The Joys and Challenges of Motherhood: Learning to Chill the F**k Out
I remember visiting my sister-in-law after she’d just had a baby. Her son was chill. She told me how much easier motherhood had been than she expected — he slept well, he ate well, and he was what you’d call a “good” baby. At the time, I was heavily pregnant myself, and I distinctly thought, My baby will not be chill. Because, well, I’m not chill.
Whether it was a premonition, a self-fulfilling prophecy, or just my intuition, my baby was indeed many things: curious, adorable, with my husband’s thick dark hair and sweet brown eyes. She was everything I had hoped for — but, unsurprisingly, not chill.
Instead, she was extremely colicky and didn’t stop crying for the first three months. I remember bouncing on a yoga ball, and if I stopped for even a second, the howls would start again. I convinced myself that my breast milk was the problem, so I cut out everything except quinoa and sweet potatoes. That helped me lose the baby weight but did nothing for my mental health.
Then came solids, which brought a whole new nightmare. It turned out she had severe food allergies. I had already confirmed a few allergies, so I always kept an EpiPen in her diaper bag. But, of course, the one day I left the diaper bag in the car was the day my husband decided to drive to the office. And, naturally, it was also the day I discovered a completely new allergy. My baby’s face started to swell after I gave her something I thought was safe. I panicked and called an ambulance, but due to COVID, they were slow to respond.
Thankfully, my husband made it home before things got worse. We used the EpiPen, and she was fine. I, however, was not. It was one of those “small T traumas,” stacked right on top of my 36-hour labour, the forceps delivery, and — oh right — the bit of placenta they missed, which chose to fall out randomly days later and had me convinced I was dying … but anyway!
With the constant threat of anaphylaxis and my own anxiety, it’s safe to say I’m not a chill mom. It didn’t help that my second child also came with life-threatening allergies. Because of course he did. So, do I carry multiple EpiPens at all times? Yes. Do I worry every time my kids leave the house that something terrible will happen? Yes.
But, I’ve learned to chill the f**k out. At least on the outside. In fact, nobody would know that I’m that parent. I let my kids climb the bars at the park without hovering. I make myself not hover — purposely. I let my kids go to birthday parties, even if there are foods around that could send them to the hospital. I’m careful but not crazy.
If you asked my mom friends, they’d likely say I’m not a helicopter parent. And that’s intentional. I made the decision to not over-control for two reasons: so my kids don’t grow up with anxiety thinking the worst will happen at any moment, and so I don’t drive myself crazy. It’s been a journey. Could I do better at chilling the f**k out? Sure. But overall, I think I’m doing OK.
That is, until I lost my s**t — not because of my own anxiety, but because of someone else’s.
It happened during my eldest’s gymnastics class. It’s a drop-off one, meaning parents get a blessed 45 minutes to leisurely stroll to the nearest coffee shop, doomscroll, or just stare at a wall. That was my routine until one day, my peaceful scroll was interrupted by a parent running full speed across the gym toward what I assumed was their child, for no apparent reason. Then, this parent hovered around their child, completely oblivious to the coaches and the other kids, disrupting the class.
“Is there a problem?” I found myself saying as the group moved closer to the bleachers where other parents were waiting, most glued to their phones. “Are you worried about their safety? Because the coaches know what they’re doing. They’ve got this.”
This parent seemed taken aback and muttered
