Bad Parent: Bond Rate
It took me a long time to fall in love with my baby.
by Lisa Emmerich
February 26, 2009
A little something in my heart stirred as I thought of Sasha all grown up.
But change didn't come swiftly.
Sasha said her first word — duck — very early. As she expressed her interests, we could agree on things we loved to do together, like scattering breadcrumbs at the duck pond.
Every day, I completed the tasks that added up to loving her — even when I didn't like them. I also took on a few editing jobs, joined a book club and left Sasha with a sitter once a week despite screams of protest.
One day, she pointed above the line of trees surrounding our house and said, "boo sguy." She had been listening after all. We rambled around town, learning new things — she about the world, me about her. Like me, Sasha could spend hours at the library, engrossed in a new book. We toured the parks in our small town and picked a favorite playground for picnics. She developed a sense of humor, giggling if I put my shoe on my head or called a banana an apple, then copying me and laughing even harder at her own antics. My love bubbled up and swelled into something too big for a name.
I felt so deeply attached to Sasha that when I learned I was pregnant with a second baby, I worried I'd lose my tight and tremendous bond with her. But the feeling passed. Experience told me the hard parts get easier, the bad things reveal themselves to be important — or even wonderful: Looking back on Sasha's birth, I remember the brackish tang of her tiny, wrinkled fingers in my mouth and I'm glad to have that memory. (Even if it was gross.)
When I didn't immediately recognize my second daughter's place in the weekday routine I'd carved for Sasha and myself, I didn't panic. I just gave it time. Sasha immediately warmed to Mimi, begging to hold her constantly, singing her to sleep, even sharing her toys.
Eventually she was mine.
So I rocked and rocked and rocked my new little stranger. I smelled her sweet milk breath. I avoided the online bonding checklists. I just let her be herself. And eventually she was mine.
Now I look into my daughters' eyes, four bands of gold ringed with ribbons of blue — so different from my own coffee brown eyes — and know for certain we were made for one another.
I tell my mom's bedtime story like this: "I noticed two perfect stars dancing together. As I reached for them, they twirled their way into my pocket and I knew they would be my children. I picked you, and you picked me back."
"That's a good story, Mommy," Sasha said the first time I told it, sitting on a pink kid-sized chair wedged between the two girls' beds.
"That's because it's true," I said.
©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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