Bad Parent: Bond Rate
It took me a long time to fall in love with my baby.
by Lisa Emmerich
February 26, 2009
Toting Sasha around the neighborhood in a Bjorn, I began to look more like an experienced mother. I offered a pregnant friend tips on swaddling and gas relief and recommendations for baby massage classes. But, curled in bed with Sasha, I wondered if I'd ever be able to stop faking it.
It turns out I'm not the only one.
My friend Kate tells this story: Weeks after one of her twin boys began locking eyes and cooing at her, the other one wouldn't even look in her direction. One afternoon she sat for ten minutes putting on her best happy mommy face, singing and joking and baby-talking him. He didn't even look at her. Then he started crying. She put him down. "You don't love me?" she hissed, cursing at him. "I do all this for you and you won't even look at me!"
That stoic infant has grown into an exceptionally squeezable toddler who often breaks away from the action during a playdate just to lean his head on Kate's shoulder.
I didn't know Kate when Sasha was born, and other friends who later admitted to harboring the same feelings of ambivalence would — like me — never have revealed them at the time.
On the internet, I read trite pieces of advice that were supposed to encourage bonding. Among them: sing, tell her you love her, read, talk constantly, breastfeed on demand, use baby signs, react swiftly to her needs. I had done all of it. The checklist exasperated me.
One article, by prenatal psychologist David B. Chamberlain, Ph.D, advocated the usual techniques but also advised parents to "Make the quantum leap in your mind that this communication channel can bear all sincere and earnest messages."
I had to believe I was good enough to be her mother.
I had to believe she was mine; I had to believe I was good enough to be her mother.
I finally called my mom, in tears. She was the first person to tell me that spending all day caring for a baby was not just challenging but some days awful, tedious, or nightmarish. She told me I was doing everything right and called me a wonderful mother.
"I have seen you with Sasha and you love her," she said. "Stop worrying and believe me. Just keep doing what you're doing."
Okay, I thought. I closed my eyes and imagined Sasha as a young mother. Her honey hair would be pulled off her face in a lopsided ponytail. She'd be swathed in a spit-up encrusted T-shirt and bawling at me over the phone.
I'd tell her all about it. I'd tell her it's impossible to get mothering right because we never know the results of our actions, and it's okay to feel unnerved. I'd tell her that she shouldn't beat herself up for feeling ambivalent, for wanting to get away from the baby, for wanting to work. I'd tell her that we'd rather not do a lot of the things we must do as a mother — scrubbing poop off the living room carpet, for instance, or staying up all night with a screaming child. But we wouldn't let anyone else do it for us. I'd tell her it's okay to hate those things but love your baby.
©2009 Lisa Emmerich and Babble
About the Author
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Lisa Emmerich is a freelance writer, editor and photographer. She teaches feature writing at the University of Florida in Gainesville, where she and her husband raise their two daughters. |
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