. This feature of modern life — the white picket fence, private lives within the family home, “doing it all” — just feels like isolation, pressure and madness to me. Yet our extended family lives interstate, so our task is to nurture a village of our own. Since our daughter was born, we have instituted our own version of Friday Night Meatballs, a weekly drop-in dinner for friends, which has sparked offers of babysitting and the idea of a food co-op.

I’ve started a weekly play date with our neighbours and their kids. And, inspired by Carolyn Creswell (the founder of Carman’s Muesli), we are drafting an ad for our local newspaper searching for a “local nanna”.

For me, Mum to Be, becoming a Mum has forced me to reject self-sufficiency and invite in help and community in a way I never would have imagined. Having a community gives me the space to be me, as well as a Mum. It gives me a forum in which to talk about the big stuff. It makes me feel bold, and held — all whilst holding a wriggling toddler.

The second realisation is that I am now seeing my life in seasons.

There is a season for working like a mad person and a season for slowing down and enjoying being around little people. I feel like I am in a season where I prioritise mothering, while also knowing that in the next season I can have more independence. Seeing life in seasons helps me feel less anxious, Mum to Be, and more able to accept the now.

I am grappling with some big unknowns, Mum to Be, asking a lot of questions, and trying out some new ways of being. There aren’t many times in life you get the chance to rebuild yourself from the ground up. The birth of our children presents this opportunity. It’s the chance to evaluate life to date and reassess what you need.

I hope that when your little one comes along, you’re never the same again. And not just that your house is messy, and your hair ain’t right and you don’t sleep in anymore. I hope that being a Mum lets you ask some of life’s big questions.

That’s my advice.

With love,

Another mum who’s two years in (and rebuilding)

Hello…There’s something I’d really like to talk to you about. Something I wish someone had told me about motherhood. Something I’m still figuring out.

And that is that motherhood can feel like the disintegration of the self, after which the original form is quite gone. Sarah Manguso calls it the grand shattering, and I think that’s just about perfect. You spend so many years creating who you are and then kids come along and burn it down…

I don’t mean for this letter to be scary. It’s ok, we are designed to survive these fires. We are just never the same afterwards. And that can be a difficult and beautiful thing.

Once your baby is born, everyone will give you advice. Advice on what temperature your baby’s bedroom should be, how to soothe them and whether their first food should be avocado or mashed pumpkin.

That’s the advice you’ll get too much of, Mum to Be. It’s the sort of advice that you’ll be given by old ladies at the Post Office or that you’ll Google in a panic at 2:26am. But all too rarely will people talk to you about you. About becoming a parent. About the shattering, the survival and the rebuilding.

I am writing from beyond the ashes (although I still have a fair bit of soot here and there), as the mum of a two-year-old.

I want to share with you the sort of advice that could be a companion to you as you become a parent. Not advice about the baby, but words you might reach for in the dark of the night. Words that might make you feel less alone. Words that might challenge you too.

The first thing I would say is that becoming a parent is not easy. Unlike almost anything else in your life, it is not something you can learn from a book or simply master. It’s a craft. It’s a relationship. The aim is not perfection or success. It’s a long game. One that will require you to let go of the need to be in control. Not that I’m suggesting this is easy! In my experience however, I have found three words to be very helpful: This shall pass.

Long-term, none of the small stuff really matters. The sleep they refused that one afternoon in mid-July? This shall pass. That your baby doesn’t like baths? This shall pass. Whilst every phase seems like it will never end; it does. Doing it “right” doesn’t matter. What I see in hindsight is that that it’s all as simple and difficult as forming a relationship with another person. A small person. Your small person.

So my advice is, go gently Mum to Be. Breathe a bit more. And know that this time passes quickly. I still remember holding my daughter moments after she was born when she started to cry. I remember genuinely being surprised: I didn’t think that my baby would cry. Well, they all do. And then, after the longest shortest two years, your baby, out of the blue, counts to nine in the bath.

