When I was home with my second baby, life felt like a whirlwind—a chaotic blend of exhaustion, unmet needs, and endless responsibilities.
In Norway, parental leave is designed in a way that many parents around the world would envy. The mother typically stays home with the baby for the first six or seven months, and then the father takes over for the remaining five or six months. Full salaries paid. This arrangement ensures that both parents share the workload and experience the challenges of full-time childcare within the first year. It’s a model that fosters empathy and understanding between partners, as fathers gain firsthand experience of what it means to care for a baby.
But my situation was different with both my babies. To qualify for paid leave, I needed to have been in full-time employment before my maternity leave. I wasn’t, which meant I wasn’t eligible for the same benefits. I received a lump sum payment after my daughter was born—a kind gesture from the system—but it didn’t change the fact that I had no choice but to stay home while my husband continued to work.
At two months postpartum with my first baby, I was offered a 12-hour-per-week job. I jumped at the opportunity, not because we desperately needed the money, but because I craved a few hours of adult interaction and time spent on something outside the baby bubble.
Technically, my husband should have taken parental leave to cover those hours, but he didn’t. Instead, I worked around naps, late evenings, and sheer willpower. It wasn’t fair, but I went along with it because he claimed he couldn’t take time away from work and I wanted to be understanding. This was three years ago. He was the main breadwinner, so I thought it was my responsibility to work around his job.
When our daughter started kindergarten, I was already pregnant with our second child. This pregnancy was much harder. I was older—that matters over 40—sicker, and chasing after a toddler. By the time our son arrived, the cracks in my marriage had deepened into fissures. We were constantly fighting, and the lack of emotional support from my husband became unbearable.
I discovered that Norway had recently passed a law allowing fathers to take two months of parental leave even if the mother wasn’t working. I begged him to take this time. He refused. His excuse? He couldn’t take that much time off work. By this time, I knew this wasn’t true. In Norway, it’s completely normal for fathers to take months of leave, and it doesn’t jeopardize their careers. But he wouldn’t budge, leaving me to handle everything—again.
By this point, I was completely drained. Physically, my son was a big baby, and breastfeeding was exhausting. Emotionally, I felt abandoned. I decided I needed to do something, anything, to feel like myself again. So, I bought some makeup supplies—a small indulgence—and told myself I’d put on makeup each morning. It wasn’t much, but it was a way to reclaim a sliver of my identity.
I also made a pact with myself to stop obsessing over my postpartum body. Instead of squeezing into clothes that no longer fit, I bought a few comfortable, larger items. These little acts of self-care felt like lifelines in the storm.
One morning, as I stood in front of the mirror applying makeup, my husband walked by and stopped. He looked at me with disbelief and said, “It’s unbelievable that you complain all the time about how little energy and time you have, and yet, you find the time to do stupid things like putting on makeup. And spending money on it while you’re not even making much money?”
I was torn. His words cut deeply—not just because of what he said, but because they confirmed something I’d been feeling for a long time: I was unseen, unappreciated, and undervalued. But it was more than that; it was manipulation, part of a calculated routine to chip away at my confidence, to make me question the validity of even the smallest acts of self-care. It wasn’t just a comment—it was a tactic, a subtle way to remind me of my place in a world where my needs were always secondary.
To me, that makeup wasn’t just makeup—it was a small attempt to feel human, to feel like me again. It was an act of resistance against the overwhelming tide of exhaustion and invisibility. But in his eyes, it was “stupid.”
I’ve come to realize that in a dynamic where one partner refuses to offer support, even small acts of self-care can feel like acts of defiance. And yet, they’re essential. Without them, I would have completely disappeared into the relentless demands of motherhood and the crushing weight of his criticism.
To any mother out there reading this: take care of yourself. Even if it feels selfish. Even if someone makes you feel guilty for it. Because self-care isn’t just about you—it’s about preserving the person your children need most. And you deserve it.
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