I failed before I even started

How is a mom to win?

My son and I were separated immediately after he was born.

He had collapsed lungs and I had a stage four tear that required almost an hour of suturing post-birth. I know they laid him on my chest for a few minutes because we have the pictures to prove it, but I don't actually remember that happening.

After my stitches, they wheeled me down to the NICU say goodnight and after a brief and awkward wave (as he was being held within a fortress of beeping machines and tethers) I was wheeled right back up to my room where I collapsed into bed. I’d been in labor for 46 hours and hadn’t really slept, other than passing out in between every push.

The photographic proof he did get put on my chest. The time stamp was 6:11pm. By 6:27pm I was being sewn up.

The next time I saw my baby was 6 hours later. I limped my way down to the NICU, with my IV trailing along. I really wanted the wheelchair, but they insisted I walk, despite my ankles being so swollen, they were as thick as my thighs and every step I took causing pain.

How did he eat for those first hours? Did they give him formula? I didn't start collecting colostrum or pumping until the next day, so I really don’t know. I’m afraid to ask my husband.

When I got to his crib, which was really just a clear plastic tub, not unlike the one in our storage closet, where I save all the birthday and anniversary cards, I was terrified. I didn't feel “in love.”

All those movies that showed the mom crying and all those momfluencers who posted about how they were immediately in love when they first saw their baby.

That wasn't my experience.

I felt broken and beat up. Scared and alone. I felt awful for him being so tiny and so alone, but I didn't yet have a connection. Which of course made me feel even more awful.

I had already failed at this motherhood thing and we weren't even 8 hours in.

The nurse suggested I try breastfeeding him and it felt so awkward. I had friends who breastfed with a single arm while wrangling a rogue toddler with another. Here I was seated in a puffy chair and ten pillows on my lap, feeling completely out of control.

I was initially relieved when a woman with tight blond ringlets appeared at the door and pronounced she was the lactation consultant on duty, but that relief turned to dread. She quickly became annoyed at my ineptitude for mastering this thing that is supposedly so “natural” within her allotted five minute visit.

She grabbed my breast roughly without first asking consent and contorted it in her hand. “You need to sandwich it. Sandwich it!,” she kept insisting. Two kids and four collective years of breastfeeding, and I still don’t know what that means.

Breastfeeding was just another natural thing I was already a colossal failure at.

We were kicked out of our hospital room the next morning. I begged my doctor to write an exception note. She told me they’d charge us $25,000 if we stayed, so we took a dolly with all of the free stuff the hospital gave us (how generous!) and moved into my son’s NICU room. We were very blessed to have a private room with a recliner and that’s where we slept the next few nights.

Meanwhile, every few hours, I was mixing a cocktail of numbing spray and aloe vera and ice packs between my legs in a tiny hall bathroom, and washing pump parts and bottles in the communal sink with packets of Dial soap.

All the “natural” and “organic” baby products I had insisted we buy were lying to waste at home, as was the bottle drying station and all my BPA free bottles. I had to place bottle pieces on the dirty hospital counter and I was convinced I was poisoning my son in small doses.

The nurses kept calling me “Mom” and “Mama” and I kept wanting to swivel around and look for the woman they were referring to. Every salutation cemented the fact that I was not a good mother.

There were tiny wins in the hospital. Though, I’m struggling to remember more than a couple.

My son got removed from the leads so we could finally hold him against our bodies.

That was heaven. He folded into our chests perfectly. I like to say my head was carved by the Universe to fit into my husband’s shoulder nook perfectly. Our son was carved to fit into both of our chests.

And I was producing a ton of milk. I became obsessed with making more and more, since it was the only place I seemed to be succeeding. But it was short-lived since it led to an eventual, unruly over-supply.

By the time we were sent home, we were shells of ourselves. Nothing had gone as planned. My placenta had been thrown away like a dirty towel after I got an infection during labor (Failed!). I’d gotten an epidural despite planning to not (Failed!). And Pitocin to speed things up (Failed!). And they needed to use forceps, and a vacuum, and I still needed an episiotomy (FAIL! FAIL! FAIL!).

By the time we arrived at our San Francisco flat in the pouring rain, it had been nearly five days since my son had been born. I was petrified walking his tiny body up our rickety back stairs.

I loved him so much it hurt. I don’t know when it started. But there it was. That love you can’t explain that fills every cell of your being.

I would do anything for him.

I would be the perfect mother, if I could…but I had already failed.