In my first year as a mother, I felt really topsy-turvy. Even today I would say that, like struggling AFL side, I am in the rebuilding phase. I am still trying to see how I can be bold, adventurous and also be a present parent to my daughter. What kind of work can I do part-time and still make a difference? How and where should we raise our daughter? I am grappling with my priorities and the unshakeable responsibility of being a parent. I am still wondering: Who am I now?

I don’t have all the answers to these big questions; far from it. So far, though, I have come to two important realisations (at least for myself).

The first is that we do not want to be a nuclear family. I don’t think that children are meant to be raised by their parents alone, Mum to Be. This feature of modern life — the white picket fence, private lives within the family home, “doing it all” — just feels like isolation, pressure and madness to me. Yet our extended family lives interstate, so our task is to nurture a village of our own. Since our daughter was born, we have instituted our own version of Friday Night Meatballs, a weekly drop-in dinner for friends, which has sparked offers of babysitting and the idea of a food co-op.

I’ve started a weekly play date with our neighbours and their kids. And, inspired by Carolyn Creswell (the founder of Carman’s Muesli), we are drafting an ad for our local newspaper searching for a “local nanna”.

For me, Mum to Be, becoming a Mum has forced me to reject self-sufficiency and invite in help and community in a way I never would have imagined. Having a community gives me the space to be me, as well as a Mum. It gives me a forum in which to talk about the big stuff. It makes me feel bold, and held — all whilst holding a wriggling toddler.

The second realisation is that I am now seeing my life in seasons.

There is a season for working like a mad person and a season for slowing down and enjoying being around little people. I feel like I am in a season where I prioritise mothering, while also knowing that in the next season I can have more independence. Seeing life in seasons helps me feel less anxious, Mum to Be, and more able to accept the now.

I am grappling with some big unknowns, Mum to Be, asking a lot of questions, and trying out some new ways of being. There aren’t many times in life you get the chance to rebuild yourself from the ground up. The birth of our children presents this opportunity. It’s the chance to evaluate life to date and reassess what you need.

I hope that when your little one comes along, you’re never the same again. And not just that your house is messy, and your hair ain’t right and you don’t sleep in anymore. I hope that being a Mum lets you ask some of life’s big questions.

That’s my advice.

With love,

Another mum who’s two years in (and rebuilding)

The letters project was originally published in This parenting business on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Hello…There’s something I’d really like to talk to you about. Something I wish someone had told me about motherhood. Something I’m still figuring out.

And that is that motherhood can feel like the disintegration of the self, after which the original form is quite gone. Sarah Manguso calls it the grand shattering, and I think that’s just about perfect. You spend so many years creating who you are and then kids come along and burn it down…

I don’t mean for this letter to be scary. It’s ok, we are designed to survive these fires. We are just never the same afterwards. And that can be a difficult and beautiful thing.

Once your baby is born, everyone will give you advice. Advice on what temperature your baby’s bedroom should be, how to soothe them and whether their first food should be avocado or mashed pumpkin.

That’s the advice you’ll get too much of, Mum to Be. It’s the sort of advice that you’ll be given by old ladies at the Post Office or that you’ll Google in a panic at 2:26am. But all too rarely will people talk to you about you. About becoming a parent. About the shattering, the survival and the rebuilding.

I am writing from beyond the ashes (although I still have a fair bit of soot here and there), as the mum of a two-year-old.

I want to share with you the sort of advice that could be a companion to you as you become a parent. Not advice about the baby, but words you might reach for in the dark of the night. Words that might make you feel less alone. Words that might challenge you too.

The first thing I would say is that becoming a parent is not easy. Unlike almost anything else in your life, it is not something you can learn from a book or simply master. It’s a craft. It’s a relationship. The aim is not perfection or success. It’s a long game. One that will require you to let go of the need to be in control. Not that I’m suggesting this is easy! In my experience however, I have found three words to be very helpful: This shall pass.

Long-term, none of the small stuff really matters. The sleep they refused that one afternoon in mid-July? This shall pass. That your baby doesn’t like baths? This shall pass. Whilst every phase seems like it will never end; it does. Doing it “right” doesn’t matter. What I see in hindsight is that that it’s all as simple and difficult as forming a relationship with another person. A small person. Your small person.

