As a former educator, I approached motherhood with the same enthusiasm and diligence I applied to my academic career. After excelling in my studies, I was determined to be an outstanding mom as soon as I discovered I was expecting. I spent hours in the largest bookstore in my town, surrounded by vibrant stacks of parenting books that covered everything from sleep strategies to feeding schedules. I absorbed every piece of advice I could find, sifting through various methods until I landed on one that resonated with me.
Attachment parenting seemed ideal for me, perhaps because it contrasted sharply with my own upbringing. My mother left when I was just six years old, and my siblings and I were raised solely by our father. With motherhood being a new canvas, I was committed to exploring every facet of it, which quickly turned into an obsession.
Equipped with my chosen parenting style, I swaddled, sang, and soothed my baby through her early years. I carried her close to me, filling her world with books, music, and nature. However, when she turned two, everything changed. I fell ill, and all my research seemed irrelevant. I felt like I was failing at being a mother.
“I’ll be okay once I get a good night’s sleep,” I reassured my concerned partner, dismissing the strange pains I was experiencing. There simply wasn’t time to focus on my own well-being with a young child demanding my attention. My daughter, born prematurely, had already made sleep elusive, as I was barely managing 45 minutes at a time. Even at two, her sleep was erratic, leaving me exhausted. The parenting techniques I had studied didn’t align with caring for a sick child.
Then my health deteriorated rapidly. I found myself curled up in a fetal position, and my husband had to call for an ambulance. Two weeks later, after losing 24 pounds, I returned home. I could no longer consume solid food and was plagued by relentless pain. The diagnosis was Crohn’s disease, and the doctors handed me a handful of medications with the uncertain prognosis of hoping for remission.
Confined to my bed for months, I turned to writing. Propped up on pillows, I began crafting parenting articles for various magazines, surprising myself as editors eagerly accepted my work. Writing became a lifeline, allowing me to stay connected to my identity as a mother, even though all the hands-on parenting was now left to my partner.
For an entire year, I observed life from the sidelines. I cherished the cuddles with my daughter, but even those moments were sometimes too painful with a lively toddler. Instead, we connected through books and stories. Sitting beside her, I would read aloud, share my writing, and craft tales tailored just for her, which she eagerly requested. “Tell me the one about the zoo, Mommy!” and “Make a spy story!” became our shared moments.
As I wrote to uplift other mothers, to amuse my daughter, and to soothe my own heart, my health gradually improved. One morning, I watched in awe as my daughter played with her aunt in the living room, lost in a jungle of imagination. I thought to myself, “There’s no way I could keep up with that,” forcing a laugh despite my discomfort. Some days were better than others, but I began to wonder if my limitations were truly physical or if I was subconsciously stepping back to avoid the pain that came with not being able to engage fully.
Over a decade later, my daughters, now pre-teens, snuggle beside me on the couch, sharing their own stories aloud. There are days when simply listening, reading, and cuddling is all I can manage. Sometimes, they take care of me more than I care for them. I may not be the perfect parent I aspired to be, but who needs perfection? Our cuddles and stories bring us close enough.
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In summary, navigating motherhood while living with Crohn’s disease has been a journey filled with challenges and unexpected rewards. Despite the limitations imposed by my health, I’ve found joy and connection through storytelling and the love we share as a family.