As a former educator, I approached motherhood with the same dedication I had in my academic pursuits. I was at the top of my class in Education, and upon discovering I was pregnant, I committed myself to mastering the art of parenting.
I spent countless hours in the back of my town’s largest bookstore, surrounded by vibrant stacks of parenting books on topics like sleep strategies, feeding routines, and various philosophies. I immersed myself in every ounce of advice available—there is an overwhelming amount—and sifted through conflicting ideas until I found one that resonated with me.
Attachment parenting felt like the ideal choice, likely because it starkly contrasted with my own upbringing. My mother left when I was six, and my sisters and I were raised by our father. The concept of mothering was almost a blank canvas, and I was determined to explore every facet of it, which quickly turned into an obsession.
Once I settled on my parenting philosophy, I swaddled, sung, swayed, and shushed my way through the baby years. I carried my daughter everywhere, keeping her close to my heart while enriching her life with books, music, friends, and the great outdoors. But when she turned two, I fell ill, and suddenly all my research felt irrelevant. I struggled to keep up with motherhood.
“I just need a good night’s sleep,” I reassured my concerned partner, dismissing the unusual pains in my body. With a small child demanding my attention, I had little time to focus on my own well-being.
From the day my daughter was born prematurely, I was surviving on less than 45 minutes of sleep at a time. The responsibility of adhering to a two-hour feeding schedule for a preemie was demanding, and even by the age of two, her sleep was erratic, leaving me exhausted. Much of the knowledge I had acquired didn’t apply to my situation with a sick, premature child.
But it wasn’t just fatigue. Eventually, my body could no longer be ignored. I collapsed into a fetal position, prompting my husband to call for an ambulance.
Two weeks later, after losing 24 pounds from my already frail frame, I returned home unable to eat solid food and consumed by relentless pain. The diagnosis: Crohn’s disease. The doctors equipped me with various medications and told me, “Let’s hope for remission. It’s different for everyone.”
Confined to my bed for months due to my deteriorating health, I turned to writing. Propped up with pillows, too weak to lift my head, I typed on my laptop. Between restless naps, I began crafting parenting articles for national magazines. To my surprise, editors eagerly accepted my work and requested more. Writing had always been my aspiration; now, it was my only outlet.
It’s a peculiar experience to write about parenting while being unable to physically care for your own child. I penned articles like “Fun Activities to Do in Winter” and “Ways to Help Your Child’s Speech,” pulling from my experiences over the past couple of years for inspiration. Writing allowed me to maintain a connection to my identity as a mother, even though the day-to-day parenting fell on my husband. I wrote from my bed.
For an entire year, I observed life from the sidelines. I cherished the cuddles with my daughter, but even that was often painful with a squirming two-year-old. Books and stories became our primary means of bonding. We would sit together in bed, where I could read to her, share my stories, and make up tales just for her. “Read the one about the zoo, Mommy!” she would request. “Create a spy story!”
I wrote to uplift other mothers, to entertain my daughter, and to find solace in my own circumstances.
Over time, my health began to improve. One morning, I watched my daughter play with her aunt in the living room, pretending to be lost in the jungle, both erupting with laughter. I thought to myself, “There’s no way I could keep up with that,” forcing a laugh. Today was tough, but yesterday was better. I had eaten and managed to move around.
As I watched my daughter giggle, I began to question myself. Was it truly impossible for me to interact with her, or was I just reluctant to try? After a long year filled with hospital visits, bed rest, and pain, I wondered if I was subconsciously relinquishing my role as a mother to protect myself from the hurt of not being able to engage fully, much like my own mother had done. Motherhood isn’t always what we expect; it can be complex and painful.
Fast forward over a decade, and my now-teen daughters snuggle up beside me on the couch, reading their own stories aloud. Some days, that’s all I can do—listen, read, and cuddle. There are times when they take care of me more than I do of them. I may not be the ideal parent I once aspired to be, but who needs perfection? Cuddles and stories come pretty close.
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Summary:
Living with Crohn’s disease dramatically altered my experience of motherhood. After initially dedicating myself to researching parenting techniques, my illness forced me to adapt. I found solace in writing about parenting while being unable to physically care for my child, allowing me to maintain my identity as a mother. Over the years, I learned that motherhood isn’t about perfection; it’s about connection, love, and finding joy in the little things.
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