Loveless Motherhood

Before motherhood, I had no clue what to do with a baby. As the youngest of my immediate and extended family, I was never really around anyone littler than myself. I have never babysat nor held one without wincing or from the safe (but socially awkward) distance of a long-arm extension. I didn’t even know where to begin making those ridiculous googling noises in return. And their wobbly bobbly heads… I wondered why parents didn’t simply keep them home until their little necks were strong enough.

Thankfully, there was a wealth of resources to get up to speed during my pregnancy. My parents showed me how to place a diaper on Mitchell, my Fabulous Frog, with the warning that my own baby would not be as compliant nor still when changed. And essentially everything else came online. BabyCenter provided me with pregnancy tips long before I had to search for bathing instructions, growth charts, or vaccination debates. How to nurse and store my milk came from Medela. And scattered far and wide across the web, were endless product reviews to inform me about the various gear my baby simply couldn’t live without.

I was appreciative that so much information was available. I couldn’t imagine if I had to shamefully ask each and every one of my queries out loud. I took immense comfort in anonymously trolling through the messages of advice, exhaustion, pride, and even rage. I figured if I only read enough - I could muster the confidence to at least not drop my baby. The only lingering question was: would I be able to love him? Despite already relishing every little kick along my pregnant way, I feared that if I were to need a c-section I wouldn’t release enough oxytocin to properly bond. I feverishly worried I would be a cold and mechanical mother.

These ideas made my husband think I was insane. He thought it wasn’t possible to not love your own child. And he seriously couldn’t understand why I would waste energy fretting about this. I didn’t think it was so far-fetched. You feel a connection or you don’t. And even more frightening, if you don’t, there is no online tutorial to help. I imagine plenty of women suffering from post-partum depression (PPD) struggle to feel closer to their babies. How many of them would admit this to themselves let alone their families? Would I? Would I simply pretend to be a great and loving mother until the day I snap?

On June 14, 2007, Ismaeel was born on a sunny afternoon in NYC (without the help of an epidural or c-section). It was uncanny how much he resembled my own baby photos. We couldn’t stop staring into our matching brown eyes and as he clutched onto my pinkie with his entire little hand, I had no doubt that I deeply and truly loved him. I was relieved to see the same feisty moves from his ultrasound days and laughed that I didn’t realize I have known and adored him all along.

Still, I don’t regret my pre-natal paranoia. While I didn’t suffer from PPD or a lack of bonding with my son, I now realize motherhood will require me to put my ego aside, often and without hesitation. Even though there is plenty of online support, it doesn’t absolve me from asking for help or speaking to my partner about the things I fear and struggle with. I can only hope that embracing this newfound accountability will strengthen my marriage as much as the bonds between me and my sons.

And yes, even on the days I snap, I love them all without question.

Of All the Things We Do to Our Children...

From the early days of purchasing a home pregnancy test kit to watching the tell-tale lines appear – you immediately fall into a psychological netherworld filled with frequent bouts of hysteria and paranoia. Granted, there are the many tender moments of bliss but even when those angelic babes sleep – your mind will drift towards the macabre. It is as if you are always wondering when the other shoe will drop.

You worry about them being smothered by their personalized lambie blankets. Or that an unsliced grape is an unavoidable choking hazard. A flight of stairs might as well be engulfed with flames. Scissors become as dangerous as a loaded gun. And don’t even get me started on the toxic germs from those freaks who insist on kissing your baby’s face! Seriously, there is essentially nothing that you don’t fear. And you even begin fearing fear by worrying too much sheltering will turn them into a different sort of monster.

So… Overtime you realize you have to be vigilant and find a balance. For the most part, I try to accept the things that I can’t control, silence my nervous nellies, and pack enough Purell in my pockets to overcompensate for my endless need to protect.

However, some other parents seem to have a different approach…





Unbelievable. Unfathomable.

Why did Mohammad Rizal feel the need to give his eighteen-month-old son Sumatran Ardi Rizal a cigarette? Was boredom really his motivation? Because toddlers are pretty entertaining enough without having to subject themselves to cancer.

But perhaps it is unfair for me to assume that everyone around the world has access to understand the true dangers of addiction and smoking. So okay, let’s forget the emphysema, voice box, and drug habit bit – what crazy parent gives their toddler a burning stick !?!

But seriously, what do I know? I am just another paranoid mother trying not to let her kids play with a bag of glass…