First Time Mom: Am I Normal? The Questions You’re Too Afraid to Ask
2:17 a.m., and I’m sitting on my cold bathroom tile with a hole in the toe of my sock, a half-eaten jar of dill pickles next to me, and the baby monitor propped on the toilet tank. I just hit search on my phone: “First time mama am I normal.” I’d just gotten my 3-month-old Lila back to sleep after 45 minutes of nonstop crying that nothing would fix. I’d fed her, changed her, burped her, walked circles around the living room singing every off-key nursery rhyme I could remember, and she’d only conked out when I leaned against the crib rail and held her hand. I snuck her back into the crib and locked myself in the bathroom because I didn’t want my partner to hear me crying over being mad at a baby who can’t even talk.
I’d spent all that day putting on a good face. My sister brought over a lasagna, cooed over how calm and natural I was with Lila, and I didn’t tell her that an hour before she arrived, I’d left Lila in her bouncer for five minutes while I screamed into a clean towel on the laundry room floor. For months, I’d been repeating the same line to everyone who asked how I was doing: “We’re doing great! She’s such a good baby.” It was mostly a lie. The good parts are real, don’t get me wrong— the gummy smile when I wake her up, the way she grabs my finger and won’t let go, those are real. But the messy parts I hid, because I thought I was the only one who felt that way.
Two weeks before that 2 a.m. search, I sat in my pediatrician’s exam room twisting the hem of my spit-up stained sweatshirt while she checked Lila’s reflexes. I’d written all my weird, shameful thoughts on a note in my phone on the drive over, and I finally blurted them out before she could leave the room. “I don’t feel the instant overwhelming love everyone talks about. I get annoyed when she cries for no reason. I miss my old job and going out to dinner without packing a diaper bag two hours ahead. Am I broken? Am I normal?”
Dr. Rao leaned against the edge of the exam table, crossed her arms, and laughed softly, not at me, just at the question. “You have no idea how many first time moms ask me this every single week. Let me tell you what’s normal: it’s normal to take months to feel that deep bond everyone posts about. You just pushed a human out, you haven’t slept more than four hours in a row in weeks, you’re operating on fumes. It’s okay to not feel a magical rush right away. It’s normal to get annoyed, it’s normal to miss your old life, it’s normal to forget to shower for two days and feel guilty about it. The only abnormal thing is that no one talks about it.”
She didn’t give me that fluffy “you’re doing great” speech everyone else gave me. She gave me one simple rule: if you’re not hurting the baby, and you’re not hurting yourself, it’s okay. That stuck with me, and I started making small concrete changes that made everything feel less heavy.
First, I made a separate group chat with two other first time moms from my birthing class, called it Messy Mama Check-ins, and we have one non-negotiable rule: no cute photos, no brags, just the ugly stuff. If you need to vent, you vent. Last week I posted that I cried for 10 minutes because I couldn’t find my keys and Lila pooped through her outfit right as we were leaving the house. One girl replied that she let her baby watch 30 minutes of Bluey so she could eat a whole chocolate chip cookie alone without sharing. The other said she hates her baby’s favorite squeaky stuffed lamb with every fiber of her being. No one judges, because we all get it.
Second, I give myself 10 unapologetic minutes every single day, no guilt attached. If Lila is fed, changed, and safe in her crib or bouncer, I can step away for 10 minutes. I drink my coffee hot, I sit on the porch and do nothing, I scroll my phone, whatever I need. I used to think I had to be available 100% of the time, but I quickly learned that 10 minutes of me being calm is way better for Lila than an hour of me being stressed and resentful.
Third, I unfollowed 17 “perfect mom” accounts on Instagram that made me feel like I was falling short. I didn’t feel guilty about it. I kept the accounts that show the unmade beds and the spit-up stains and the moms crying on the kitchen floor, and that’s it.
Last weekend, we went to a family barbecue, and a younger cousin who doesn’t have kids yet pulled me aside and said, “You look like you were born to do this. I could never be that calm.” I almost said “thanks” like I always do, but I just laughed and told her I lock myself in the bathroom to eat cold pizza and cry at least once a week. I’m just winging it, same as everyone else. She stared at me for a second, then said she’s been so scared motherhood has to be perfect all the time, and she’s so glad I said that.
I still have days where I’m sitting on the bathroom tile at 2 a.m. asking if I’m normal. I still forget to pay bills, burn the toast, and snap at my partner over nothing. Most days it’s messy, and it’s not the story I thought I’d be living. But I don’t feel alone anymore. Asking if you’re normal is the most normal thing a first time mom can do. Right now, Lila’s napping on my chest, she has a puddle of spit-up on my favorite sweater, and the laundry’s been sitting on the couch folded (but not put away) for three days. It’s messy. It’s normal. It’s enough, most days.
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