I finally fell in love with my little boy the weekend following his first birthday. It was a lovely August evening, my partner was away, and I took my son, Leo, to dinner with my mother and siblings. A soft breeze drifted through the air, filled with the warmth of summer and the laughter of children nearby. While we waited for our table, I brought Leo to a small playground that overlooked the water. He was giggling and pointing at the slide, and as he held my fingers tightly in his tiny grip, he looked up and flashed me a sweet, toothy grin. In that moment, we both experienced a profound sense of connection.
Our beginning was far from smooth. From the moment Leo was delivered via an emergency C-section, covered in meconium, and whisked away for evaluation, the experience was overwhelming. My partner’s excited shouts of “It’s a boy!” echoed in my ears as I was stitched back together. When he was finally placed on my chest, clean and wailing, I felt an instinctual need to nurture and protect him, even if the love I felt was complex and our relationship was still developing.
My partner made significant sacrifices, staying home to care for Leo while I returned to my demanding tech job just ten weeks postpartum. He tackled the dirty diapers, fussiness, and late-night feedings, all while trying to maintain his freelance career during nap times. Meanwhile, I was at the office, pumping milk while juggling emails and international calls, feeling tethered to motherhood by an oscillating machine that drained me.
Things took a turn when my mother had a double lung transplant and moved in with us for her recovery. Suddenly, I wasn’t just a working mom; I was also a caretaker and hostess. Despite her being a model patient, having her in our space while navigating new parenthood added pressure to an already strained marriage. I had been caring for my mother throughout my pregnancy, but I now found myself stretched thin, trying to balance work with motherhood and caregiving.
After my mother’s transplant, I spent my evenings visiting her in the hospital, leaving little room for focused time with Leo. Consequently, the first six months of Leo’s life passed without me fully engaging in them. Once my mother moved out, Leo was seven months old, and by then, he and my partner had formed a close bond. I saw the adoration in their interactions, and Leo’s joy at seeing his father warmed my heart.
As I returned home from work, I began to feel a shift. Leo started seeking me out, giggling when I entered a room, and I felt an overwhelming desire to spend time with him. By the time his first birthday arrived, my husband’s freelance work was stabilizing, and Leo and I began to forge our own connection. I emerged from the fog of the past year and saw a happy, curious little boy before me.
Although I don’t believe I suffered from postpartum depression, I certainly experienced something akin to survival mode. I have few memories of his early milestones and can’t recall specific details like the weather on his first stroll in a stroller. However, I will always cherish the moment love truly enveloped me. Now, every night as we snuggle before bedtime, I breathe in the scent of his lavender shampoo and apologize for not being fully present during his first year. I marvel at his little features and hope he stays this young for just a bit longer.
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In conclusion, parenting is a unique journey filled with ups and downs. It’s important to acknowledge that love can take time to develop, and every family’s story is different.