Rollercoaster

Not too long ago, I thought of motherhood as a rollercoaster ride – something requiring extreme courage. The bravest part was getting on, because once you take your seat and the safety bar locks down, you are in, committed, and there is no way to escape the steep plummets, wild turns and queasy stomach. All you can do is scream, catch your breath and wait for it to be over.

I’d always assumed I would have children. At 21, it was sooner than I had planned, and the closer the concept came to reality, the more I wondered if this was something I really wanted or something society and culture wanted me to want. I was terrified that I may have managed to brainwash myself into parenthood, and that the moment the baby would come out, I’d have no clue what to do with it. I felt motherhood was not for me – couldn’t be for me. Even when the nurses prepped the IV tubes for my scheduled c-section, I couldn’t tell if the queasiness in my belly was from my fear of needles or fear of becoming a mom.

Then I met him – Kaiser Liam. I’ve always enjoyed looking at babies, but like they say, it’s different when it’s your own. I felt nothing of the terrible foreboding I’d expected. I found myself in awe, staring down at a little person with curious chinky eyes. It wasn’t love yet, but something encouraging, like relief. We could live together sanely, I thought, as I counted 10 fingers and 10 toes. But admittedly, even as I held him close, I still saw myself a bit distant and detached. I was thinking, okay, I had bonding time already, I now needed a nanny. But the thing I didn’t realize then – naively, it seems now – is that when you’re breastfeeding, you’re pretty much latched on to each other for hours each day.

When we got home from the hospital, Kristian, my husband, was a big help and did as much as he could. He ran errands at the store for diapers and nursing pads, cooked meals, and would sometimes get up in the middle of the night to calm a fussy Kaiser. Then one morning, about two weeks later, when I had passed out from exhaustion and Kaiser couldn’t stop fussing, a dazed Kristian stirred out of bed and tried everything to calm him down to no avail. In resignation, Kristian simply laid Kaiser on the bed, between us and the fussy baby promptly fell asleep. All Kaiser had wanted was to be held close.

After that, I decided I had to try harder, and in the dark stillness of predawn the next night, half-awake to nurse him, I realized I was a mother. All my life, people had taken care of me: my parents and my grandparents and now, for the first time, it was my turn to take care of someone else and it wasn’t as scary as I’d always thought it’d be.       

For a while, it was just Kaiser and me at home every day. I was a little slow to catch the rhythm but eventually, I learned to decipher his cries: when he’s uncomfortable, when he’s gassy and, at the pediatrician’s advice, when he just wants to be held close and listen to his mother’s heartbeat, just like he used to for the last nine months. Babies are emotional, too.

This sense of equilibrium didn’t come from maternal instinct, which I don’t believe in anymore. I’ve had to read several baby books, ask family and friends for advice, and make frantic calls to my pediatrician’s office at the oddest hours. But so far, parenting is more manageable than I’d ever thought and yes, it has its rewarding moments. Some days, I’m still so amazed by the intensity of my feelings that I tease myself by imagining the alternative. I think of how much I would’ve lost if I’d never had him and how little I would have known it. Sometimes it feels like a near miss.

I’m easing back into daily routines now, but it’s not quite the same anymore. When I’m away from Kaiser, I spend the last hour with one eye on the clock. I get ready to leave a few minutes earlier to see him a few minutes sooner, my heart pounding a few beats faster as if I’m in love. And every time I walk into the room and he gives me that delighted look, I think, nope, this is one ride I never want to end.