Did you ever dream of being the ultimate eco-conscious mom? I certainly did, but life had a different roadmap in store for me.
I’m a certified yoga instructor, a vegetarian, and I prioritize both my physical and mental health (okay, maybe not when ice cream and a glass of wine are involved). I have a supportive therapist and I diligently recycle. So, when the time came to plan for my first child, I was fully prepared to embrace a natural approach. I enrolled in Bradley Method classes, forced down two eggs daily, and indulged in as much Greek yogurt as I could handle. I practiced Kegels, squats, pelvic floor exercises, and prenatal yoga. I even olive-oiled my perineum in the lead-up to delivery. I was determined to have a NATURAL birth, to revel in the joys of breastfeeding, and to carry my little one—swaddled in cloth diapers—into the sunset in a sling.
Then, reality hit.
My labor kicked off at 2:00 AM with contractions that lasted 45-50 seconds and were merely five minutes apart from the start. I tried everything—showering, walking the neighborhood, sucking on honey straws, and munching granola bars. After 12 grueling hours with no progress, I headed to the hospital. In the delivery room, I rolled around on my birthing ball and attempted a shower, despite the frigid water (thanks universe!). I focused on my breathing and visualized calm, while my husband attempted to soothe me, even as I felt increasingly restless. Another six hours passed, and I had only dilated two more centimeters.
When the doctor informed me I was in for many more hours of labor, I finally relented and requested an epidural. I persuaded my husband that I couldn’t endure any more. Hours later, I was prepped for a c-section, stalling my baby’s heartbeat with each push. Surprisingly, I took this disappointment in stride (maybe the meds helped). In the recovery room, my son latched on immediately, and I thought, “This is the start of a wonderful breastfeeding journey.” But then, he became hungrier, and despite eating copious amounts of oatmeal and drinking lactation teas, my milk supply barely increased. I found myself calling a lactation consultant, sobbing and pleading for assistance. After nursing sessions that lasted 45 minutes each, I pumped for 40 minutes—leaving me with only a brief window to collect myself before the next feeding. My son was losing weight rapidly, and out of desperation, I began supplementing. This spiral led me into postpartum depression, and I found myself contemplating suicide. I began taking Prozac, despite my previous commitments to holistic methods. Thus, my breastfeeding relationship came to an end.
The endless grunting from my son made it impossible to sleep in the same room, much less share a bed. I had packed cloth diapers for my hospital stay, ready to start right away. But after several nights spent changing soaked swaddlers and crib sheets, that idea went out the window too. All my meticulously crafted plans fell apart, and I felt like I had failed—spectacularly.
I mourned my expectations and cried to the point of embarrassment around my family. I was a complete wreck, and my husband was understandably alarmed by the transformation. Yet, somehow, my son was thriving. Wasn’t he supposed to be a fussy, malnourished baby? Instead, he was a vibrant, happy little guy who exceeded his milestones. I realized that, despite the chaos, I had a healthy and joyful son, which is what truly matters. It took me far too long to grasp this simple truth.
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Summary:
Motherhood can be unpredictable, challenging expectations along the way. From the desire for a natural birth to the realities of postpartum struggles, this journey highlights the importance of adaptability and recognizing the joy in a healthy child, regardless of how we envisioned the experience.
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