The Reality of the Honeymoon Phase

I like to call the newborn stage the survival phase.

Your body has just been ripped open, and you’ve been attempting to mentally prepare for months—but nothing could possibly prepare you for the changes that live within the distinct line between pregnancy and motherhood.

One minute, your main priority is worrying only about yourself, focusing on what you may want or need—then suddenly, you’re responsible for a live human, that you’ve pushed out of your own body, who eats and poops on a shockingly frequent schedule that never quite feels routine, regardless of how much time has passed.

Looking back, I couldn’t even tell you if I loved or hated the newborn survival phase. I can only reflect back on that time hazily, as if peering at a past version of myself through a foggy lens from afar. I remember feeling overcome with emotion—so proud of myself for what I’d done, loving my new baby fiercely, while simultaneously acknowledging that I had no idea what I was doing—all while being exhausted. So. Fucking. Exhausted.

But one thing I felt passionately about from the start, something I sensed with every fiber of my being, from the moment I brought my son home—I always knew that I was not looking forward to the toddler stage.

I pictured my future like a horror movie: my child screeching at the peak of a meltdown after I gave him the blue truck when he actually wanted the red truck; trips to visit family soured by a six hour flight spent rotating through the same five toys; and the dreaded hell that is potty training.

No, thanks!

Truth be told—this is, in fact, the reality I’m faced with today. Yes, he’s certainly getting opinionated: Where we used to read one book, he now wants five, and he lets out a panic-shriek if I so much as dare make him walk up the stairs for his bath alone, leaving his beloved trucks behind. But amid all the solid poopy diapers and ear-piercing screams about buses and balls, I still wonder—why didn’t anyone tell me that toddlerhood is actually the honeymoon phase?!

Picture this, on a random Thursday: your childfree friends shoot you a text in the morning, inviting you to a 7:30 pm sushi reservation that same evening. You think, perfect!

You feed your one-year-old his dinner, start bathtime at 6:45, and he’s down for the night by 7:20—leaving just enough time to make it to sushi. You hand your mother-in-law the monitor on your way out the door, while the dog curls up happily at her feet.

You’re fully at ease, and best of all, you’re fully present at dinner— knowing your son is safe, in good hands, and needs nothing of you in this moment. You even enjoy two glasses of wine, completely guilt-free, because one: the baby is asleep! And two, he’s unlikely to wake before 7 am, which is when your internal clock wakes you up anyways.

I know this assumes you have reliable last-minute childcare, which naturally, most of us don’t have—me included. This example is a one-off while we’re spending a few weeks with family this summer. But it doesn’t change the sentiment around how I feel these days: that a toddler is so much easier than a baby.

When I reflect on this summer vs. last summer, there are endless things I can do now that I couldn’t a year ago. This time last year, my baby was just emerging from the newborn stage—he wouldn’t nap anywhere besides in my arms, and I was still trying to train my body to make it through a four-hour stretch at night without a milk letdown jolting me awake. I was on maternity leave, a chunk of time that ended up feeling more isolating than I’d expected, and the hatred my baby felt for his stroller kept me prisoner in the house during the thick of the hot summer days.

Seventeen months in, I finally feel like myself again. I’m semi-confident in a (one-piece) bathing suit. My little boy loves walking next to me, clutching my hand, blowing people kisses wherever we go. I love him so much my heart feels like it’s going to explode.

On Saturdays, we spend hours at the pool, where he loves dunking under, climbing out, and jumping back in, over and over and over again. We practice our floaties! and our kick kick kicks!—which he only understands if I say, do your stomp stomp stomps!— because that is what we are doing constantly in our house.

Then, he takes a two-hour nap in his own crib, in his own room, and I have time to fold laundry, squeeze in a quick workout, and read thirty pages of my book. Once he’s up, we go to dinner, where he actually sits in a highchair, attempting to draw on his etch-a-sketch. When we finally order bison empanadas instead of mac and cheese, he actually eats them—and my husband and I exchange a look of pure amazement, silently bonding over our pride for our son.

I’m sure a huge part of it is the fact that he sleeps through the night. And he can kinda, sorta communicate what he needs from me. But mostly, it’s the fact that I no longer feel like something is chasing me every single second, and I can actually breathe again.

I know there are women out there who feel trapped in the chokehold of the newborn phase. Or who haven’t yet had a baby and are terrified of what it will do to their body, their freedom, their lives.

But reality is—I love motherhood, and I especially love the toddler phase.

I love the way my son unlatches mid-feed, gazing up at me with pure adoration, milk pouring from the corner of his mouth.

I love the way he smells when I kiss the top of his head, like a sweet mixture of blueberries and syrup.

I love the way he’s developing into a little human, his face leaning out, while his thigh rolls are still hanging on for dear life.

I love the way he replies, “Yeah!” no matter what I ask him.

And I love the way his personality emerges more with each day, and I get to watch him grow up right in front of my eyes.

And dare I say it? I think it might only get even better from here.