I am sorry this post is late. I had promised it by Friday… but motherhood and real life must have got in the way. And I have to be okay with that…
Becoming a mom for the first time was not the most natural thing for me. Well, okay so BECOMING a mom was natural, but the adjustment to motherhood was not.
Once I became pregnant I spent a lot of time reading and researching pregnancy and then parenting. I wanted to do it right, so I studied up.
While I was on bed rest (10 weeks!) I read all the books recommended by my educator friends from the Children’s Museum and many more. Okay, so I also watched many reruns of “90210” and “Friends” and scrapbooked like crazy (on a special bedside table my husband rented for me), but I put LOTS of effort into studying for parenthood.
Then, when my first-born arrived, nothing went the way I had anticipated.
I wanted a drug-free childbirth experience. Instead I stalled out at 7 cm and opted for my water to be broken and then a Pitocin drip. Then the big mama contractions kicked in and suddenly an epidural didn’t seem like such a bad idea. Then I pushed for two hours and finally pulled my son out of me and onto my chest.
(This was the one thing that went as planned. I had seen a mom on “The Baby Story” pull her baby out after the doctor guided the head and shoulders out. When I had asked my doctor if I could do it at one of my appointments, she said that she had never heard of the idea, but was game. When the time came, I was terrified, but she grabbed my hands and had me do it anyhow. I am so glad she did because that was the one part of the birth story that I really liked.)
But back to the story…
Once he was out I thought he was a bit bluer than he should be and barely whimpering. I pointed this out. He was quickly taken from me and a bunch of doctors whisked in and swept him off to the other side of the room. (Because he was born just at 37 weeks exactly, there was still a team of doctors and students ready in the event anything went awry.) Tension mounted, my doctor tried to reassure me and, fortunately, soon we heard a cry. Then a nurse came over and apologized for the bruise that would soon be on our son’s back.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “But I had to do it to get him to breathe.” Yikes. And this is at an excellent teaching hospital with world-class doctors. The gravity of what had happened quickly set in and we were thankful for her action.
I unsuccessfully attempted to nurse and then he was taken to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit because we both had fevers at the time of delivery.
We had been somewhat prepared for a NICU visit… 10 weeks of bedrest with one week of it spent at the hospital on lots of meds does that to you. But he had been born at 37 weeks and was nearly 9 pounds. We felt guilty going into the unit seeing all those teeny-tiny babies in there. We had the big bruiser at the end of the row.
My husband had to wheel me in for all our visits at the beginning. I had lost a lot of blood and was very weak from delivery. Holding our son with all the wires and sensors attached to him was extremely awkward. I remember being scared I might drop him at first, so I was glad to be confined to a wheelchair and could rest him on a pillow on my lap.
And then there was that breastfeeding thing. Every nursing made me feel like a total failure. The nurses needed to know how long he nursed and I couldn’t get a latch for any decent length of time. So the nurses would have colostrum on hand, I learned how to pump in the pumping lounge since the hospital was out of individual pumps.
Each time I visited our son, I felt like I was in the way of the NICU nurses and wasting their time with my massive baby who was really fine. But at the end of our visits, the tide turned a bit. For the last two nursing times I had the kindest, most helpful nurse who gave me tips on breastfeeding and treated me like a real person who just needed a little hand-holding and help. That nurse and I are still friends today and I am so thankful God put her there for me.
48-hours after birth he was released and sent to my room. I remember eating breakfast with his head resting on my thigh that first morning and finally beginning to feel a little maternal. But then a nurse came in and told me that I’d better watch out and not hold him all of the time. (!!?!!)
About 12 hours later I was also released so my husband and I loaded up and headed home to be a real family.
And then the reality of what had happened set in. Would I ever sleep again? Would I ever get to go to the bathroom right when I needed to ever again? And would my milk ever really come in comfortably?
I didn’t realize how selfish I was until I became a mom.
Other moms told me how they fell in love instantly and how wonderful motherhood was. All I could think of was that I was going to have to go through it again because I did not want to have an only child. I wasn’t looking forward to the experience but “knew” I would “have” to do it at some point. I also wondered when my body would feel normal-ish again.
Yes, I did love my son and think he was adorable. But it wasn’t the ooey-gooey butterflies and sunshine love I had heard so much about. It was a little stepped down from that.
I had very little experience with babies before then and, in hindsight, I am convinced I had a bit of post-partum depression. Of course I didn’t realize it at the time, though.
I had my first right after a highly publicized major tragedy involving post-partum depression. I never had any thoughts of harming my child or myself, so I didn’t think PPD was a possibility. I know more now.
But I muddled through it and did my best. The days seemed to take forever. (Although the weeks did fly by.) I lived in a loft downtown without any mommies nearby. The mommy friends that I did have rarely came to visit because they couldn’t figure out where to park to visit my building.
I missed the feeling of significance work had given me. I missed completing assignments well and getting accolades. I missed adult interaction, free time (before I didn’t realize how much I had) and the ability to quickly run in a store to buy a gallon of milk.
(And no, I never missed bed rest, by the way. I can’t tell you how many people would tell me to enjoy it at the time because I would miss it. Yes, I can almost always use some extra rest. But not the kind that comes with that kind of anxiety.)
Before I was married I was really involved with the church singles group. But once I became engaged I didn’t know where I fit in, so I had fallen away from the church. I still prayed but was floundering, both in my relationship with God and in my ability to feel comfortable as a mom.
Fortunately one of my single friends was also now married and also a mom and she hadn’t forgotten me. She invited me to the church’s moms group and dropped the book they were studying in the mail to me.
I mustered up the courage to go and check out the group. After my first meeting my husband asked how much he could pay the group for all they had done to improve my spirit.
My focus changed and I got better and better at the mom gig.
And, 15 months later, I was overjoyed when I learned I was pregnant again.
Delivery #2 was much better (After wards, while the baby was being cleaned up and I was walking freely in the room, I remember turning to my husband and asking if I had just had a baby. We both laughed and I said I could certainly do it like THAT again.)
So, when our second was about 2 ½ years old, I was again overjoyed to announce I was pregnant. And by baby #3, I did get that drug-free delivery and ooey-gooey, mushy mom feeling right from the start. Guess I had to grow into it.
I’m glad I didn’t give up. I’m glad I had a sister in Christ to reach out to me and invite me back to church. And I’m glad God gave me a wonderful, caring husband to share in this responsibility and adventure. My husband is an amazing man. And together we are rearing some amazing kids. How fortunate I am for all of these things!
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