Two very different love stories

The assumption is often that Mothers experience an instant flood of love for their newborns. An unbreakable, incomparable, maternal bond. Is this always true?  Is this a healthy assumption? Or does it just add pressure and negate the fact that it’s not always about the immediacy of falling in love with your baby, but it can be something that grows and enriches. After I’d had little O, I couldn’t have fathomed it being any other way than an overwhelming sense of adoration. But my second experience was very different.

Baby O

I caught you in my hands and swept you up through the water, hugging you into my chest. Your first cry escaped from your little, gaping, blue mouth. Your scrawny body, your folded limbs and wrinkled skin flooded with a soft pink hue as you took your first, hungry breaths. You rose and fell with the sobs that escaped my exhausted lips. I did it.

I fell into my hospital bed after cold, anaemic toast and sugary, tepid tea. Such an unappealing meal never tasted so divine. Despite being awake for 2 solid days, I ushered sleep away that night. All I wanted to do was to stare in pure wonderment at your sleeping face, bathed in the blue glow of my hospital room. I lay gazing, to the soundtrack of soft footsteps and distant digital beeps. I was high on a ferocious love in which my heart groaned with a sudden, stretching increase in capacity. It would swell every time my eyes met your face, or each time you came to mind. You’d not done a single thing, but you’d won me wholeheartedly.

I loved you immediately, hopelessly, vulnerably. And just when I didn’t believe I could possible love any more, I fell more in love as I discovered you.

Baby C

You entered the world in that very same pool, a mere 20 months later. Instead of winter darkness veiling the windows, summer sunshine danced in slivers through the slatted blinds. Your quiet birth gave way to chaos as people crowded the room, urgently attempting to remove a stubborn placenta. They were successful, and we carried you out, small and so new, a mere 5 hours later. Moments down the road, we arrived home to the welcome of family. We sipped champagne whilst your brother cooed over your blinking little face.

I didn’t devour a night alone with you or gaze upon your face in soft blue light. There were no lazy lie-ins. We didn’t spend your Daddy’s paternity leave recovering from long nights with box-set binges whilst you lay nestled between us on crumpled white sheets.

The first three weeks at home passed, fuelled by adrenaline, and a crash course in learning how to manage two young children. I had extra hands of support, before all help left, back to work and normal life. The usual toe curling, breastfeeding pain of the early days didn’t stop. And your frustration and pain became increasingly evident. Health Visitors, lactation consultants, midwives and GP’s were kind, and well meaning, but none could explain or understand the cause or effect of your constant cries. It took months to label your distress.

I wanted so desperately to love you more, to feel compelled to nuzzle your face and neck. I felt a fierce, lioness protectiveness. You were my young. On one hand I had your chatty, affectionate brother, and on the other, a baby who did little more than scream or claw at my chest. There was little reverie, only survival. I didn’t know you, and it seemed that you didn’t like me.

Your first six months sauntered by. A mixture of troubleshooting, frantic google searches, confusion and second guessing.

And then, one day, the sun broke through the clouds. A rainbow of rich and potent colour threw a prism against a grey and stubborn sky. A mere week after writing, heartbroken about your undiagnosed reflux, change, world-changing change had been just a breath away and I didn’t know it.

Suddenly, your smiles brightened your face more freely. Your back arching screams ceased You gobbled up hungrily every morsel I put in front of you. I delighted in cooking for you, finding such joy that my efforts pleased you. You started to look at me with a look of love, as if you were finding your comfort in my presence. I started to know you, to enjoy you, to see flickers of character in your generous giggles, and the way you gazed at your brother. I began to learn that you adored your baths, that lots of kisses made you grin a big, old man, toothless grin, and you delight in being naked!

Your brother shocked me with an increased capacity for love, whereas you taught me the incredible lesson of perseverance and alerted me to a strength I never knew I possessed. My love for you has grown, as deep as it has wide. You are my labour of love. We have won each other, and found our way deep into each others hearts.

But, my darling, you were worth every single moment.
And I cant, for love nor money, stop kissing your gorgeous little face.

 

3 thoughts on “Two very different love stories

  1. Gorgeous post 😍 You’re so right, there are a great many versions of falling in love with your child, and no one is ‘right’ or better than another.

    When Leo was born, I desperately hoped for that rush of overwhelming love; after the heartache of losing his brother and the fear of pregnancy, I felt (perhaps wrongly) that I deserved a moment of sheer, unadulterated bliss.

    But as they placed his writhing body on my chest, admist the chaos of an assisted delivery and the cacophonous him of health professionals who had rushed m the room in response to the emergency buzzer, I felt…shock. He was here. He was alive. He was mine.

    Of course, as the days wore on, I felt my heart flood with love for my beautiful boy, but it wasn’t how I had imagined. So thank you for sharing, and making me feel like that’s ok.

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  2. Such an honest and thoughtful post. After my first son was born and they placed him on my chest, I remember gazing into his eyes knowing that I loved him but not feeling that overal gush of love. I wondered what was wrong with me, I knew I loved him but where were the tears, the excited that everyone has?! Around 4 weeks later I was sat in a coffee shop and he woke for a feed and as I scooped him out of his car seat it hit me.. I sat in the middle of this coffee shop and realised I was a Mummy. I was his Mummy and oh my goodness did I love him! Then the tears silent fell.

    During my second pregnancy, I had an emotional time. We discovered my son would have problems with his feet, I was kept in hospital for a week as he was laying the wrong way and then the evening came and he was born. He was placed into my arms and I cried. I cried because he had arrived, I cried because I felt so lucky to have another little boy, I cried because I was once again a Mummy and I cried because I loved him. This time that rush of love hit me straight in the face.

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    1. Thanks for your lovely reply Hun. And for being honest too! These assumptions don’t always ring true for everyone hey? And then the expectation on ourselves is high and pressured. I hope your sons feet are okay xx

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