My son?s arrival did not go quite as planned. After an unscheduled ?belly birth,? my whole body shook from the anesthetic, and I couldn?t cradle my baby in my arms like I?d yearned to do for 41 long weeks. Instead, my husband had to hold him on my chest so he didn?t slip off. This was the first time I felt I wasn?t enough as a mom.
Whether it was because of the C-section or just Mother Nature?s lot, breastfeeding was an agonizing challenge. No amount of squeezing, pumping, water drinking, visiting the breastfeeding clinic or taking herbs and medication could help me produce enough milk to sustain my child. Watching him ravenously gulp down his first bottle of formula, I realized he had been starving, and it shook me to my core. As his hunger was sated, my panic morphed into heartbreak, then became intense guilt and self-directed anger for being incapable of providing what was supposed to be so “natural.” I once again wasn?t enough for my son. Anxiety?an insidious creature that pecks away at my confidence, peppering it with worst-case scenarios and what-ifs?has been a lifelong acquaintance of mine. Becoming a first-time mom at the age of 38 raised my hypervigilance to new heights, and the shame of my early maternal shortcomings led me to think being an attentive mother meant being my son?s ?everything.?
?I?ll put him to bed tonight,? offered my husband. Nope, he needed ME, night after night, lying on the floor beside the crib.
?Rest, and I?ll get his lunch ready,...