Learning to Love You
Dear Ollie,
You are now 4 years and 3 days old. 4 years ago at this time, I didn't know how love you.
When you were born, I was one of those moms who didn't bond quickly with her newborn. I was traumatized, truthfully. I had just given birth. Without drugs. I'm not usually one to overanalyze, but giving birth is a mind-effing-blowing thing.
Also, I had to really care for someone other than myself. I'm not too great at that. When I was a kid, I left my pet hamster outside in the sun. He died. I could never keep plants green. I forgot everyone's birthdays. Your dad and I hadn't even cared for a pet goldfish together. And as much as I'd love to tell you that I had already been taking care of your dad, I wasn't. We were both two very independent people and the only time I really had to wait on your dad was when he was sick, and even then he pretty much took care of himself. I cooked for him, kept our social calendar, helped him clothes shop, you know, but I never took care of him. And now here you were. You wouldn't let me sleep when I wanted, you wouldn't let me eat what I wanted, and now my body was completely torn apart. Most mothers must be able to flick that whole trauma thing away once they see the baby. I couldn't.
It wasn't that I didn't like you. I just didn't know how to love you. It didn't happen immediately. And I was suspicious of you. I am suspicious of change.
I remember once talking to a pregnant friend. She confided that she was worried she wouldn't bond with the babies. I didn't even realize at the time that this was a worry - a common worry amongst mamas, even. When I visited her after she had the twins, she said, "Blaine, God seriously ties a string between your heart and the hearts of your babies, and nothing can break it. You'll see."
You have no possible idea how guilty I felt when you popped out and the first thing out of my mouth wasn't something about how beautiful or amazing you were. It was about how I just pushed you out of my vagina. It was ecstatic pride, not in you, but in my body that was my first instinct. I didn't even cry. That's not motherly, I remember thinking. Our first meeting and I already had failed. And then our first two nights together, in the hospital with your dad sleeping at home, I was gritting my teeth, crying because I couldn't sleep, the nurses kept bringing you back because they said you were still crying for more breastmilk, but you weren't latching and I wasn't connecting mother-baby with you because all I wanted was a few hours sleep. Just a few hours sleep between those bitches checking my vitals (I'm fine!!!) and bringing you back in. And there I was, sitting with the GD TV not even working in a dirty Brooklyn hospital room, unwashed and hurting, feeling so incredibly lost and sorry for myself but knowing that I have to be resilient and positive because I'M SUPPOSED TO LIKE THIS. Because THIS IS WHAT WE WANTED. But at the same time, I was reading Facebook statuses and watching as all my friends and family are going on about their fun lives and I was kind of really regretting the whole "mess" I had gotten myself into. I was so unnatural.
Those first two weeks, when I was doing skin-to-skin and physically showing you that I was your mother and I would always love you and keep you safe, emotionally I was thinking about how maybe scientifically I could switch bodies with just about anyone in my life and come back when you were one year old. And then I would feel instantly guilty and start crying because I didn't want anyone to take you away from me, but I didn't know what I was frigging doing and a few hours sleep sounded just effing lovely.
I wanted to go back to work.
I wanted to clean the house.
I wanted to go to the grocery store.
I wanted to do just about anything to get away from the uncomfortable, routine, confusing, sticky boredom of being a new mom at home in that first month. I didn't sleep when you slept because a) I was too terrified something would happen to you and if it happened on my watch your dad might think that I caused it a teensy, weensy bit and b) I knew you would wake me up much too soon and I'd be even more of a wreck after a shortened nap. The first time you cried and I was by myself, it tore a pinprick-sized hole in my brain, just above my left ear, and every time you cried afterwards, it opened that hole just a smidge larger until my brain felt like it was leaking out of my ear and I never knew how to stop it.
(There's something that happens to her ears after a new mother gives birth. God has made it so that every single decibel is turned up louder in order for us to hear the smallest whimper. This works to our advantage when the baby is miles away. It works to our disadvantage when the baby is right next to our eardrums.)
I didn't think I was technically depressed because at the same time all of these feelings kept creeping up, I was enthralled by you. I couldn't WAIT to see you in the morning. We'd start each day with full-on excitement for the day to come. Then, sometime after lunch, I would start counting the hours until Doug got home from work, I would count the hours until I could put you down, and I would lie awake in bed trembling from fear for the first time I'd hear you cry. I'd be with you throughout the night, rocking you, changing you, feeding you, singing to you. I'd go to bed praying it would be the last time until morning. Morning would come and I'd be completely renewed and ready to see you again. I'd start the whole anxiety-inducing process all over again with a new heart.