So my advice is, go gently Mum to Be. Breathe a bit more. And know that this time passes quickly. I still remember holding my daughter moments after she was born when she started to cry. I remember genuinely being surprised: I didn’t think that my baby would cry. Well, they all do. And then, after the longest shortest two years, your baby, out of the blue, counts to nine in the bath.

In my first year as a mother, I felt really topsy-turvy. Even today I would say that, like struggling AFL side, I am in the rebuilding phase. I am still trying to see how I can be bold, adventurous and also be a present parent to my daughter. What kind of work can I do part-time and still make a difference? How and where should we raise our daughter? I am grappling with my priorities and the unshakeable responsibility of being a parent. I am still wondering: Who am I now?

I don’t have all the answers to these big questions; far from it. So far, though, I have come to two important realisations (at least for myself).

The first is that we do not want to be a nuclear family. I don’t think that children are meant to be raised by their parents alone, Mum to Be. This feature of modern life — the white picket fence, private lives within the family home, “doing it all” — just feels like isolation, pressure and madness to me. Yet our extended family lives interstate, so our task is to nurture a village of our own. Since our daughter was born, we have instituted our own version of Friday Night Meatballs, a weekly drop-in dinner for friends, which has sparked offers of babysitting and the idea of a food co-op.

I’ve started a weekly play date with our neighbours and their kids. And, inspired by Carolyn Creswell (the founder of Carman’s Muesli), we are drafting an ad for our local newspaper searching for a “local nanna”.

For me, Mum to Be, becoming a Mum has forced me to reject self-sufficiency and invite in help and community in a way I never would have imagined. Having a community gives me the space to be me, as well as a Mum. It gives me a forum in which to talk about the big stuff. It makes me feel bold, and held — all whilst holding a wriggling toddler.

The second realisation is that I am now seeing my life in seasons.

There is a season for working like a mad person and a season for slowing down and enjoying being around little people. I feel like I am in a season where I prioritise mothering, while also knowing that in the next season I can have more independence. Seeing life in seasons helps me feel less anxious, Mum to Be, and more able to accept the now.

I am grappling with some big unknowns, Mum to Be, asking a lot of questions, and trying out some new ways of being. There aren’t many times in life you get the chance to rebuild yourself from the ground up. The birth of our children presents this opportunity. It’s the chance to evaluate life to date and reassess what you need.

I hope that when your little one comes along, you’re never the same again. And not just that your house is messy, and your hair ain’t right and you don’t sleep in anymore. I hope that being a Mum lets you ask some of life’s big questions.

That’s my advice.

With love,

Another mum who’s two years in (and rebuilding)

If you’re struggling with parenthood or pregnancy, the PANDA website has lots of resources.

Almost 2 years ago, I wrote a piece for the Dumbo Feather magazine, about the changes I had undergone since becoming a parent. I talked about the struggle to reconcile my old self with ‘Mum-Jess,’ but also how I was hungry for honest, deep conversations about finding yourself after becoming a parent. There are shelves of books on solids and sleep, but where were the discussions that focussed on the big questions: ‘Who am I now? What is a good life for a parent?’

Some writing by American journalist, Courtney Martin, was part of my initial piece for Dumbo Feather: “There is a part of my brain that my daughter now claims. As far as I can tell, it can never and will never be turned off again. It can be dulled for periods of time, my interest in people and things other than her foregrounded. But she’s always there. When she’s not there in the flesh, she’s an undeniable apparition, a force, a feeling. I make no sizeable decision without her in mind. I imagine no future where she isn’t central. I walk through the world with her wellbeing as my compass, as much or more than my own.”

It’s big stuff this parenting business. I want to create a space for different sorts of discussions about being a parent. I think this is the best way for me to keep exploring what this new role means, and I think and hope I’m not the only one who wants it too. Specifically, I’d like to share writing by parents about being a parent — and start a online space for these conversations to live and grow.

