It wasn’t love at first sight, with my baby. With motherhood.
There you go...one of the hardest essays I've ever written.
Hey, hi, hello, Nǐ Hǎo (你好), Bonjour…
It’s Mother’s Day. And it’s the first official Dear Seekers letter. Annnnd, it’s MY first Mother’s Day. Oh wow. What a special one!
Although I believe that holidays play an important role at creating a sense of collective celebratory purpose, it also serves a big mirror reflecting the privilege, social inequality and bias in our society. And the message is almost always leaving someone behind.
Many who lost their mothers might still be grieving; many mothers who lost their children (some before they were even born) might want to hide away from this super commercialized day; many are still in the deepest pain for their inability to become a mother; many do not even know who their mother is; many cannot afford anything yet being bombarded by advertising telling them that “the necklace is ONLY $99 and she deserves it”…
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to be a party pooper here. As a mother myself, I absolutely believe mothers need to be celebrated. Every single day. I’m not a saint here either. I’m a human, who loves receiving a bunch of flowers, who loves the idea of being celebrated, who likes to be seen and heard. But, I just wanted to deliver this not-so-popular message here. Let’s keep the less privileged, the ones who are left out of this holiday, in our thoughts.
Alright, back on track…
The essay I’m sharing today was written on my i-phone notes during many of Eli’s naps. I think it took around 10 naps to finally finish it. It was probably one of the hardest thing for me to write. It’s so personal. So real. So raw. But just like many writers, writing is a way to process the tangled thoughts and unsolved feelings, this was definitely the case for me. Now, reading it as a reader, I fall for this new mother. I can sense the internal turmoils she was battling.
Join me as a reader, enjoy!
Love,
Sasha
During my pregnancy, I subconsciously chose not to be too attached to this fetus my body was nurturing. I thought of it was a coping mechanism for the “what ifs”. All in all, miscarriage happens to 1 in 5 women. But now I think it was more so because of the many losses I had experienced in my life- my parents got divorced when I was 2; I lost my mother at 14; got kicked out by my stepdad at 15... I had acquired the ability to detach easily when needed.
However, this ability is like cartilage- it’s strong because of its flexibility and adaptability yet it’s also super tender and weak. That’s why this ability scared me.
What if I don’t have the connection with my baby?
I became quite obsessed with the arrival of Eli. I wanted to meet him. To love him. But most importantly, I wanted the confirmation to prove my ability to love and connect with my own son. Instantly and unconditionally.
While I was carrying Eli in my womb, my husband’s sister in law was also pregnant with her baby boy. Two days after her son was born, we paid a visit. I was extremely pregnant at that point. Eli was coming out any second.
“It’s like I had known him already, you know. All along.” she described the instant connection with such joy. It sounded so poetic and beautiful to me. But as much as it brought me even more anticipation, it also came with its side effects- which was doubts. Doubts about if I would be able to form love like this rapidly enough.
Enough for what? I did not know.
The anticipation led me to social media. I was engaging quite relentlessly with baby content on Instagram. So the app wouldn’t leave me alone. As a social media strategist, I should’ve known better. But, I didn’t. It continued feeding me loads of content regarding motherhood. Especially images of mothers meeting their babies for the very first time. Whether it was in a water tub or on a hospital bed, one thing was almost always identical: the overwhelming joy. The tears. The heart-stopping moment.
I ate them all up. The more I consumed this type of content, the higher my expectation was building up. I was craving for it like a teenager craving to savour their first taste of alcohol.
On July 21st, after a fairly smooth and short delivery, Eli was born. He was put to lay on my chest, skin to skin.
And, I felt… nothing.
Nothing like expected anyway.
No roses dropping from the sky. No time freezing in slow motion. No heart pounding like it was going to explode. No tears dripping down my face.
Instead, I felt like meeting a stranger on a blind date who I didn’t even feel the connection with.
And immediately, the guilt, the shame, the confusion kicked in.
See? I knew it! You don’t have the ability to love your own child.
There is no connection between you two.
You are not meant to be a mother.
I wanted these thoughts to go away badly yet needed them to stay so I can be punished for who I am.
Two days later, we brought Eli home from the hospital. There is a giant mirror on the wall in the hallway. I suggested us, the three of us, to document this special moment with a selfie. As a souvenir. A piece of evidence. A digital memory. Just as I pressed the button on my phone, Stephen commented: “You are beautiful. You look very much like a mom now.” Although I was sure it was a compliment, I didn’t take it the way it was meant to be received. The thought of not falling in love with my son at the very first sight was still there haunting me. Bluntly and brutally.
So… I look like a mom now? What does that even mean? Do I look more mature- meaning I’ve aged overnight? Does my postpartum body give it all away? Are there some worry-lines added to my face?
How could I LOOK like a mom when I didn’t even feel like one?
“What do you mean?” I asked with a tone that was obviously offended. It caught him off guard. He didn’t expect the question at all, I can tell. Like he was charged with a crime he never remembered committing but because the prosecutor sounded so convincing that he had no choice but believing maybe he did.
“I mean, you act like a mom now,” he got nervous. But his answer didn’t really put me to ease. Instead, it got me even more deepened into my doubts. How should a mom supposed to act?
“Anyway, let’s go”. I wrapped up this very awkward conversation and dragged my exhausted body away from the scene.
One week has passed.
Two weeks have gone by.
A month has flew by.
The thought that I didn't fall in love with my baby at first sight was omnipresent. It made me doubt my own ability to love, to attach, to be a mother. I was scared of the monster that may exist inside of me.
One day, we got a sleep monitor to watch Eli when he naps. The black and white image, the grainy footage, the futuristic pixels aren’t the most appealing.
“It looks like he is laying down in a coffin,” Stephen jokes. At that moment, I instantly felt muscle cramp. My heartbeat fastened. The thought of him in a coffin swept me off the ground by the hurricane. Fast and furious. I started howling. Tears started coming down like a storm. I couldn’t stop. My mind rushed to the darkest space as fast as lighting.
“I was just joking. I’m sorry…” he was shocked by how a little joke had made such a big impact. My body started shivering. Started to shrink. I had to hold onto the kitchen counter for support.
The thought of him in a coffin kept coming back. Then, immediately shut down by my mind. Again and again. Push and pull. Excruciating. I felt for the first time what it was like to lose someone so engraved to every part of my cells. Like losing oxygen. A thought could have eaten me alive.
An hour later when I finally calmed down, my rational side kicked in as a saviour. I realized how much I love Eli. To a point that I would not hesitate to give up my own life for him. Anything for him.
It was that moment I realized two things. One. Not every mother’s experience is the same. Some bond with their babies instantly. Some take time to garner this connection. Two. Despite the fact that I didn’t feel the attachment with him right off the bat, I would still do or give up anything for him. THAT is unconditional love.
I didn’t fall in love with my baby at first sight because I already loved him before we met.
Links to the things I’ve consumed regarding “Motherhood”:
To the unknown. Click at your own risk.