As a former educator, I approached motherhood with the same determination that propelled my academic career. I was a star student in Education, and once I discovered I was expecting, I aimed to be an exemplary mother as well.
I found myself in the back corner of the largest bookstore in my town, surrounded by a colorful array of parenting books stacked on the wooden table before me. Topics ranged from sleep strategies to feeding schedules and various parenting philosophies. Hours slipped by as I absorbed every piece of guidance available—a truly overwhelming amount. I sifted through conflicting advice until I landed on a method that resonated with me: attachment parenting. This choice likely stemmed from my own upbringing; my mother left when I was just six, and my sisters and I were raised by our father.
With a parenting philosophy in hand, I dove into the early years with swaddles, lullabies, and endless cuddles. I carried my daughter close to my heart, enriching her world with books, music, and time outdoors. Then, when she turned two, my health took a drastic turn, rendering all my research obsolete. I felt like I was failing as a mother.
“I just need a good night’s sleep,” I assured my worried partner, ignoring the unexplainable pains in my body. With a small child to care for, I had no time to focus on my own health.
From the moment she was born prematurely, sleep eluded me, often giving me less than 45 minutes at a time. Juggling the demands of a newborn was a full-time job, and by the time she reached two, her sleep patterns hadn’t improved, which left me exhausted. The insights I gathered from my research felt irrelevant when faced with the challenges of a sick, premature child.
However, the fatigue was just one part of the story. My body eventually refused to cooperate, and one day, I found myself curled in a fetal position. My husband called for an ambulance.
Two weeks later, I returned home, 24 pounds lighter and unable to eat solid food, grappling with constant pain. The doctors diagnosed me with Crohn’s disease and provided numerous medications. “Let’s hope for remission,” they said, offering little more than that.
Confined to bed for months, I turned to writing. Propped up on pillows and too weak to hold my head, I began crafting articles for parenting magazines. To my surprise, my pieces were well-received, and editors were eager for more. Writing became my only outlet during this time.
Navigating the world as a parenting writer while being unable to physically care for my own child was a peculiar experience. I authored articles like “Fun Winter Activities” and “Tips for Supporting Your Child’s Speech.” I drew on my past experiences for inspiration, which helped me maintain a connection to my identity as a mother, even though my husband was handling most of the parenting responsibilities. I wrote from my bed.
For an entire year, I observed life from the sidelines. I cherished the moments I could cuddle with my daughter, but even those moments were sometimes painful due to her constant movement. Books and storytelling became our primary means of bonding. We’d sit together, and I would read to her, sharing stories I crafted just for her. “Read the one about the zoo, Mommy!” she would request, or “Tell me a spy story!”
I wrote to uplift other mothers, to entertain my daughter, and to soothe my own heart. Gradually, my health began to improve. One morning, I watched my daughter play with her aunt in the living room, rolling around and pretending to be lost in a jungle, both of them filled with laughter. “I could never muster the energy for that,” I thought, forcing a smile while feeling weak. Today was a tough day, but yesterday had been better; I had eaten and managed to move around.
As I sat there, I began to question myself. Was it truly impossible for me to play with her, or was I simply reluctant to try? After a year filled with hospital visits, bed rest, and pain, perhaps I was subconsciously letting go of my role as a mother to shield myself from disappointment, just as my own mother had.
Motherhood can be unexpected, often bringing pain and complexities we don’t anticipate. Now, over a decade later, I find my pre-teen and teenage daughters snuggling beside me on the couch, reading their stories aloud. There are days when that’s all I can manage—listening, reading aloud, and sharing cuddles. There are weeks when they take care of me more than I care for them. I may not be the perfect parent I envisioned, but I’ve learned that love, stories, and cuddles are what truly matter.
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Summary: This personal account discusses the challenges of motherhood while living with Crohn’s disease. The author reflects on her journey from researching parenting methods to adapting her role as a mother after becoming ill. Despite struggles, she finds joy in storytelling and maintaining connections with her children, learning that love and presence matter more than perfection.