Surprise?

"All babies are born screaming, but mine literally never stopped."

by Sarah M. 

In April 2008, I had been engaged to Marc for five months. Fall was blocked on the calendar to ride our road bikes from our current home in Alaska to our home state of New Mexico. We poured into research: our bike route and the gear we’d need for the 4,000-mile journey, possible wedding venues, and most exciting of all, post-wedding travels. 

Marc put in his job resignation notice for the fall, and I prepared for (what I thought would be) my final field season as a wildlife biologist. We were in our late 20s. After a decade spent pursuing multiple bachelor’s and master’s degrees, we were finally free from the world of academia. Alaska was a jumping-off point to grander adventures together, as a couple, just us, for (what we thought would be) at least a few more years.

We knew we wanted kids someday, but “not right now.” It wasn’t “a good time.” We were hungry for adventure and making the most of our fleeting youth.

April in Alaska is brutal as the melting snow exposes six months’ worth of buried trash and dog poop. The conditions make doing anything outdoors wet, cold, and muddy. We flew to Florida for some Vitamin D and time with family and friends. We met up with Marc’s family on the tail end of the trip, and I remember feeling a bit “off.” I attributed it to the mass amount of alcohol I’d consumed and a possible roofie incident in Miami a few days prior. But that’s a different story. 

When we got back to Alaska, I had my annual gynecological exam. I was sitting in my ass-less gown, disclosing my most personal information to the nurse, when she got to the question, “When was your last period?”

I don’t know.

I honestly couldn’t remember. It wasn’t uncommon for me to miss a cycle or two. I was taking birth control but spending so much time in the wilderness that I would skip my placebo pills to avoid my period altogether. It wasn’t until the woman started asking me follow-up questions, like, “Have you felt nauseous…?”

Perhaps.

“…or noticed a change in your boobs?”

Definitely.

And finally…

“Is there a chance you are pregnant?” 

Psssst, no!

I mean, according to the little insert I got in my birth control box, I suppose there was a 0.1% chance. Actually, we were being double-cautious and pulling out as well, so that 0.1% chance was really more like 0.00001%.

Just to be sure, they ran a blood sample, and a few minutes later, the nurse returned with the results.

“You’re pregnant!”

She said it with such rosy enthusiasm. My doctor mirrored her excitement, popping her head out from around the corner of my sprawled-out knees with a beaming smile. I, however, did not share their collective gusto and instead laid there, mortified. This was not the news I wanted to hear.

I endured the rest of my exam, threw on my clothes, paid my copay, scheduled a follow-up exam, and rushed out of the office, holding back tears the entire time. It wasn’t until I closed my car door that I started bawling.

I cried, terrified I wouldn’t make a good mother. I cried, wondering if the baby would be born with a third eye or something due to my Miami shenanigans. I cried, thinking of how Marc would react. I cried, thinking of the possibility of not keeping this child. Adoption? Abortion? I cried, knowing that so many women wait years to hear the words “you’re pregnant,” and, here I was, upset.

Mostly, though, I cried for the life I had pictured and thought I’d never get. Marc, thankfully, handled the news better than I did. We met for lunch (sushi…that’s how naïve we were…), and I swear he looked… excited? When I asked why he didn’t seem upset about all the plans we were going to have to cancel and lifestyle changes we were going to have to make, he said, “We still get to do all those things, but now we get to do them with a little buddy!”

Over the next few weeks, inspired by Marc’s words, I slowly became more accepting of our situation and, dare I say, excited, too? However, there was no time to be excited. We gone and fucked up big time and had to reel back the plans we had already set in motion. Marc begged for his job back. I had to break the news to my boss that his crew leader was going to be the size of a beached whale come mid-field season. We had to get out of our tiny one-bedroom apartment and look for a house. And, oh, did I mention my parents wanted to make sure I was married before the baby was born, so we also had to plan a wedding? I was honestly thankful for all the distractions; it made the entire pregnancy fly by (finding out you’re pregnant when you are already three months along helped!).

However, with easy pregnancies come grueling infancies. All babies are born screaming, but mine literally never stopped. She wouldn’t nap. She wouldn’t take a pacifier or bottle. She wouldn’t sleep alone. She wouldn’t let anyone else hold her. She just wanted to be physically attached to me and moving 24/7. I read every book and blog post, tried every trick and technique, and kept finding myself up at 3 a.m. crying along with this baby. I cried because I was exhausted. I cried because my nipples felt like they had been rubbed off by sandpaper, but I still had to use them to feed her every three hours. I cried because Marc felt so helpless. I cried because I hadn’t been able to finish an entire conversation with an adult in months. I cried because this phase felt endless, and I wondered if I would ever develop a connection with this sad little creature. Mostly though I cried because I felt like a failure.

However, as months passed, things got incrementally better. My nipples healed. We found ways to keep her happy while getting me out of the house. She would let Marc hold and care for her. I found a solid group of other moms who didn’t mind three-hour road trips with a screaming baby in the back. And, best of all, she started to develop little pieces of her personality, allowing me to finally connect with her instead of just care for her. A little buddy.

Fast forward to today, October 12, 2022, and our (not-so-little-anymore) buddy is turning 14 next month. Since birth, we have done exactly what Marc predicted and fully integrated her into our lifestyle: Alaskan hut trips; desert river rafting trips; 17,000-mile-long road trips in our Volkswagen van; loud, rowdy concerts; mountain biking in the Italian Dolomites; and every adventure in between. They’re all better with her around, and I honestly couldn’t imagine it any other way.

Sure, Marc and I wonder from time to time what it would’ve been like to have a few more kid-free years together. But would we have had kids at all? Life gets busy. There are always excuses as to why the time isn’t right. The most amazing part of becoming a parent is that somehow we find a way. Since Charlee was born, Marc has played in several successful bands and toured the U.S. I completed another master’s degree. We’ve maintained and excelled in our careers, moved across the country, purchased and remodeled homes, dealt with the loss of friends and family, and survived personal trauma. The prenatal-me would’ve been terrified to go through all that with a kid, but mom-me knows we couldn’t have done any of it without her.

​Now that I am on the tail-end of raising a child, I cry for different reasons. I cry, knowing I only have a few more years with her under our roof. I cry, thinking about the toys and crusty socks that will no longer be lying around the house for me to pick up. I cry, thinking about how scary it will be knowing she is on her own. I cry, thinking about all we have been through together and how I am a better person for it. And I cry, thinking there was a time that I thought she wasn’t what I wanted. Just as motherhood was unexpected, it’s been unexpectedly beautiful.