On matrescence: becoming a mother

I did a lot of writing about my journey through pregnancy and mountain biking. Some I shared on instagram but all of it is here on my website. I promised (who?) a postpartum version of that but I think the detail and the stream of consciousness felt hard to replicate during that early postpartum period. It’s also been a challenge to parse what of my experience could be of use or be interesting to others, without conflating my experience with expertise on the subject.

This Mother’s Day is special because it’s my first as a mother. The idea of matrescence feels so special, so ancient, so important, and I thought I understood it - until I experienced it. I also feel like it kinda marks the end of my postpartum journey. I feel that way because I’m now able to speak to it, without feeling like I need to protect anything (my baby, my peace, my experience).

That’s one of the things I want to speak to. That primal, almost subconscious, sense that what I was doing could only be done by being lived and done without pathos. Time has changed. My internal compass has shifted, the magnetic forces controlling the needle are altered irrevocably.

And maybe it’s just sentiment imbuing my reflections with this much feeling, but I feel like the power and majesty of matrescence is wildly contrasted with postpartum. Early postpartum is messy and wild and bloody. Those early days felt unhinged: I lost count of the number of people who saw my genitals and breasts, navigating sleep deprivation, hormonal swings and roundabouts, the craziest post-nap confusion of my life, keeping multiple humans alive, updating all and sundry about me and the baby and the husband, living nap to nap, boobs out, leaking everywhere. I was obsessed suddenly with the digestion and bowel and bladder movements of another human. It’s a lot, and I haven’t even got to stitches and pelvic floor physio and diastasis recti and exercise and nursing and pumping and how that all looked and felt for me with a remodelled brain and body. And none of that feels majestic or graceful.

Then there’s the baby - a living, breathing, occasionally screaming, helpless enigma. Urates, a tongue tie, strawberry birthmark, osteopathy, developmental hip dysplasia, mixed feeding, swaddling, sleeping bags, cold?? Warm enough?? Not pooping, poo explosion. Spew, posset, vomit. Crying, snorting, grunting. Dummy? Bottle! Boob! Formula! Sterilising everything! Stays put, starts rolling over. Tiny sharp finger nails. Hair!! Falling out now. Growing back, finally. Teeth!! Solids. Milk. No more nursing, still expressing. One expressed bottle a day is enough, lifestyle (lol) is not affected so it’s fine. Holding her head up. Holding the spoon, feeding herself. Can sit up. Time to get in the Kids Ride Shotgun seat!! Daycare. Daycare lurgy!! All while tangled up with the pressure to enjoy every moment while just getting through til bed time. Adjusting to a new normal, trying to forget the old normal.

I think I was waiting for it all to feel static for long enough to make sense of and write about. Every time I tried to write anything about it, I’d write a paragraph and feel like it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t right, I needed more data points to make sense of, I wanted to make it more personal but I also didn’t want to - couldn’t - be bare in that way. I was wrestling with the part of me who wasn’t looking back at the woman I was before but didn’t know how to shed her skin and the part of me who knew: this is new, I am new.

There have been moments when I’ve been so humbled, so awed by the gigantic-ness of motherhood. Like, how is something that is so fundamental and normal so epic? And the moments where I’ve thought, ‘I fucking get it now’ have felt seismic. I thought I knew before, I thought I could empathise and understand. But I knew nothing, and now I can say it. I knew nothing.

Maybe that’s the part where matrescence is beautiful. It’s glimmers and small moments of feeling all-encompassing, all-powerful: creator and giver of life; fierce but soft. A safe place, warm and welcoming but newly unfuckwithable. The contrast and the tumult is unlike anything else in this life. After the initial roar of the ride starting, when a rhythm starts to take shape and time starts moving in a more normal direction. That’s when it feels serene. The every day moments: porridge at the breakfast bar, tickling toes, a crinkled nose, wrapped up and warm after a bath, tiny snores. That’s when I feel the magic of being a mother, of having become Mum.