The format I am starting with is a bit like ‘Women of Letters.’ I will write a piece here on something parenting related- stuff like identity, ambition, love, gender, expectations versus reality, values, relationships, community. And then ask others to ‘write back’. Sharing their reflections; how it’s been for them. Long or short. And I’ll publish their writing here too.

My neighbour and I are sitting in my backyard, chatting while our kids play. She has two little boys. I have a toddler called Tillie. We are having a conversation in snatches while she jiggles her six-month old and we watch the older two dig and brrrrmmm plastic trucks in the sandpit.

Breastfeeding came up in our conversation. I told her how I initially had an easy time of it, yet when Tillie was about three months she started losing weight and her doctor got worried. Tillie had started arching her back and crying whenever I held her to me to feed. It was a really stressful time, made more so by the intense pressure I felt to continue breastfeeding despite dreading every feed. At the time, I felt deeply ashamed. I kept on trying to breastfeed despite the fact it was getting in the way of me being able to enjoy spending time with my baby daughter. Where did this pressure come from? From myself, certainly. But I also had a strong feeling that other parents would judge me should I start to bottle feed Tillie.

My neighbour listened carefully. She is Dutch, and has recently moved to Australia with her husband. She then told me that in the Netherlands, she was ridiculed for choosing to breastfeed her baby for nine months: “The usual is about three months max. People would ask me, ‘Why on earth are you still feeding him?’ They’d look at me as if I were crazy.”

Breastfeeding seems like only one of many things to feel ashamed of as a new parent. It often feels like you can’t win regardless of your parenting decisions.

There’s shame in sending your child to daycare and shame in staying at home. Shame in letting your child cry it out and deciding to co-sleep with them. And there’s judgement around what to feed a child, how to play with a child, how to best discipline a child, what pram to buy and what parenting books to read.

Yet aren’t we all just making it up as we go, this whole parenting thing?

And don’t we all — the bottle feeding parents, the daggy second hand stroller parents, the ones who feed their kids only organic apples — have Weetbix in our hair and sultanas mushed into the upholstery of our car? Aren’t we all trying to muster an interest in Peppa Pig and become accustomed to walking at snail’s pace with curious toddlers? Aren’t we all touched by the love and responsibility of having a child, and just trying our best to love and care for them and ourselves?

Many of us are not surrounded by the family and support networks that would have once helped us raise our children. We need the support and kindness of other parents, a smile of solidarity rather than a raised eyebrow or quiet mutter.

So much of parenting is luck, and trial and error. I sit in my backyard, chatting about parenting in the Netherlands with my neighbour. She giggles with her six-month-old, and I tickle Tillie’s toes. We are different, but in so many ways the same.

Written by Jess de Campo

Image by Eric Froehling

Originally published at www.dumbofeather.com.

Finding solidarity in parenthood was originally published in This parenting business on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I was raised to believe I could do anything I wanted. And to a large extent I did, trying my best to make a life that aligned with the things I care about: fairness, kindness, adventure, challenge, being useful.

I moved around for work that I was passionate about — teaching everywhere from the Northern Territory to San Francisco. I helped make a film with kids who’d been in state care and worked with Aboriginal families to redesign the support services they received.

For play, I went on a three-month expedition crossing glaciers in Patagonia, I backpacked through Asia on my own and trained for and ran a (very slow) marathon.

I lived my life as best I could with an eye for challenge, a belief in service and a good dollop of heart.

And then I got pregnant.

I imagined my life as a mother to be a continuation of the life I was already living — just with a small person in tow. I imagined camping adventures, starting a PhD or my own little social enterprise with flexible hours. I looked forward to connecting with other women, taking my baby hiking and finally getting stuck into reading the classics while she slept. Motherhood seemed to be a blank canvas — a challenge for sure, but one that I would colour in my own way.

Our daughter Tillie is now 11 months old and a delight of smiles and thwacks and loud farts and sloppy kisses. She has started to say “Da-da,” but does it almost aggressively: staccato, trying out her voice. “Da-da!” She loves to hold limes (one in each hand) — brussels sprouts are a close second. She eats sardines by the canful and couldn’t think of anything better than tearing a newspaper into small pieces, or undoing my shoelaces and giving me a gummy grin.

