When I was pregnant I had this whole plan. I was going to give birth, pop up off the table, breastfeed effortlessly, go home, become Martha Stewart, and we’d all live happily ever after.
You may all laugh now. I’ll wait. I’m laughing too!
Done? Ok, well here’s how things really went…
On the way to the hospital for my induction, the car broke down. I called AAA, which was in my name, and they said I had to stay and wait for them. I said no (several times) and they eventually agreed to let me leave my card and my license there with X (Oh, introducing my new name for my ex! Creative, eh?) and I could go. So, X’s friend drove me to the hospital, pulled up to the door, and drove away the second I got out of his truck. I lugged my bag through the hospital myself until I got to the elevator and a nice man insisted on carrying it for me. By the time X got there I was hooked up and having contractions. I was scared out of my mind suddenly. I didn’t know how to tell people that suddenly I was petrified of what was about to happen. So we sat there in silence. The only time we spoke was when I asked for ice chips or a popsicle. Other people came to visit later in the afternoon. Eventually my water was broken. I still never dilated. 31 hours after the whole ordeal started, I had a c-section. I feel guilty because I couldn’t bring him into the world the right way. That I couldn’t hold him right away.
Then came the milk situation. I didn’t make any. Hours of pumping, of him trying to latch on, hours of trying, and I never made more than a teaspoon or two of colostrum. After two weeks I gave up and just planned on formula feeding.
Because of the c section, I couldn’t walk. It also then hit me that since I’ve always been a disorganized wreck, I had no idea HOW to be Martha Stewart. Everything was crumbling around me. Everything including my relationship.
I knew things with X would not end well 3 weeks after I had the baby. Things slowly unraveled, and when my son was 14 months old, X moved out.
My whole plan had crashed and burned in front of my face. The incredible guilt of this all hits me occasionally, especially when I see the “perfect” mothers. The lovingly married always calm women to whom house cleaning is second nature and giving birth was a breeze. I feel so guilty, even though he’s turning out fine!
Although I feel like I’m constantly treading water, I know that we’ll be ok. I just have to get rid of this guilt!