Did you ever dream of being the ultimate eco-conscious parent? I certainly did, but life had different ideas in store for me.
As a yoga instructor and vegetarian, I prioritize my physical and mental well-being (even if I occasionally indulge in ice cream and wine). I practice self-care and have a good therapist. Recycling is part of my routine. So when I decided to conceive my first child, I thought I had the perfect plan. I enrolled in Bradley Method classes, consumed two eggs daily along with as much Greek yogurt as I could handle. I diligently performed Kegels, squats, pelvic floor exercises, and prenatal yoga. I even oiled my perineum for weeks leading up to the big day. I was determined to have a NATURAL delivery, reveling in the joys of breastfeeding and carrying my little one in a sling, co-sleeping, and using cloth diapers.
But then, reality hit.
My labor began at 2:00 AM, with contractions lasting 45-50 seconds and occurring every five minutes from the start. I showered, walked around the neighborhood to encourage labor, and nibbled on honey straws and granola bars. After 12 grueling hours of unchanging contractions, I finally headed to the hospital due to lack of progress. Once in the delivery room, I attempted to use a birthing ball and even took a shower—without hot water, of course, as if the universe was mocking me. I focused on breathing, visualizing, and allowed my husband to massage me, even as I felt an overwhelming desire to escape. After six more hours, I had dilated just two additional centimeters.
When my doctor informed me that I could be in labor for many more hours, I surrendered. I requested an epidural, convincing my supportive husband that I simply couldn’t endure any longer. Hours passed, and with each push, my son’s heartbeat began to stall. Ultimately, I found myself prepped for a cesarean section.
Surprisingly, I took this setback to my ego fairly well (perhaps thanks to the pain relief). In the recovery room, my son latched on immediately, leading me to believe that I was on the path to a fulfilling breastfeeding experience. However, as he grew hungrier, my milk supply barely increased. I consumed endless bowls of oatmeal and drank teas to stimulate production. I reached out to a lactation consultant, crying and pleading for assistance, and pumped for 40 minutes after each nursing session—each session already lasting 45 minutes. My son was losing weight rapidly, and I began supplementing out of desperation. This spiral led me into postpartum depression, where I even contemplated suicide. I resorted to taking Prozac, despite my previous aversion to medication. That was the end of my breastfeeding journey.
My son’s relentless grunting made it impossible to share a room with him—even with earplugs. Despite my intention to use cloth diapers from the start, after several nights of changing soaked swaddlers and crib sheets, I abandoned that plan as well. All my dreams seemed to shatter. I felt like a complete failure in every aspect of motherhood I had envisioned.
I mourned my lost ideals and cried so much that I felt ashamed to be around my family. My husband was understandably concerned about my mental state and my apparent lack of affection for our child.
Yet, despite my struggles, my son was thriving. He was a happy, healthy baby, far exceeding his milestones. I had an incredible little boy, and while that should have been my focus, I shamefully admit it took me much too long to fully appreciate it.
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Summary:
This article reflects on the author’s journey through pregnancy, highlighting the contrast between her idealistic expectations and the harsh realities she faced. It explores the challenges of labor, breastfeeding struggles, and postpartum mental health, ultimately recognizing the importance of embracing the joy of raising a happy and healthy child, regardless of initial plans.