Updated: Feb. 8, 2021
Originally Published: March 6, 2010
Did you ever dream of being the ultimate eco-conscious parent? I certainly did… but it seems the universe had other plans for me.
As a yoga instructor and a vegetarian dedicated to my physical and mental well-being (when I’m not indulging in ice cream or enjoying a glass of wine), I thought I had it all figured out. I diligently prepared for my first child, attending Bradley Method classes and incorporating eggs and Greek yogurt into my diet. I practiced Kegels, squats, pelvic floor exercises, and prenatal yoga. I even olive-oiled my perineum for a month before my due date. I envisioned a NATURAL delivery, blissfully breastfeeding my newborn and carrying my cloth-diapered bundle of joy in a sling as we strolled into the sunset.
But then reality hit.
My labor began at 2:00 am, with contractions lasting 45-50 seconds and occurring every five minutes. I tried everything to speed things along: showering, walking around the neighborhood, and snacking on honey straws and granola bars. After 12 long hours, with no progress, I headed to the hospital. There, I rolled on my birthing ball in a delivery room, attempted a shower (only to discover there was no hot water), and breathed through the pain while my husband tried to soothe my growing agitation. Six hours later, I had only dilated two more centimeters.
When my doctor informed me that I was in for many more hours of labor, I surrendered and requested an epidural. I convinced my husband that I couldn’t endure any longer. Unfortunately, after several hours of pushing, we were faced with the reality of a c-section.
Surprisingly, I took this blow to my pride in stride—perhaps it was the medication talking. In the recovery room, my little boy latched on right away, and I was hopeful for a smooth breastfeeding journey. But as the days passed, my milk supply barely increased. I consumed countless bowls of oatmeal and drank milk-boosting teas. I even called a lactation consultant in tears, desperately seeking guidance. After each nursing session, which lasted about 45 minutes, I pumped for another 40 minutes, leaving me with only 15-20 minutes to regroup before the next feeding. My son was losing weight quickly, and I found myself supplementing with formula. I spiraled into postpartum depression and even considered suicide. I began taking Prozac, something I thought I would never do after years of therapy and holistic education. And that marked the end of my breastfeeding relationship with my son.
Sleep became a distant memory, as my son’s noisy grunting made it impossible to share the same room, let alone the same bed. I had brought a stash of cloth diapers to the hospital, eager to start him on cloth right away. After several nights of changing soaked swaddlers and crib sheets, I surrendered that dream too. All my plans had crumbled. I felt like a failure in every aspect of motherhood.
I mourned my lost ideals and cried so much that I felt ashamed around my family. My husband was worried about the person I had become and my seemingly detached affection for our little creation. But somehow, my son was thriving—wasn’t he supposed to be a malnourished, colicky mess? Instead, he was a healthy, happy little boy, exceeding his milestones.
In the end, I realized that my son’s well-being was what truly mattered. It took me far too long to embrace this truth, and I now understand that motherhood isn’t about following a perfect script but about loving and nurturing in whatever way works best.
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Summary:
The author shares her journey into motherhood, from her ambitious plans for a natural birth and breastfeeding to the unexpected challenges she faced during labor and postpartum. Despite her initial feelings of failure, she ultimately realizes the importance of her son’s health and happiness over any preconceived notions of parenting.