I never expected motherhood to be so painful. Literally, it hurts.
Not even fracturing my rib during the third trimester of one of my pregnancies equates to the pain of mothering day after day, after day. It is a contact sport, parkour, and weightlifting, all wrapped up in a marathon.
It’s intense, relentless, and not at all what I envisioned.
For me, it started postpartum
Before I had children, I thought pregnancy and birth would be the toughest parts physically. In reality, the physical demands truly begin immediately after birth, when your body is already working hard to recover while functioning on little sleep.
There are the standard breastfeeding ailments of engorged breasts, cracked nipples, and sore neck and back from hunching over while a midwife squashes your breast into a burger patty in an attempt to help the baby latch correctly. And don’t forget about De Quervain’s tenosynovitis.
‘De Querva-what?,’ I asked the doctor when he diagnosed me. Also known as mother’s thumb, it’s an extremely painful injury caused and exacerbated by the repetitive hand and wrist movements of caring for a newborn: supporting their head, swaddling, feeding, lifting, or changing them. Try taking care of a baby without doing any of those activities.
Next came plantar fibroma, a similar painful feeling in the arch of my foot that made walking and standing excruciating. Add to this, my ligaments and joints were loose due to relaxin, the hormone that helps prepare the body for childbirth, and I had pins and needles in my hands from pregnancy-induced carpal tunnel.
The fact that I couldn’t exercise, walk, or barely stand wasn’t helped by my second-born only contact napping, which didn’t help my first-born, who always wanted to be picked up. And then there was the challenge of recovering from a C-section.
The day-to-day physical toll is intense
Now that I have a 4-year-old and a 2-year-old who are both above the 97th percentile in height and weight, the physical toll is still intense. Both want to be picked up, sometimes at the same time, and getting my youngest to do anything (get into the car seat, put shoes on, go to the potty, get dressed, get out of the cot, etc) requires the strength, stamina, and reflexes of a crocodile wrangler.
My daily ailments range from general aches and pains to any and all body parts being pinched, elbowed, sucked, scratched, slapped, licked, squashed, bitten, twisted, rolled over, walked on, or poked — either mistakenly or intentionally, and sometimes gleefully followed by a “Sorry, Mommy.”
I’ve had countless accidental headbutts to my head, cheekbones, forehead, and mouth, resulting in assorted bruises, split lips, and bone bruises, and a few fingers and toes bent backwards at unnatural angles. But that’s all child’s play, literally, compared to being hit on the bridge of my nose with the spine of a very heavy book. That one resulted in a swollen, cut, and bruised bridge of my nose, which took weeks to heal.
All of this I chalk up to the standard occupational hazards of being a mom, especially one to two rough and tumble boys with very little awareness of where their bodies are in space and how much they can hurt me.
My body is no longer mine
Sometimes I laugh when I remember being under the illusion (or perhaps delusion) that once I was no longer pregnant or breastfeeding, I would “get my body back.” I don’t mean it would look like it did pre-pregnancy, but that it would once again be mine. But those days are long gone. It’s not mine anymore, it’s the communal property of my children. It’s their vessel of comfort. They need the tactile closeness of squashing their face into mine, breathing into my mouth, lying on top of me, and walking on my shins. It’s their way of feeling love, safety, and connection, and it is a beautiful, if not overwhelming, feeling.
Despite the intensity, I love my children so fiercely that instead of shying away from the physicality, I try my best to meet them where they are.
I prioritize sleep as much as I can to help match their energy levels. I lift weights, not just for my bone and muscle health, but so I’m strong enough to roughhouse with them. I go to the chiropractor and physiotherapist so I can continue to lift them up and hold them close, their arms and legs wrapped around my body, their hearts beating against mine.
I know I’m not alone in how physical my kids are, or in how surprised I was by the physicality of motherhood. So the next time you cook dinner one-handed, holding a child while the other pulls your pants down in an attempt to climb up you like a tree, know you’re not alone. I’m likely doing the same thing.
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