I Was Late to the Party

I had high hopes for how I’d feel when I finally got pregnant. And I had plenty of time to think about it, too, because I had struggled for more than three years to get to that point. And when I say struggled, I mean pushed a boulder up a hill. Thanks to incredible modern science and the generosity of a stranger, we finally succeeded. I thought would be flooded with maternal instinct and overwhelming love for this tiny being to whom I was inexorably linked.

Overnight; instantly; forever.

Except once we got that boulder over the summit, we encountered many tiny boulders on the way down in the form of small pregnancy complications. I didn’t feel maternal and glow-y. I felt anxious, incredulous, and nauseous. I was first diagnosed with twins, then we lost one, then I had a complete placenta previa (which eventually resolved), then I spent the latter half of the pregnancy borderline gestationally diabetic. With my belly getting ever bigger, much of the time I felt like had an alien living inside me who couldn't be fed sugar lest he make the dreaded transformation from cute, cuddly mogwai to ferocious, violent gremlin. Or something. I'm not really sure how gestational diabetes works.

I spent hours intently concentrating on bonding with this alien who regularly kicked my bladder and head-butted my right ribs. I stared at the 3D ultrasound and tried to imagine pink flesh and tiny eyelashes on the alien, who thanks to the miracles of technology looked to me a bit like a gooey mummified skeleton in muted sepia tones. I really wanted to love him. But instead I felt tired, overwhelmed, nervous, and terribly frightened that I wouldn’t be able to pull off this whole motherhood thing once my nine-month probationary period had expired.

So I told myself, “Self, every lady who has given birth since the invention of time has said she instantly fell madly in love with her child the moment she saw him or her. You’ll bond when you meet him.” When he finally made his appearance, I was exhausted from a 16-hour labor, numb from the waist down, bleeding profusely, embarrassed for repeatedly vomiting into a cup for several hours in front of my husband, and relieved it was finally over. The nurses checked him over, cleaned off the majority of the disgusting goo, wrapped him in a blanket, covered his head with a striped hat, and handed him to me. Groggily, I said all the things I was supposed to say. “We’ve waited so long for you!” and “We’re a family now!” But I didn’t feel it. I felt like I was being handed a tiny stranger with squinty eyes and a lifetime of needs I had no idea how to meet.

I took him home, even though I wasn’t sure I really wanted to, and I pretended to be happy about it. The first three weeks are still blurry, the way you look back on a night where you had too much to drink. You remember scraps of events and shades of feelings. I remember the baby wouldn’t breastfeed,  and I felt like it was just another in my list of failures at motherhood – my body didn’t want to get pregnant, it didn’t like being pregnant, and now it couldn’t feed the baby. I remember crying a lot, at everything and nothing at all. I remember feeling like the world had ended and desperately wanting to revert to my pre-infant life because I had made a terrible, awful mistake. I remember feeling protective of the newborn -- as in, please don't drop him on his head but otherwise yes hold him because I don't really want to -- but nothing as strong as the desire to die for him if need be. It was nothing at all like the diaper commercials, or that time Rachel gave birth on “Friends,” or even what my friends and family had experienced. I remember being miserable. I remember sending a text to a good friend that said I didn’t think I loved my son.

My kind friend, in her profound loving wisdom, told me that she knew I loved him or else I wouldn’t be concerned about not loving him. My counselor, who I started seeing weekly, told me to keep faking the love until it came naturally. My husband told me whatever I needed to hear at the moment. My friends told me the baby was adorable, it would be worth it, and it would get easier.

Eventually, it did.

Somewhere around 6 or 8 or 10 months into motherhood, I found myself looking at the baby’s dark blue eyes and gummy smile sprouting tiny teeth, and I felt a pull on my heart. I felt a softening in my soul, like I was melting just slightly, right under those same ribs that had been repeatedly kicked. What was obligation became fondness. Then adoration. Then something more, something deeper. I started wanting to whisper “Momma loves you” next to his ear when I held him, or rocked him, or came within three feet of him. I began thanking god for this child every night before I fell asleep. Motherly emotions of pride, awe, happiness, and love slid around me like a beautiful blanket. I marveled at each new skill he learned and cried during his first hair cut because he looked like such a big boy.

By his first birthday party, I felt so in love that it’s painful to look back at our first several months together. I still feel a heavy guilt for thinking I might never love him, and an aching sadness that I missed out on all the cuddling and gushing and elation that everyone but me seemed to feel during our first weeks home. I like to think that what's important isn't the few months I missed, but all the months I've loved him since.

It was a long, slow, difficult walk to that party, but I finally got there.