“You know, I gave you formula, and you turned out just fine.”
My mother’s words floated over to me while I sat in my cozy kitchen, nursing my infant daughter for what felt like the hundredth time in a short span. With a dismissive wave, I focused on getting my little one latched on just right, all while trying to avoid the beads of sweat trickling down my forehead into her mouth. It had been weeks since I brought home Emma, my delightful but sleepless newborn, to our snug New York apartment. Every moment was dedicated to nurturing our bond, with co-sleeping, nursing on-demand, and keeping her close in various organic cotton carriers.
During my pregnancy, I immersed myself in attachment parenting literature, enchanted by the notion of keeping my baby close as we explored the city together. I envisioned us navigating the urban landscape, pointing out landmarks and smiling at the characters we’d meet, all while I sipped decaf coffee and rubbed the smooth little head nestled against me in a sling. The question of where to place a nursery in our one-bedroom apartment was quickly settled: co-sleeping it is!
I had grand plans for a natural birth, complete with a meticulously crafted birth plan distributed to everyone involved. My plan included a preference for massages over medication, and I packed my hospital bag with aromatherapy oils and a carefully curated playlist—everything from soothing Sarah McLachlan to the triumphant “Rocky” theme for when it was time to push. I was ready.
However, reality had other plans. After laboring at home for most of the day, the moment I entered the hospital, I felt like I was being torn apart. My determination quickly crumbled, and by the time I reached six centimeters, I was pleading for an epidural. I have immense respect for women who deliver naturally—you are incredible. I, however, threw in the towel.
Once the pain relief kicked in, a sense of calm washed over us, but hours slipped by unnoticed. The labor nurse had been trying to reach the doctor, who apparently took a nap in a broom closet. By the time he arrived, Emma had ingested meconium and was whisked away to the NICU, where she was placed on a ventilator. For two weeks, we held our breath, uncertain of when we’d take her home. The medical staff, likely so afraid of legal repercussions, wouldn’t make eye contact. It was agonizing. My beautiful baby, a giant compared to the other tiny preemies, cried silently, tube in her throat. I could only stroke her limbs and whisper through the glass of her incubator.
One sleepless night in the hospital, I found myself pumping milk instead of nursing her beside me, all while sobbing over gossip magazines. Eventually, Emma was strong enough to come home, but I was paralyzed with fear. The expensive stroller my coworkers gifted me sat idle as I cradled her around the clock, unwilling to let her fuss even for a moment.
I even found a waterproof baby carrier—yes, really—so I could shower without leaving my baby unattended. I strapped Emma to my bare body, cleaning up leaks of breast milk, all while feeling a twinge of guilt if she made a peep in her bouncy seat.
As time passed, my obsession with attachment grew. I stopped baby-proofing our home because I was always right there, watching. I started criticizing other mothers for using strollers or feeding their babies formula. The thought of leaving Emma with a babysitter for a break felt unthinkable. When my mom suggested that it was okay for my daughter to cry occasionally, I snapped back, “IF CRYING IS GOOD FOR THE LUNGS, THEN BLEEDING MUST BE GOOD FOR THE VEINS, RIGHT?!”
I was losing it, and I could feel the toll it was taking on my body. I lost all my baby weight and then some. My eyes sank into my skull, my hair began to fall out. I even felt like my teeth were becoming loose. Sleep-deprived and overwhelmed, I was nearing a breaking point.
One night, when Emma was ten months old and had figured out that waking every hour earned her extra cuddle time with me, I rolled over for the umpteenth time and pushed my nipple at her, hissing, “HERE, TAKE IT. TAKE IT ALL. YOU ARE KILLING MOMMY, YOU KNOW THAT?!”
Emma pulled back, startled. I was horrified at myself. What was happening to me?
That moment was pivotal. While I continued to nurse Emma until she could articulate her requests with perfect grammar, I realized that my drive to create a securely attached child was bordering on obsession. I needed to prioritize self-care. A well-rested me, with a bit of clean hair and recharged batteries, was a much better mother than the one who had given everything to her baby and left nothing for herself.
Mothering is a journey, full of twists and turns. I’m still learning every day, but I’ve certainly discovered how to enjoy the ride. If you’re interested in exploring more about parenting options, check out this informative resource on IVF and fertility preservation.
For insights on home insemination, you can peek at this link—it’s a great way to stay engaged with your parenting journey. Also, if you’re curious about home insemination kits, Make a Mom offers valuable information on the topic.
In summary, my experience with attachment parenting was a rollercoaster of love, anxiety, and self-discovery, ultimately leading me to realize that taking care of myself was essential to being the best mother I could be.