Since Tillie was born, I have been grappling with a couple of big questions about how to shape this role of “Mum” into one that feels right and aligns with my “old Jess” values.

I still feel an ache when I am away from Tillie for more than a few hours and often feel the need to apologise or downplay it. It seems needy or dependent. My father-in-law gently jibes: “How long does the umbilical chord stretch these days? Two hours? Three hours?” But the fact is I really don’t want to be away from Tillie for too long — I know I am privileged to make that choice.

Soon after Tillie’s birth, still feeling conflicted between this pull to be with her and my belief in independent working women, I set off down the “stay at home mum” path, which was the one most readily visible to me: coffees with other mums, Kindergym, sing-alongs at the library.

I found my mums’ group a real shock. Of course it’s potluck being thrown in with other people who happen to have had babies at the same time as you, but I left each catch-up feeling sad at the sense of oneupmanship — women raising eyebrows at others who made their baby custard with custard powder, women talking airily about their baby who sleeps through the night while other women look tired and desperate. These coffee dates felt competitive and insular. I yearned for honesty, women sharing how they were adjusting to their new role.

At times I felt both lonely and lost. I’d go to our local playground at the same time that school got out in the hope that there were other people to talk to. I felt guilty talking to friends about their work while I was in a bubble of carrot puree and beadily watching my daughter develop her pincer grip. I’d gone from a wide world to one of lattes and home in the space of a few weeks.

These experiences have led me to really question: what is my place in the world as “Mum Jess”? I want to be with my daughter and also be of use to society. What does it look like to make a contribution to the world with a small person in tow?

Here’s the Mum caveat: in the midst of these big questions there is joy, calm, a feeling of real accomplishment and meaning, laughter and love. There are picnics, politics discussions, a wonderful network of friends and family. There’s the joy of being around other children, of singing songs about frogs, of seeing Tillie’s wonder firsthand and sharing that with others. The real delight of being Tillie’s mum.

We live during a time where there are so many more choices available to us as women. We have this opportunity to shape our role as mothers. And what’s missing, I think, are real conversations about how to do it.

During my pregnancy, my boyfriend and I went along to birth class at the local hospital. The midwife who ran them called all the women “girls,” and kicked off the class with: “Okay: men in the room. I’d like to go around and for you each to introduce yourself and tell us about what it’s really like to live with a pregnant woman (wink, wink).” We didn’t go back for the second class.

What we did do, and what was a huge help, was create our own “birth classes.” We invited mums and dads we knew and loved to meet over a meal and share some of their wisdom about labour and the early time with their babies.

These were heartfelt conversations. We heard what sorts of images kept friends going in labour, what it felt like to bring a baby home, how couples managed to find snatches of time for each other and themselves, and how it felt to put yourself second or third or fifth while looking after a newborn.

It’s funny how much we prepare for the birth, but how little we prepare to be parents.

So I want to create a space for different sorts of discussions about being a parent. I think this is the best way for me to keep exploring what this new role means, and I think and hope I’m not the only one who wants it too. Specifically, I’d like to interview people who are parents about being a parent — and start a online space for these conversations to live and grow.

Some writing by American journalist, Courtney Martin, jumped out at me recently: “There is a part of my brain that my daughter now claims. As far as I can tell, it can never and will never be turned off again. It can be dulled for periods of time, my interest in people and things other than her foregrounded. But she’s always there. When she’s not there in the flesh, she’s an undeniable apparition, a force, a feeling. I make no sizeable decision without her in mind. I imagine no future where she isn’t central. I walk through the world with her wellbeing as my compass, as much or more than my own.”

It’s big stuff this parenting business. I’d love to talk to you about it. If you’d like to be interviewed, know someone who would or would just like to chat more, please get in touch: jessdecampo@gmail.com

Feature image: Baby Barn Swallows (Hirundo rustica) with Shadow of Mother. By Jim, the Photographer, Flickr.

Originally published at www.dumbofeather.com.

We need to talk about this parenting business was originally published in This parenting business on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.