I Think There's Something Wrong With Me

I think, there's something wrong with me.

My mom told me a story recently. How, when I was maybe around 9 or 10 years old, we were traveling somewhere and when the young children next to us started crying I turned to her and said, "And this is why I'm never having children." I was surprised to hear how young I was when I said this, but I was not surprised by the sentiment.

I'm not sure when, or why, or how I realized that expressing "I'm not a baby person" was not a societally-acceptable thing to say aloud. I just knew that when I heard people saying things like "Ohhh, what an adorable baby!", or "I love how babies smell.", or "I have baby-fever." it was better to remain quiet. But, I think there's something wrong with me, because I never related to those feelings. And that can't be right, because every woman loves babies, right?

Eventually, I came to accept that having a family and raising children is part of life. The vignettes formed in my mind showed a life and home filled with Hallmark moments, wonder and joy. That's what motherhood is, right?

I remember seeing the positive pregnancy test and feeling… a resolute acceptance, perhaps? Not the overwhelming joy everyone claims, or even the fear you sometimes hear about. I was just, kind of, numb I guess. Yet beneath that numbness was a buried spectre, whispering.

And so, over the next ten months, my body was a vessel growing life. My child. My child? That still didn't sound right to say. It didn't fit. But regardless, yes, I was growing my child despite feeling wholly separate from the experience. I should be feeling some soul-deep connection by now, right? Maybe that comes after they're born. That must be it. I mean, I'm just a vessel for the wonder of embryology at this stage, so when you really think about it, what even is there to connect to? Those feelings will click into place, don't worry.

I remember telling my husband that I wanted to have an unmedicated, natural vaginal birth. He supported my decision, accepting the reason I gave of "If the millennia of women who came before me could do it, I can do it." What I could barely admit to myself in the recesses of my mind was that I hoped the raw experience would anchor me to my daughter, and build that connection I didn't seem to have. I recall moments where I'd be overcome with fear and sadness that I would die while she was young and leave her without a mother, and thought to myself, "See, you do care about her. You're not a monster."

Four days past my due date, my water broke. I won't detail the next eight hours of what the doctor called a precipitous labor, although in retrospect I find our birth story quite entertaining. And epidurals are amazing. When they finally placed our daughter in my arms it was like… contented acceptance? Fuck. Where is that overwhelming bond everyone talks about? I think, there's something wrong with me.

I remember watching my daughter in her dock-a-tot, or her bouncer, or her playmat and thinking "This isn't so bad. Don't worry that you don't want to hold her much, remember you've never really been a baby person. This isn't surprising. And it's good to let others hold her so she doesn't become overly attached to you. Don't worry." And so, I didn't. I didn't let myself overanalyze why it was so easy to leave her at home while I went and got groceries, when others have told me they could barely leave the house without missing their baby. I wouldn't dissect the fact that I cried more when we left our dog for a weekend than when my parents took her overnight. I didn't have thoughts of harming her or myself, and I didn't have feelings of regret or resentment towards her. I just, didn't feel much, I guess. But that's okay, right?

When she was maybe 2 or 3 years old, my husband confessed he never expected that what everyone says about becoming a parent is true. That it feels like your heart is now living outside of your body. That there's a new sense of meaning to life. I froze. I could barely breathe. I swallowed my terror that he would see through me and realize I did not feel that way. Had yet to feel that way. Shit, shit, shit, what is wrong with me? Why am I so apathetic? No, I'm not apathetic. I do all the things without prompting or complaining. I consider her physical and emotional needs when making decisions from what clothes she needs in what sizes for the upcoming change in seasons to how to respond during tantrums. I setup sensory activities at home and take her to outside classes and different playgrounds. No, I'm not apathetic. So what's wrong with me, then?

About a year or two ago, my therapist said to me, "you can be a good mom, without finding motherhood rewarding or fulfilling." It's now been almost eight years since my daughter was born. I have broken down countless times, hating myself and my brain. Wondered why I hold on to hurt or anger for days or weeks when all I want to do is let it go and move past it. Searched for ways to fix myself. Questioned if I was ever really meant to be a mother. But my daughter is kind, and imaginative, and inquisitive, and playful, and well-spoken, and independent and caring, which has to count for something, right? So I've accepted that I may not find this phase of motherhood fulfilling or rewarding, but I'm still hopeful that I will eventually.