“My own mother quietly remarked, ‘You know, I fed you formula and you didn’t die,’ while I sat nursing my newborn, Mia, for what felt like the umpteenth time in thirty minutes.”
I brushed off her comment with a wave, concentrating on perfectly positioning my breast for Mia’s eager lips while trying to keep the sweat from my forehead out of her mouth. It had been several weeks since I had brought my little insomniac home to our cozy New York apartment, and every waking moment was focused on nurturing our bond. This included co-sleeping, on-demand nursing, and constantly carrying her in various ergonomic, organic cotton carriers.
During my pregnancy, I eagerly absorbed literature on attachment parenting, excited about the prospect of keeping my baby close as we explored the city. I envisioned pointing out landmarks and chatting with colorful characters on the subway, all while sipping decaf coffee and gently stroking her bald head nestled against me in a sling. Plus, the challenge of fitting a nursery into our compact one-bedroom was easily resolved—who needed a crib when co-sleeping was an option?
I had meticulously planned for a natural childbirth, complete with a detailed birth plan handed out to anyone who might be present. I specifically requested massages instead of medication, packing my hospital bag with aromatherapy oils and playlists designed for different stages of labor. I was prepared.
Yet, all my planning became moot when Mia’s birth took an unexpected turn. After laboring at home for most of the day, I arrived at the hospital feeling like I was being torn apart. By the time I was 6 centimeters dilated, I was begging for an epidural. The pain was overwhelming, and I deeply admire those who manage to give birth without medication—I clearly wasn’t one of them.
Once the pain relief kicked in, the hours slipped away unnoticed, and by the time the doctor arrived, Mia had ingested meconium and was whisked away to the NICU. For two weeks, we were left in a state of uncertainty, while the medical staff avoided eye contact, probably fearing a lawsuit. Mia looked like a giant among the tiny preemies, crying silently due to the tube in her throat. I could only stroke her limbs and whisper through the glass. My milk supply came in as I slept on a cot in the hospital, and instead of nursing my sweet baby, I was hooked up to pumps every hour, crying over gossip magazines.
Eventually, Mia was well enough to come home, but I was terrified to let her out of my sight. The expensive jog stroller my colleagues had gifted me remained untouched, while I held her constantly, even as she developed sleep patterns reminiscent of a night owl. Family members offered help, but I hovered like a vigilant guardian, ready to swoop in at the slightest sound.
In my quest to keep her close, I even found a waterproof baby carrier that allowed me to shower without setting her down. I’d strap her to my body, cleaning up the remnants of breast milk while feeling no guilt over leaving her in a bouncy seat for a few moments.
As time passed, my fixation on connection intensified. I stopped baby-proofing our home because I was always vigilant. I became overly critical of other mothers who used strollers or formula, unable to fathom the idea of leaving Mia with a babysitter, even for a moment.
When my mother suggested that it was okay for Mia to cry occasionally, I vehemently retorted, “IF CRYING IS GOOD FOR THE LUNGS, THEN BLEEDING MUST BE GOOD FOR THE VEINS, HUH???” My mental state began to fray. My weight dropped, my eyes sank into my head, and I noticed my hair thinning. My sanity was slipping.
One particularly challenging night, as Mia, now ten months old, had learned to wake up every hour for nursing, I rolled over for what felt like the twelfth time and muttered, “HERE, TAKE IT. YOU ARE KILLING MOMMY, YOU KNOW THAT? YOU. ARE. KILLING. ME.” To my astonishment, she pulled back, taken aback by my outburst. It was a turning point.
Though I continued to nurse Mia long past the point of what was typical, that moment revealed the toll that exhaustion had taken on me. My obsession with creating a securely attached child had veered into an unhealthy territory, putting my own well-being at risk. I came to understand that a well-rested, self-caring version of myself was far more beneficial for Mia than the one who gave everything and left nothing for herself.
Mothering is an ongoing journey filled with challenges and learning opportunities. I’m still figuring it out, but I’ve discovered how to savor the experience along the way. If you’re interested in exploring more about parenting dynamics, check out this informative piece on navigating the two-year-old sleep regression, which highlights effective coping strategies.
For additional resources on pregnancy and home insemination, visit Kindbody, a treasure trove of information for expectant parents. And if you’re considering self-insemination options, make sure to explore the details of the At-Home Insemination Kit.
Summary
The journey of attachment parenting can lead to unexpected challenges and self-discovery. The author reflects on her intense commitment to maintaining a close bond with her daughter, Mia, and the toll it took on her well-being. Eventually, she learns the importance of self-care and balance in motherhood, emphasizing that a healthy parent is essential for a thriving child.