“You know, I fed you formula, and you survived.” My mother’s words floated into my thoughts as I sat in my cramped kitchen, nursing my newborn, Emma, for what felt like the hundredth time that hour. I waved her off, focusing intently on getting my baby latched correctly while trying to wipe the sweat from my brow before it dripped into her eager little mouth. It had been several weeks since I’d brought Emma, my spirited little insomniac, home to our tiny New York City apartment. Since then, my every waking moment had been dedicated to nurturing our bond. This involved co-sleeping, on-demand nursing, and keeping her close in various organic cotton baby carriers.
During my pregnancy, I had devoured books on attachment parenting, enchanted by the idea of carrying my baby through the bustling city. I envisioned pointing out landmarks, sipping decaf lattes, and enjoying the sights while cradling Emma snugly against me. The dilemma of where to place the nursery in our one-bedroom apartment was easily resolved: co-sleeping it was, no crib required!
I meticulously planned for a natural birth, creating a detailed birth plan and distributing copies to everyone who might be present. It specified that I wanted massages, not medication. My hospital bag was filled with aromatherapy oils and carefully curated playlists—soothing tunes for early labor and motivational anthems for the grand finale. I was prepared.
However, the reality of Emma’s birth was far from what I had envisioned. After laboring at home, I arrived at the hospital feeling like I was being torn apart. My resolve crumbled, and by the time I reached 6 centimeters, I was begging for an epidural. I have immense respect for those who endure natural childbirth—truly, you are superheroes. My experience turned chaotic when the doctor took what felt like an eternity to arrive, resulting in Emma being born into a difficult situation. She was whisked away to the NICU, and for two long weeks, we were left in uncertainty, terrified of what might happen next.
Once Emma was finally well enough to come home, I became hyper-vigilant. I couldn’t bear to let her out of my sight, let alone set her down. My expensive jog stroller became a decorative piece, collecting dust. I held her constantly, refusing to let her fuss for even a moment. Well-meaning family members offered help, but I hovered nearby like a protective hawk, ready to swoop in at the slightest sound.
In my quest for connection, I even found a waterproof baby carrier, allowing me to shower while keeping Emma close. This bizarre contraption made me feel like I was winning, even as I desperately cleaned dried breast milk out of my own skin.
As time passed, my obsession with protecting and bonding with Emma grew. I stopped baby-proofing our home because I was always watching her. I found myself judging other moms for using strollers or for giving their babies formula. The thought of leaving my child with a babysitter for any reason was unimaginable. My mother’s suggestion that it was okay for Emma to cry for a bit was met with an explosive response from me—“If crying is good for the lungs, then bleeding must be good for the veins, right?”
I started to lose grip on reality. I was exhausted, unkempt, and starting to feel physically unwell. One night, with Emma around ten months old, I found myself angrily pushing my nipple toward her, gasping, “Here! Take it! You’re killing Mommy, you know?” The moment shocked me; I couldn’t believe how far I had fallen from my original intentions.
That night was a turning point. Although I continued to nurse Emma until she could articulate her needs with perfect grammar, I realized I couldn’t pour everything into motherhood without taking care of myself. I learned that a rested and recharged me was a far superior mother than the one who gave everything without reserve. The instinct to protect our children, especially after difficult beginnings, is incredibly strong. Motherhood is a winding journey filled with lessons, and I’m constantly rediscovering how to enjoy every twist and turn.
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In summary, the journey of attachment parenting can be overwhelming and lead to unexpected challenges. While the desire to bond with your child is powerful, it’s crucial to remember that caring for yourself is equally important.