by Tami Donath.

Again and again, this one question pops up in my head like an error message: "Is it still legitimate these days to bring children into this crisis-ridden world?" And: "Can I handle it, and do I even want this enormous responsibility?" Thoughts that overwhelm me in the shower. I cry and hold my burning-hot face under the water. I'm pregnant. Planned. Desired. What have I ever done? What's happening in my beautiful, perfect world? 

The fear of making mistakes

If postnatal depression can persist three years after giving birth, I probably had it. Or what do you think when you read the lines above? We "practiced" for nine months, and when I finally saw the second line on the stick, I wrote everything down. All the fears and doubts in my head down on paper. Was that why it took so long and didn't work immediately, like with our first child? Maybe it wasn't meant to be?

Today I know that my hormones had already somewhat controlled me at that point, and a mild bout of pregnancy depression was starting to set in, which I thankfully managed with the help of my gynecologist. Depressive traits I've always had, but I'm usually able to reflect on them well. Yet even today, I sometimes wonder if it's selfish to bring a child into this world. I don't know. I don't know anything. Not what next week will be like, nor what will happen in 10 years. That's one of the good things that COVID has given me: nothing can be planned, and that's why I don't have to drive myself crazy now.

But whether I'm talking to friends or scrolling through my Instagram feed: climate crisis, AfD, social divisions, and, of course, above all, this damn pandemic. The world is going to hell. I have no plan, no solution, and I'm having another child. That's just not possible. I wonder how women dealt with it back then and whether they even asked themselves the question: "Children, yes or no?"

Regretting Motherhood – Regretting being a mom and having kids?

With my first child, I got pregnant surprisingly quickly – not entirely planned, but not entirely prevented either. And there were and still are days when I regret my decision to have a child – even if I probably made it subconsciously. Not because of the child. I love my child, and I will love the second one just as much. But because of what once was. I like structure, and that's pretty rare with small children. And then I wanted to somehow prove to myself and others that a child wouldn't change my life, that I'm still the same old me – total bullshit. A child simply changes everything.

And then, newly pregnant with my second baby, I find an English Instagram account that almost promotes “Stop Breeding” and #childfreelife and lose myself in the comments.

"Just hearing children screaming in the supermarket makes me want to freak out. That's why I only go shopping in the evening."

“You know what I love most? The peace and quiet in my house.”

"I hate children. I've hated them since I was 12, and that will never change."

"Having children is selfish. Doesn't anyone think about what kind of world they'll have to live in when floods, forest fires, and tsunamis are already destroying the world here?"

I have a huge lump in my throat. I can relate to many of the comments. I've either felt the same way at one time, or sometimes I still have similar thoughts today, and the comments trigger a longing for my old self, my pre-child self. I also want a quiet house. A life without hassles and pick-up times. And honestly: when I became a mother for the first time in 2018, I believed what everyone said: "...at first, they sleep a lot, you'll love your baby more than anything, having children is the most wonderful thing..."

It's not the best thing. Those first months, the first year, took everything out of me. I never thought about what it meant to have a child. I wasn't aware of the responsibility or the issue of care work. I just saw the many mothers around me who somehow managed it all. So it couldn't be that difficult. And yet, during my daughter's first year, I regularly regretted becoming a mother. You're hardly allowed to say things like that because it's equated with "I don't want my child." But it's not that simple. I love my child. And yet I still miss myself. My pre-child self. Even today, all the time. And that's okay. Having children is crazy. I mean, how are you supposed to teach someone about life when you have no idea about it yourself? 

“They give you so much back”

She's three years old now, my beautiful, self-confident daughter. I love her so much. And now I know: everything will be okay. It really is all a phase! And as cheesy as it sounds: without shadows, there's no light. It's completely okay to think everything sucks sometimes. 

And when my daughter asks me why I gave birth to her into a broken world, I say, "I don't know. Maybe out of hope. Maybe out of faith that you can do great things in this world. Maybe because I simply wanted to know what it was like to have a child. Maybe because I wanted to experience this special kind of love." I'm sorry. I didn't do enough research. I didn't know so much. I just jumped in. But I'm not sorry either.

Because I never want it any other way. Not because of the children's laughter, which supposedly makes you forget all the effort. No, with children you get something else, something priceless, alongside warm feet in bed and heartbreaking declarations of love: the inevitable kick in the ass out of your comfort zone. It's not all about you anymore. About your hobbies, your figure, your dramas and your next Amazon order. It's about more now. Life takes on depth, real depth. I have found myself. Because with children comes responsibility and with it comes development, comes change. I look back over the last few years and am so grateful for all the changes - as hard as they were. Because with each year I find myself more. My pre-child self would turn green with envy.

What is having children actually about?

It's not about having or being. Not about money or status. Not about perfectly tidy children's rooms or Montessori toys. In the end, it's always about relationships. I wish my daughter had a sibling and imagine the two of them plotting secret plans and venting their frustrations on us parents. I know they'll never be alone once we're gone. That they'll feel our love and our values ​​and grow up to be confident and influential adults. Adults who recognize needs and help others, perhaps making this world a little better.

And of course, I also simply wish for Sundays where everyone drops by unannounced, throws their shoes into the hallway, and raids the jewelry cabinets. And we chat about everything under the sun while the grandchildren admire the dust balls on the floor.

Everything will be fine.