Did you ever dream of being the ultimate eco-conscious parent? I certainly did, but fate had different intentions.
As a yoga instructor and a vegetarian, I prided myself on my commitment to health and wellness (when I wasn’t indulging in ice cream or enjoying a glass of wine). I maintained a solid connection with my therapist and made a point to recycle.
So when I decided to have my first child, I had a meticulously crafted plan. I enrolled in Bradley Method classes, consumed two eggs daily, and loaded up on Greek yogurt (while trying to keep my digestion on track). I practiced Kegels, squats, and pelvic floor routines, and even prepared my perineum with olive oil for a month before the big day. I envisioned a NATURAL delivery, a blissful breastfeeding journey, and a cozy life filled with my cloth-diapered, co-sleeping baby nestled in a sling.
Then, the chaos began.
My labor kicked off at 2:00 AM, with contractions clocking in at 45-50 seconds and occurring every five minutes. I took a shower, strolled around the neighborhood to encourage progress, and munched on honey straws and granola bars. But after 12 grueling hours, my body showed no signs of change. Ultimately, I made my way to the hospital, where I found myself rolling (more like writhing) on a birthing ball. I attempted a shower, only to discover there was no hot water (clearly, the universe was having a laugh at my expense). I practiced breathing, visualized my calm place, and let my husband try to massage the tension from my body, even as I fought the urge to leap off the hospital roof. Yet, after another six hours, I had only dilated two more centimeters.
When my doctor informed me that I could be in labor for many more hours, I surrendered. I pleaded for an epidural, convincing my devoted husband that I could endure no longer. Hours later, as I struggled through the pushing phase, my baby’s heartbeat began to stall, and I found myself prepped for a c-section.
Surprisingly, I took this blow to my ego rather well (perhaps it was the meds—who knew they could be so effective?). Once in recovery, my son latched on immediately, leading me to believe I was on the path to a wonderful breastfeeding experience. But soon after, his hunger escalated. In the weeks that followed, my milk supply barely budged despite my efforts—eating oatmeal, drinking milk-boosting teas, and even calling a lactation consultant while sobbing in desperation. I pumped for 40 minutes after each nursing session (which already lasted 45 minutes), leaving me only a mere 15-20 minutes to breathe before starting again. My son began losing weight rapidly, forcing me to supplement out of sheer desperation. This spiral led me into postpartum depression, and I found myself contemplating suicide. I started taking Prozac—something I had vowed against after years of therapy and holistic learning. That’s where my breastfeeding journey with my son came to a halt.
My son’s constant caveman-like grunting made it impossible to share a room with him, even with earplugs. I had packed cloth diapers for our hospital stay, ready to embark on this eco-friendly journey, but after sleepless nights filled with changing pee-soaked swaddlers and crib sheets, I abandoned that plan too. All the hopes I had built were shattered. I felt like a total failure.
I grieved deeply and cried more than I thought possible, embarrassed around my family. My husband was bewildered by my transformation and my apparent detachment from our little miracle.
Yet, my son was thriving, and to my shock, he wasn’t the malnourished colicky child I had envisioned. Instead, he was a healthy, happy baby, exceeding milestones and bringing joy to our lives. In time, I learned that his well-being was what truly mattered, and it took me far too long to accept that.
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In summary, my journey into motherhood did not unfold as planned, but through the chaos, I discovered the true essence of parenting: it’s about the health and happiness of your child, not the ideals you set for yourself.