And little things started to happen. I would watch you with absolute wonder when you did the things that the books all said you would. How did you learn that, I would ask myself. How did you know how to do these things? You would make me laugh. Or I'd see something through your eyes. I'd watch you with pride with all my friends. I found myself feeling blissful. I found myself feeling lucky. I'd ask myself, how is it that God felt it appropriate to give someone like ME someone like YOU?
Doug would listen to my doubts and tell me again and again how great I was doing. He'd remind me that I was feeding our child off of my body, and that you were clean, sleeping and healthy. He took me aside one night over dinner, grabbed my shoulders, looked me in the eyes and said, "Blaine. We don't have to like this. We just have to get through it." That was a huge turning point. Every new parent should have a partner who says that to them and gives them that permission to hate parenting just a little.
I realized that the bond had finally formed between you and I when I recognized Kairos moments, like:
Now that I look back, I don't think I had to learn to love you, Little. I think I just had to trust myself enough to let myself love you. New parents don't trust themselves enough, and truth be told, all the classes and research in the world wouldn't prepare new parents for that first child. We are all much too fragile and much too prone to lack of confidence to be able to feel as though we've done it right the first time. Maybe that's one reason why people have more than one child: to try to do it better the next time.
I tell you what, I wish I had learned that confidence trick a little earlier. I will always have guilt about our first couple of months together, but I will never regret them. It took those simple failures to realize how much I had to lose. Things came easily to me before you, Ollie, and I'll now never forget that.
My dearest angel, I love you so very much. I can't imagine a world without you in it and I'm so very proud of you. You are funny, you are genuine, you're strong and silly, you're smart and artistic and you have one heckuva memory. I'm so glad I hung in there until God tugged that little string that pieced our hearts together. Even though you always tell me you're not a baby, I'm going to take the chance right now and say it. Happy 4th Birthday, Baby. I love you.
You are now 4 years and 3 days old. 4 years ago at this time, I didn't know how love you.
When you were born, I was one of those moms who didn't bond quickly with her newborn. I was traumatized, truthfully. I had just given birth. Without drugs. I'm not usually one to overanalyze, but giving birth is a mind-effing-blowing thing.
Also, I had to really care for someone other than myself. I'm not too great at that. When I was a kid, I left my pet hamster outside in the sun. He died. I could never keep plants green. I forgot everyone's birthdays. Your dad and I hadn't even cared for a pet goldfish together. And as much as I'd love to tell you that I had already been taking care of your dad, I wasn't. We were both two very independent people and the only time I really had to wait on your dad was when he was sick, and even then he pretty much took care of himself. I cooked for him, kept our social calendar, helped him clothes shop, you know, but I never took care of him. And now here you were. You wouldn't let me sleep when I wanted, you wouldn't let me eat what I wanted, and now my body was completely torn apart. Most mothers must be able to flick that whole trauma thing away once they see the baby. I couldn't.
It wasn't that I didn't like you. I just didn't know how to love you. It didn't happen immediately. And I was suspicious of you. I am suspicious of change.
I remember once talking to a pregnant friend. She confided that she was worried she wouldn't bond with the babies. I didn't even realize at the time that this was a worry - a common worry amongst mamas, even. When I visited her after she had the twins, she said, "Blaine, God seriously ties a string between your heart and the hearts of your babies, and nothing can break it. You'll see."
You have no possible idea how guilty I felt when you popped out and the first thing out of my mouth wasn't something about how beautiful or amazing you were. It was about how I just pushed you out of my vagina. It was ecstatic pride, not in you, but in my body that was my first instinct. I didn't even cry. That's not motherly, I remember thinking. Our first meeting and I already had failed. And then our first two nights together, in the hospital with your dad sleeping at home, I was gritting my teeth, crying because I couldn't sleep, the nurses kept bringing you back because they said you were still crying for more breastmilk, but you weren't latching and I wasn't connecting mother-baby with you because all I wanted was a few hours sleep. Just a few hours sleep between those bitches checking my vitals (I'm fine!!!) and bringing you back in. And there I was, sitting with the GD TV not even working in a dirty Brooklyn hospital room, unwashed and hurting, feeling so incredibly lost and sorry for myself but knowing that I have to be resilient and positive because I'M SUPPOSED TO LIKE THIS. Because THIS IS WHAT WE WANTED. But at the same time, I was reading Facebook statuses and watching as all my friends and family are going on about their fun lives and I was kind of really regretting the whole "mess" I had gotten myself into. I was so unnatural.
