In July 2006, my first daughter was born. Throughout my pregnancy, I worked hard to plan everything perfectly. My daughter was due during my Summer break, and our house was baby ready. She was born healthy, and I had no complications with either pregnancy or delivery. I should have been thrilled from the outset, focused on loving and bonding with my daughter in those first few weeks of her life in our ‘baby bubble’.
Instead, I felt terrified. During the first few months of motherhood, I felt myself mourning my pre-baby life. An introvert by nature, I now had little to no time to myself. Also, mothering instincts eluded me. Her cries all sounded the same, and I had to guess what she needed. Once she was fed and changed, I couldn’t understand why she was still upset. There were times where I had to just put her in her crib, crying, and go into the next room and cry myself because I felt like I had no idea what she wanted or what I was supposed to do.
Breastfeeding was a disaster. Being pretty ‘blessed’ in the breast department, I assumed it would be easy. I didn’t go to breastfeeding classes or talk with any lactation consultants beforehand due to my overconfidence. I figured that you offer the breast, baby eats, repeat. Right?
Wrong! My daughter would not latch on. I tried a nipple shield, which she took, but I could see that there was very little milk flowing through it. By the second night in the hospital, she was screaming for food. I couldn’t blame her. The nurse offered us a bottle of formula. My husband took it and fed it to her while I sat on my bed and cried.
I ended up giving up breastfeeding at three weeks postpartum. I probably should have reached out and spoken to somebody about my issues, but I did not want to talk about how my body had failed my child. Handling failure was not something I was used to having to face. If I could turn back time, I would tell my younger, first-time mothering self that there is no shame in asking for help – but I did not know that back then.
Sleep was another struggle. My baby came into the world with her days and nights mixed up. Thankfully, I had family that would come and watch her during the day because I was up with her most nights. When my mother-in-law would come watch her, I would catch myself thinking things like, ‘Why would you want to sit and hold a baby all day? I’d rather do anything else.’ I’d then feel horribly guilty.
What to read next
Thankfully, my depression or ‘baby blues’ never led me to want to harm my child, but I did feel a sense of relief when I was granted space from her. I'd sleep during those times – to both rest and to escape from my life – a life I was starting to see as a never-ending punishment for a choice that I made. Motherhood was not the happy place I had once envisioned it to be. Not even close. It felt more like a trap.
Luckily, my feelings eventually began to improve. By the following Summer, when my baby turned one, she was a happy, healthy toddler who was very inquisitive, verbal and fun to be around. I was also able to understand and respond to her needs much more easily.
I was very fortunate that things got better on their own. I learned that first year that motherhood is not an exact science, and there are many aspects of parenting a child that no amount of planning can prepare you for. Learning and accepting that was both eye-opening and an amazing relief. Nine years later, that still rings true.
I love my 9-year-old daughter fiercely. I reflect on our first year as the start to a journey of self-discovery, self-improvement, and falling in love. In a way, the experience of having the ‘baby blues’ ended up making me a better mother as well as a better person. And for that, I am both blessed and grateful.
(by Jill Valentino for Good Housekeeping US)
