When I was pregnant, my bulbous belly invited a flurry of welcome and unsolicited advice. Friends preached, "sleep when the baby sleeps" and "breast is best," but what came up most often was "ask for help as much as possible." The recommendation made sense, considering the old "it takes a village to raise a child" adage, but implementing it myself proved to be much more challenging.
Once my baby arrived, I falsely assumed I'd be overwhelmed with child care offers. But with a family who lived out of state and in-laws who worked full-time, my "village" was relatively small. And the truth was I wasn't interested in requesting a lifeline just yet. While at first, I received support to recover from my cesarean section, as soon as I healed I became hell-bent on doing it alone — mostly to prove I could.
I treated motherhood like a corporate job, researching voraciously and scheduling aggressively. With a parenting book in hand and a baby on my breast, I thought of nothing else. But after two months at home, nose-deep in mommy forums and permanently rocking a loose interpretation of an "athleisure" look, the martyr act grew tired. What started as dedication eventually grew into an obsession, and I could see myself drifting further away from the person I used to be. After one particularly sobering moment of lashing out at my husband for mishandling jammies, I knew it was time for me to think about something beyond my son’s day-to-day operations. I wanted to go back to work, but only if I could maintain my supermom status.
Luckily, as a freelance writer and brand consultant, my flexible schedule would allow me to "do it all" with an infant at my side. I enthusiastically reached out to my contacts and organized calls around nap times. Fortunately, my first call went just how I envisioned it. The baby slept as I fired off ideas. The second conversation, however, resembled a scene from a noteworthy Hollywood thriller, when my son woke up as soon as I announced myself on the line. Hungry, overtired, and out for blood, he clearly articulated who was in charge. Still, I latched, burped, and juggled a screaming human while attempting to follow my client's agenda. But after 10 minutes of failing both my son and client, I realized that the multitasking mom I idolized was just a myth. It was a fairytale perpetuated by celebrities who share videos of their children and high-profile projects, but never the people behind the curtain who make it all possible. And my reality was that if I wanted to work, I needed a bit of that four-letter word I dreaded so much — help.
And work wasn't the only reason I needed assistance. I might have convinced myself I was acing motherhood, but caring for a newborn 24 hours a day was overwhelmingly stressful. It produced a physical tension in my shoulders even the most skilled masseuse couldn't work out. And I knew this strain was far worse for my child than letting another person cuddle him for a few hours.
Still, mom guilt is a real thing, and it manifests itself in unpredictable ways. For me, it arrived the very second I heard my son’s first cry at the hospital. I desperately wanted to comfort him, while simultaneously hoping for a nurse to pull him off my chest so I could rest. And the shame that followed was just a hint of the dichotomy of motherhood, forever straddling the line between putting my baby first and tending to my own needs. Here it was again, telling me that hiring a helping hand symbolized my inadequacies as a mother. It asked, "If I was up to the task of parenting, why would I need a pinch hitter?"
Yet, at the encouragement of my mom and husband, I battled my urges and placed an online ad for a part-time nanny. Within days I found a friendly, vibrant candidate whose easygoing personality seemed like the perfect complement to my neuroses. A trained attorney, restaurant server, and entrepreneur, she applied for the job simply because she treasured babies, and I wanted to capitalize on that love. I hired her immediately, recognizing it was the right choice for my family. Still, I feared that by getting help, I would somehow abandon my son.
The first few weeks of my nanny's tenure were challenging for me. I micromanaged her every move while she became acquainted with my boy's patterns. I pretended to give her space while I listened for cries that seemed to linger too long. And if I detected a brief departure from my methods, I intervened. When I was finally ready to leave my baby alone with her, I prepared myself to rush home in case he needed me, but the call never came. Instead, she texted me a video of my son making a sound I never heard before — his first laugh. And in an instant, my anxiety disappeared. After days of trying to coax out a giggle, our new nanny had my boy in stitches right away, and I knew his life was already better with her in it. It became clear that the only abandonment in this dynamic was that of my ego, demanding that nobody else could help raise my child.
Since hiring a nanny, my life has also improved. She supports my parenting decisions with empathy, kindness, and pragmatism. From setting up an efficient Pampers Pure station for easy diaper changes to strategizing his sleep challenges, we tackle my baby's tasks as a team. And when I worry that we're veering off course, she reminds me that nobody else could mother him as I can. While I admit I envy their relationship at times, fearing one day he will prefer her to me, I couldn't dream of depriving my babe of his nanny's unique brand of attention that he has grown to expect and adore.
And by opening my village to one person, I am now able to expand it to others, letting loved ones soak up my son’s deliciousness. Now, I can enjoy a hot bath, yoga class, podcast, or business meeting guilt-free while someone I trust feeds him a bottle or changes his Pampers. After each outing, I return as a lighter, happier, and more present parent to a little boy who needs the very best version of me. Still, the negative self-talk hasn't gone away. It shows up whenever I receive side-eye for mentioning my nanny in conversation, and I feel the need to explain my choice. But for me, "doing it alone" meant doing nothing else at all, and I have much more to offer the world (and my son) than my talents as a secluded supermom.
This post is sponsored by Pampers.
