For as long as I can remember, I have dreamed of becoming a mother. Maybe it’s partially because I had such an incredible example set for me by my own mother – she is loving, compassionate, warm, and seems to so naturally know what to do in every situation – and maybe it has always just been a part of who I am.
When I was eight years old, my parents announced to me and my two older brothers that my mom was pregnant, and I was thrilled. When my little sister was born, I adored her, and wanted to look after her all the time. I loved holding her, smelling her sweet baby smell, picking out her tiny clothes and pretending to know exactly what I was doing.
When my own daughter was born on February 7th, my whole world changed in ways that I hadn’t ever imagined, and in an instant. After 28 hours of labor, they placed my tiny baby on my chest and I was overwhelmed with the love and joy and happiness that I expected, but also with doubt and fear.
The first few weeks with Georgina were everything and nothing like I had imagined. She was beautiful and perfect, I felt so lucky to be her mother, and I adored every inch of her tiny body, but I was shocked with how emotionally fragile I was. Looking back, it’s obvious that it was a rush of post-natal hormones that caused some baby blues, but it was hard to see clearly as I was going through it, mainly as I had never experienced feelings like that.
I felt overwhelmed and cried often, but when asked by my husband or my mom what was upsetting me, I couldn’t make sense of it in my head, let alone verbalize it. I felt the weight and responsibility of being Georgie’s mother, but thought that I was doing everything wrong.
In the first few weeks, babies have simple needs – to feed, sleep, and be loved (wise words as told to me by my mom) and I was capable of all three, but still felt like I was failing. I was exhausted from a long labor followed by caring for a newborn, and I was completely rattled in the early days of this new life.
On Valentine’s Day, when Georgie was exactly one week old, we escaped the city and went to my parents house in the suburbs. It was wonderful to have more space, fresh air, and the help of my parents as Tom and I figured things out. Seriously, having people to help with the piles of laundry and stocking the fridge and cooking dinner was the most wonderful gift! Also, there is a comfort that surrounds you in those early days of parenthood by being around your own parents. We were so lucky to have their help.
I remember one night, around 8pm, when I was already in pajamas (maybe I had never changed out of them that day!?) and clutching my water bottle (nursing makes you the thirstiest person alive), heading upstairs to get some sleep while Tom took over looking after Georgie. I saw my dad in the hallway and I guess he just knew from looking at me, so he opened his arms and gave me a big hug. I immediately started to cry on his shoulder and whispered, ‘It’s so hard, Daddy.’ He said, ‘I know, Cookie.’ He told me that I was doing a great job, and that it would get easier, which at the time, was hard for me to believe.
Once Georgie hit about four weeks, everything started to change. With a few weeks of motherhood under my belt, I had some semblance of understanding what to do, we had hit our stride with nursing, Georgie started sleeping six hour chunks at night and most importantly, I felt like myself again.
People say that having a child is like watching a piece of your heart walk around in the outside world. I always thought it was a sweet sentiment, but could never truly grasp what it meant until I had a child of my own. My love for Georgie is beyond anything, and all I want is for her to be happy and cared for and safe. Everyday I do my best to be the mother that she deserves – the mother I dreamed I would be when I was a little girl. And everyday, I just hope I am doing ok!