Those first two weeks, when I was doing skin-to-skin and physically showing you that I was your mother and I would always love you and keep you safe, emotionally I was thinking about how maybe scientifically I could switch bodies with just about anyone in my life and come back when you were one year old. And then I would feel instantly guilty and start crying because I didn't want anyone to take you away from me, but I didn't know what I was frigging doing and a few hours sleep sounded just effing lovely.
I wanted to go back to work.
I wanted to clean the house.
I wanted to go to the grocery store.
I wanted to do just about anything to get away from the uncomfortable, routine, confusing, sticky boredom of being a new mom at home in that first month. I didn't sleep when you slept because a) I was too terrified something would happen to you and if it happened on my watch your dad might think that I caused it a teensy, weensy bit and b) I knew you would wake me up much too soon and I'd be even more of a wreck after a shortened nap. The first time you cried and I was by myself, it tore a pinprick-sized hole in my brain, just above my left ear, and every time you cried afterwards, it opened that hole just a smidge larger until my brain felt like it was leaking out of my ear and I never knew how to stop it.
(There's something that happens to her ears after a new mother gives birth. God has made it so that every single decibel is turned up louder in order for us to hear the smallest whimper. This works to our advantage when the baby is miles away. It works to our disadvantage when the baby is right next to our eardrums.)
I didn't think I was technically depressed because at the same time all of these feelings kept creeping up, I was enthralled by you. I couldn't WAIT to see you in the morning. We'd start each day with full-on excitement for the day to come. Then, sometime after lunch, I would start counting the hours until Doug got home from work, I would count the hours until I could put you down, and I would lie awake in bed trembling from fear for the first time I'd hear you cry. I'd be with you throughout the night, rocking you, changing you, feeding you, singing to you. I'd go to bed praying it would be the last time until morning. Morning would come and I'd be completely renewed and ready to see you again. I'd start the whole anxiety-inducing process all over again with a new heart.
And little things started to happen. I would watch you with absolute wonder when you did the things that the books all said you would. How did you learn that, I would ask myself. How did you know how to do these things? You would make me laugh. Or I'd see something through your eyes. I'd watch you with pride with all my friends. I found myself feeling blissful. I found myself feeling lucky. I'd ask myself, how is it that God felt it appropriate to give someone like ME someone like YOU?
Doug would listen to my doubts and tell me again and again how great I was doing. He'd remind me that I was feeding our child off of my body, and that you were clean, sleeping and healthy. He took me aside one night over dinner, grabbed my shoulders, looked me in the eyes and said, "Blaine. We don't have to like this. We just have to get through it." That was a huge turning point. Every new parent should have a partner who says that to them and gives them that permission to hate parenting just a little.
I realized that the bond had finally formed between you and I when I recognized Kairos moments, like:
- When I first realized that I was excited to see you in the morning and you were happy to see me, too. (Those are the confidence boosts every new mama needs, those that battle the constant waves of fear)
- When we finally got the breastfeeding thing down. (That made me feel like I could nurse the entire universe and that I just had)
- When I told my sister that you were falling asleep when I sang to you, and she said, "That's because you're his Mama." ("Naw," I remember saying, "It's only because he's tired." "NO." Courtney insisted, "It's because he knows your voice and he trusts you.")
Now that I look back, I don't think I had to learn to love you, Little. I think I just had to trust myself enough to let myself love you. New parents don't trust themselves enough, and truth be told, all the classes and research in the world wouldn't prepare new parents for that first child. We are all much too fragile and much too prone to lack of confidence to be able to feel as though we've done it right the first time. Maybe that's one reason why people have more than one child: to try to do it better the next time.
I tell you what, I wish I had learned that confidence trick a little earlier. I will always have guilt about our first couple of months together, but I will never regret them. It took those simple failures to realize how much I had to lose. Things came easily to me before you, Ollie, and I'll now never forget that.
My dearest angel, I love you so very much. I can't imagine a world without you in it and I'm so very proud of you. You are funny, you are genuine, you're strong and silly, you're smart and artistic and you have one heckuva memory. I'm so glad I hung in there until God tugged that little string that pieced our hearts together. Even though you always tell me you're not a baby, I'm going to take the chance right now and say it. Happy 4th Birthday, Baby. I love you.
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