For all moms (and not only)

I used to be human. That's what I could title a novel if I were writing it, which is impossible anyway, considering my lack of time. For less than three months, I stopped being a woman, an employee, a wife, a daughter, and became a mother. As I've already learned, being a mother excludes being anything else. Firstly, from the moment you're pregnant, people start to associate you exclusively with your child—

"eat—it's good for the baby," "remember you're pregnant! You have to take care of yourself,"

or, more colloquially, "what a beautiful baby is in that belly!" Secondly, after your child's birth, you have so little time for yourself, and besides, you're constantly with them, that you lose the sense of being anything other than a mother. Suddenly, everything becomes subordinated to THEM. You have to be quiet because THEY'RE sleeping, you have to watch what you eat because you're feeding THEM, you should avoid contact

with sick people because you could infect yourself (which isn't important) and the CHILD (which is a disaster). Suddenly, life "before baby" becomes so distant and unreal that you stop believing it ever existed. Every aspect of your life changes... but one by one: Finances. No more carefree spending of 100 złoty on cream; now you allocate that sum for diapers, formula, clothes, and... thousands of other things your little one needs. Now, instead of your previously "essential" cream, you buy baby cosmetics, choosing between Johnson's and Bambino. Secondly: free time. We don't need to dwell on this for too long, because you don't have any, so you don't have to think about how to manage something you don't have. Thirdly: friends. Yes, but only those with children similar in age to yours. Let's save the serious topics for 20 years from now! Right now, discussions revolve around strategies for taming childhood anger, the globalization of childhood insomnia, and the range of children's crying. Another issue: work. Yes, but only at home—meaning feeding, changing diapers, cooking, cleaning... I don't need to go on and on? Professional work is something you once did, now babysitting is your 24-hour job. And finally: complaining. Those were the days! You could complain about your overload at work, your boss, your grumpy colleagues, your lack of money, your lazy husband, your weight, the passing of time. Now, having a "beautiful, healthy child" doesn't allow you to complain. With such a treasure, it would be inappropriate to complain. What's there to complain about when

a miracle baby is lying in bed?! Shouldn't we all just shut up about complaints and complaints in this situation? That's what any GOOD mother will tell you, and if you want to be considered one, you'd better keep quiet. Now shh—the little one's crying!

I rush to his room at lightning speed. Sure enough, he's screaming his head off. I switch to soothing strategies. First: check if he's hungry. He's gone. Then change him (diapers sometimes don't hold up). It doesn't help either. I switch to "plan B"—carrying and cuddling. Here's my first dilemma: carry him and rock him, as some suggest, or leave him alone in the room, as others suggest? I choose the former—it's a good thing my husband can't see (he's a proponent of the "loneliness theory"). Cuddling doesn't bring the desired result. I'm starting to feel helpless and simultaneously worried that he might be sick?! After singing a whole repertoire of lullabies, I decide to call Mom—maybe she can advise something?! The key questions are:

- is he bloated? Check his belly and give him some dill,

- is he too warm? If so, put a thinner jacket on him,

- is he cold?

"Then turn up the heater.

We also rule out hunger and thirst, eliminate noise (besides, what could be louder than that??). In a fit of despair, I focus on missing my father, who is at work, which my mother dismisses with a contemptuous "You thought of that too!" My mother offers to come help, but the baby is still crying. I have to finish because someone is ringing the doorbell. The postman's words are drowned out by the little one's scream.

"The kid's upset about something," the "informant" states.

And suddenly... silence, amplified by the recent noise, reaches me in all its beauty. I experience an almost mystical contact with the sound of a dripping faucet. My son falls silent as suddenly as he started crying and falls into a peaceful sleep. Infant behavior is inscrutable, one might say.

