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The Moment I Encourage New Moms to Hold On
I feel like I shouldn’t admit this, but the truth is, I didn’t experience an instant connection with my baby when I first laid eyes on her.
The labor was intense. My body felt completely spent. When she finally arrived, her little face tinged with a hint of blue from the umbilical cord wrapped around her neck, she let out a fierce cry. In that moment, I was overwhelmed—scared, exhausted (like, to-the-core tired), thrilled, and transformed. But love? That was absent. No angelic choir filled the air, nor did I feel the overwhelming wave of emotion that everyone had described to me. I even hesitated to hold her, my hands trembling and weak.
A few days later, as we drove home, I sat next to her infant carrier in the backseat, gripping the handle with a mix of panic and responsibility. I had this tiny human now, and the thought of keeping her safe was daunting. As I began to heal, I fumbled through the early days of motherhood, awkwardly swaddling her in our navy blue recliner—a gift from my dad when I was too pregnant to climb into bed. Each day was filled with tears as we navigated the overwhelming journey of life together. My body ached as I learned to nurse while she struggled to find a rhythm, and nights blurred into exhausting cycles of feeding and comforting.
Those first few weeks felt like a blur of uncertainty and sleepless nights with a colicky baby. I was still scared, still bone-tired, still adjusting. I thought I might love her, but I was so fragile that it was hard to focus on that feeling. I went through the motions: change, feed, sleep, repeat.
And then, it happened. Now, when I see new moms—eyes weary and hair in disarray—I tell them to hang in there, because something beautiful is on the horizon. One day, I was sitting with my knees elevated, and as I laid her back against my legs, our eyes met. I noticed the corners of her mouth twitching. My heart raced as I sat up straighter, hoping for a repeat. And then it happened—she smiled. A genuine, intentional smile. I felt as if I was witnessing a miracle.
In that moment, as her smile blossomed and her gaze locked onto mine as if I were the miracle, that’s when I truly felt love for the first time. Her entire expression shifted, and so did my heart. It was as though a dam had burst, and my emotions overflowed, making me cry once more.
Motherhood, unlike baseball, is filled with tears.
The most remarkable part? That feeling keeps coming back. Every time my children smile at me—whether it’s my firstborn, now almost 13, or my youngest, just turning 3—my heart leaps, and it feels miraculous. Parenthood remains challenging; it’s still scary, exhausting, and exhilarating, and it continues to transform me. But when those smiles come, I feel a healing balm wash over me. The smudges fade, the dents mend, and what feels broken starts to right itself.
Nothing about birthing or motherhood unfolded as I had anticipated, and that reality doesn’t change. No matter how long I’m on this journey, I never quite feel like I’ve mastered parenting. Yet, I know one thing for certain: if I can just hold on until the next smile, I’ll be alright. That’s where the love lies. That’s the miracle.
For more insights on home insemination, check out this post. If you’re navigating similar experiences, Make A Mom offers excellent resources and products to support your journey. Also, American Pregnancy is a fantastic source for all things related to pregnancy and donor insemination.
Summary
This heartfelt reflection captures the tumultuous journey of new motherhood, revealing the struggles and eventual joys that come with it. The author shares her initial lack of instant love for her newborn, the challenges of early parenting, and the transformative power of a simple smile. It’s a reminder to new moms to hang on through the tough times, as love and healing are often just around the corner.