As a former educator, I approached motherhood much like my academic pursuits. I was a top student in Education, and when I discovered I was pregnant, I dove into parenting with the same determination.
In the back of my town’s largest bookstore, I surrounded myself with vibrant stacks of parenting books on topics ranging from sleep techniques to feeding routines. I spent hours soaking up advice, navigating through conflicting theories until I settled on one that resonated with me. Attachment parenting felt like the perfect fit, likely because it contrasted sharply with my own upbringing; my mother left when I was just six, and my sisters and I were raised by our father.
With my chosen parenting style in hand, I swaddled, sang, and soothed my way through my daughter’s infancy. I carried her close to my heart and enriched her life with stories, music, and nature. However, when she turned two, I fell ill, and all my preparation crumbled.
“I’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep,” I reassured my concerned partner, dismissing the odd pains plaguing my body. I had no time for self-care with a small child demanding my attention. My daughter was born prematurely, leading to sleepless nights filled with two-hour feeding schedules. My research didn’t prepare me for the challenges of parenting a sick, premature baby.
Eventually, my body succumbed to the neglect. In a fetal position, I needed an ambulance. Two weeks later, I returned home, 24 pounds lighter and unable to consume solid food, with constant pain being my new reality. Doctors diagnosed me with Crohn’s disease and prescribed numerous medications. “Let’s hope for remission,” they told me, “but outcomes vary.”
Confined to bed for months, I began writing as a way to cope. Propped up with pillows, I typed away between restless naps, crafting parenting articles for national magazines. To my surprise, editors welcomed my work with open arms. Writing became my only outlet, allowing me to stay connected to my identity as a mother, even while my husband took on most of the parenting responsibilities.
For a year, I watched life unfold from the sidelines. I cherished cuddles with my daughter, but even those moments were sometimes too painful. Our connection shifted to books and storytelling. Sitting together, I read aloud to her, shared my work, and spun tales just for her. “Read me the one about the zoo, Mommy!” she would insist.
As my health gradually improved, I observed my daughter play with her aunt, pretending to be lost in a jungle, both bursting with laughter. “I wouldn’t have the energy for that,” I thought, forcing a laugh. Today was tough, but yesterday had been good.
Sitting on the couch, watching her giggle, I started to reflect. Was it truly impossible for me to engage in play, or was I simply avoiding it to mitigate the pain of my limitations? After a year of hospital visits and recovery, I realized that motherhood can be painful and complex, often differing from our expectations.
Now, over ten years later, my daughters snuggle beside me on the couch, reading their own stories aloud. Some days, all I can do is listen and cuddle. There are times when they care for me more than I do for them. I may not be the ideal parent I aimed to be, but who needs perfection? Cuddles and stories come pretty close.
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Summary:
This article reflects on the challenges of parenting while living with Crohn’s disease. The author shares her journey from being a dedicated mother to facing severe health issues that hindered her ability to physically care for her child. Despite the obstacles, she finds connection through writing and storytelling, emphasizing that motherhood can take many forms and doesn’t have to be perfect to be fulfilling.