For a brief moment, I revel in the blissful peace. But it doesn't last long—it's time to get to work, to maximize the opportunity to do something without constantly being distracted from what I'm doing. Having a child, I discovered that there are tasks that simply CANNOT be completed when I'm

home alone with him. There are also tasks that take forever. What once seemed like a breeze, almost a pleasure, suddenly becomes impossible. Take my cooking yesterday, for example. If I'd known it would be like this, I would have called for pizza immediately, but I naively hoped I'd succeed this time. I'd already made the soup, so cooking was supposed to be limited to roasting the meat, peeling the potatoes, and making a salad. The drama unfolded right from the start when, not suspecting anything amiss, I started peeling vegetables. It was then that my offspring remembered she'd had enough of sleeping and should spend time with her mom. My son announced this with a shout.

"I'm coming, honey," I shouted in a falsely sweet voice (inwardly, I was disappointed that I wasn't allowed to finish my dinner).

I thought I'd take the little one in his stroller to the kitchen and we'd try to cook something together. Nothing could be further from the truth! Sure, he was happy to accompany me, but he wanted to be entertained ("Maybe if he were a girl, he'd have different personality traits?!" I thought). But now it was too late to dwell on it. It had happened—he's a boy, and no amount of dressing him in pink onesies or buying him girly toys would solve the problem. He'd always be just a guy.

Let's get back to cooking. Because my son was crying unbearably, I had to take him in my arms. Together we examined the only potato I'd managed to peel. I tried to put him back in the stroller, but with each attempt, he'd start crying again. What to do? I had so few options: either patiently endure his crying, or satisfy his emotional needs at the cost of sacrificing our own hunger. What to choose? Be an insensitive mother or a (seemingly) lazy wife? I decided to try to put the little one down and, despite his cries, continue cooking. Guess if I succeeded? I somehow finished peeling the potatoes amidst the crying. My husband's voice echoed in my ears: "You've spoiled this baby!" My firstborn was crying,

and I was spending my time peeling some disgusting tubers. I looked at the little one—I was moved by the depth of his sadness—his face was red from crying, his arms and legs were kicking. I decided to quickly abandon the pork in favor of my son. You have to know how to prioritize! I hugged him, and he immediately calmed down. I tried to prepare dinner with one hand—it didn't work. The baby started crying again. I looked at the clock and realized it was getting very late; I had to feed the little one. Feeding in our house is a long process; sometimes I even think my son would prefer a bottle of beer to a bottle of milk, because the sight of a mug of beer makes him strangely happy. For a moment, a dark vision of my alcoholic son occupied my attention. I shuddered. The feeding went on and on. I changed the little one, who immediately fell asleep. Finally, I had time to finish what I'd started. And it would have been okay if I hadn't remembered what I was supposed to do today. I hadn't done half of it, and it was already late afternoon. My husband would soon be home from work and would be surprised again that I was tired, considering I'd gotten so little done.

I just remembered what I was supposed to do today: organize my clothes, review what needs to be kept and what needs to be donated to the Polish Red Cross. I open my closet. I grab the first thing that comes to mind: my pre-pregnancy pants. I really liked them, and they're perfect for this time of year. Satisfied, I try them on. My contentment, peace of mind, and well-being instantly vanish. I can't even get them up my hips, let alone fasten them at the waist. I feel ugly and fat. Worst of all, I don't just feel this way, I am this way! This painful truth completely unsettles me—I'm shedding crocodile tears over my lost waist. How could this happen? I ask myself this rhetorical question, and all sorts of thoughts wander through my troubled mind. Where have my shapely hips and flat stomach gone? What are the largest miniskirt sizes, and is it even appropriate for me to wear something like that anymore? Maybe I should switch to something more "subdued," as my mother would say?! Or maybe start a diet? Should I sign up for aerobics? Start playing sports? My son's cry interrupts my thoughts. I glance at the clock—there's still so much to do today, and time is slipping away so quickly. The days are similar, I tear pages from my mental calendar, counting down to my child's first steps, words, and experiences. And he smiles at me so sweetly that I forget about the nighttime waking, the unfinished dinner

, and the tightness of his pants...