Updated: June 8, 2020
Originally Published: June 30, 2014
“You know, I gave you formula, and look, you’re alive!” My mom murmured this under her breath, possibly more for her own reassurance than for me, as I sat in my cozy kitchen, nursing my baby, Emma, for what felt like the hundredth time that hour. I waved her off, my focus zeroed in on getting my nipple at just the right angle for Emma’s tiny lips while trying to keep the sweat from my brow from dripping into her mouth.
It had been a few weeks since I’d brought Emma, my adorable but sleepless newborn, home from the hospital to our pint-sized New York apartment. Every waking moment went into nurturing our bond, which meant co-sleeping, on-demand nursing, and always having her securely attached to me in various organic cotton carriers.
During my pregnancy, I devoured books on attachment parenting, excited by the prospect of carrying my baby around the bustling streets of New York. I could already picture myself pointing out famous landmarks, sipping decaf lattes, and smiling at the colorful characters on the subway while gently rubbing Emma’s little bald head tucked snugly in my sling. Plus, in our one-bedroom apartment, I had solved the nursery dilemma: forget the crib, we were co-sleeping!
I envisioned a natural childbirth, complete with a meticulously planned birth plan that I distributed to everyone within a five-mile radius. It stated clearly that I wanted massages, not drugs. My hospital bag was packed with aromatherapy oils and mix CDs (think Sarah McLachlan for early labor and the “Rocky” theme for motivation). I was READY.
But, as fate would have it, my plans turned into a chaotic scene. I spent most of the day laboring at home, and by the time I reached the hospital, I felt like I was being torn apart. My resolve faded, and by 6 centimeters, I was begging for an epidural. Hats off to those women who deliver naturally—you’re superheroes!
Once the pain meds kicked in, we were all so relieved that no one noticed the six hours that had slipped by. The labor nurse was trying to reach the doctor, who apparently had taken an unplanned nap in a broom closet. By the time he finally arrived, Emma was in distress, having ingested meconium. She was whisked away to NICU and placed on a ventilator, leaving us in a state of panic and uncertainty about whether we’d ever take her home.
In the NICU, I could only stroke her tiny limbs and whisper soothing words through the glass. I spent sleepless nights on a cot in the parents’ room, desperately pumping milk while flipping through tabloids. Eventually, Emma was strong enough to come home, but I was terrified of letting her out of my sight. The fancy jog stroller my coworkers gifted me sat untouched by the door, as I cradled her nonstop, unwilling to let her fuss for even a moment.
I even found a waterproof baby carrier—yes, really—so I could shower without setting her down. I would strap Emma to my bare body, all while feeling guilty about letting her cry for a mere ten seconds in her bouncy seat.
As time passed, my obsession with protecting and bonding with Emma intensified. I didn’t babyproof a thing, convinced I needed to watch her every move. I became a bit judgmental, eyeing other moms who dared to use strollers or formula. When my mom suggested letting Emma cry occasionally, I shot back, “If crying is good for the lungs, then surely bleeding is good for the veins!” I was starting to lose it—big time.
I dropped all my baby weight and then some. My eyes were sunken, my hair was thinning, and I felt like my teeth were loose (is that even a thing?). Sleep eluded me, and I realized I was on the brink of a breakdown.
One night, when Emma was about 10 months old and had learned that waking up every hour for a snack meant she got to hang out with me, I rolled over for the umpteenth time and snapped, “HERE, TAKE IT. TAKE IT ALL. YOU’RE KILLING MOMMY, YOU KNOW THAT?” The surprise in her eyes jolted me. What was happening to me?
That night marked a turning point. While I continued to nurse Emma until she could ask for it in perfect grammar and she still spends more nights in my bed than her own, I realized that my relentless attachment parenting approach was edging toward obsession, and I was losing myself in the process. I had to learn that taking care of myself was equally important. A well-rested mom with clean hair and a full battery is far better than one who gives everything to her baby without leaving anything for herself.
Motherhood is a journey filled with ups and downs, and I’m still figuring it all out. But I’ve learned to embrace the ride, knowing that balance is key. For more insights on navigating motherhood, check out this excellent resource on pregnancy and home insemination. And if you’re looking to boost fertility, consider these supplements for added support.
In summary, attachment parenting can become overwhelming if you’re not careful. It’s essential to prioritize self-care to be the best parent you can be. Motherhood is a continuous learning experience, and finding that balance is crucial.