I wonder how many women give birth and don’t immediately feel a tsunami of motherly love toward their babies. I wonder how many women might feel guilty about that. I hope not many. But probably a lot.
••••••••••
I was in shock all throughout my delivery of Hutch, and I didn’t get to hold him immediately because of some complications with his being overdue. I felt quite left out as I laid there on the table, legs sprawled, nurses kneading my uterus, the doctor stitching up my torn and bleeding nether regions, all the while craning my neck for any glimpse I could catch of my slimy squirmy baby. When they finally laid him on my chest I felt a huge sense of relief and an overwhelming wave of amazement, but no burning ball of flaming love like I had been led to believe I would or should feel.
Cue guilt.
As I watched Poor Kyle with our son over the course of the next few days I was both delighted and envious of his obvious love for Hutchy. How come I couldn’t act like that? The few times I tried to gush and coo the way Kyle did, I just felt like I was putting on an act…and for who? Eventually I decided it would be better to act the way that felt natural to me, even if it wasn’t the typical motherly way, because at least it was sincere. If Hutch couldn’t have a mother who loved him unconditionally I felt at least he should have a mother who was real.
And it’s not that I didn’t love him. Because I did. But I was also terrified of him. Here was a tiny little life that depended 100% on me (okay, and also a little on Poor Kyle) to keep him alive and thriving. It didn’t help that Hutch and I struggled with nursing from the get-go and that on his fourth day of life he’d lost too much of his birth weight and became dehydrated because my milk hadn’t come in. When I called the doctor’s office to explain what we thought was the problem I had to give Poor Kyle the phone because I broke down into hysterics when I said “I think something’s wrong with my baby.” It was the most responsibility I’d ever felt and it rattled my very core. Every day during that first week around 6 or 7 p.m., when the sun started to set, I felt overcome by a surge of such unbelievably intense panic that I broke down and wept—wept.
Nights were the scariest. They were so dark, so looming, so unpredictable. Would I get to sleep? (A little.) Would I wake up in a puddle of blood? (No, thank heavens.) Would my milk come in? (No, not really.) Would Hutch eat? (As much as he could.) Would I swaddle him correctly? (Eventually.) Would I wrap him too tightly and suffocate him? (Haven’t yet.) Would he sleep too long? (Sometimes.) Would he not sleep at all? (No, knock on wood.) Would I do absolutely everything right and still wake up to a dead baby anyway? (I can’t even entertain that notion.) The unknown was horrible and I crumbled under the weight of all those dark lonely hours facing me every evening. I remembered the carefree girl I’d been only days before and I missed her so very dearly.
I worried that what I felt was postpartum depression and that I’d probably never be the same. I worried that even though I knew I loved my son, that my type of love was somehow wrong—spurred by the fear of something bad happening to him and the knowledge that I might not be able to stop it from happening. I worried I might never love him the joyful way I wanted to love him.
I worried about Hutch and I worried about me worrying about Hutch and I worried about Poor Kyle worrying about me worrying about Hutch.
••••••••••
The first night I went without crying—a week or two after bringing Hutch home–was a great day for our family. I told Poor Kyle that I hoped it wasn’t just a fluke. After three or four days without a panic attack I began to feel like we were finally in the clear. I was still scared of Hutchy dying (I think I’ll always be scared of Hutchy dying), but the fear didn’t paralyse me like it had at first.
Even still, it took a few weeks after that before I finally experienced the blessing of looking at my son and feeling as though my heart might actually burst with love for him. It wasn’t after any great bonding session. It didn’t happen because of any specific thing he did or sound he made. I don’t even remember where I was when it happened. All I know is that one day I woke up and couldn’t wait to get him out of his bed. And that when I held him in my arms or propped him on my legs and studied his tiny, perfect little features, I felt I’d known him forever.
And then it was like I’d woken up from a long, fuzzy dream. Like I’d somehow missed his entire first 30 days of life. I can remember bits and pieces of those days—like how empty I felt when Poor Kyle gushed and I could not, or how petrified I felt sitting at the kitchen table trying to eat a piece of sweet Taber corn someone had brought us for dinner—but I couldn’t remember what it felt like to hold my newborn, or what Hutch had sounded like, or smelled like, or even really looked like those early days. I snapped out of a daze and lo, there was a month-old baby in my arms.
•••••••••
Today I mourn the loss of those early days. I’m sad that missed so much of his tiny little life. But more powerful than my sadness is my relief—my joy!—that I really am past it. That I’m here now, that I get to cherish and remember these days, and that I can say with total surety that I love my baby exactly the right way for me.
This is joy.
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