The emotions of motherhood

When my daughter was born, I was relieved, relieved that the labor was over, relieved that she was no longer blue and was healthy, and relieved that I didn’t have one of those babies that people say they are the cutest ever and walk away mumbling about how ugly they were – she was perfect in every way.



When my daughter was two days old, I was naive; naive that she was so yellow, naive that her bilirubin levels were at 18 and just how dangerous that was, naïve about how to handle getting a baby to the hospital for treatment. I didn’t know what questions to ask, I didn’t know what the doctors were talking about, I didn’t know anything but I trusted the doctors and I was able to bring my little girl back home after only a few days.



When my daughter was two months old, I was scared; scared of what I might have exposed her to that made her so sick, scared that the ER wouldn’t be able to find out what was wrong, scared when they sent me home with a Tylenol remedy only to wake up the next morning with bloody stool in her diaper. I was scared after the nurse over the phone called me back changing the plans to take her back to the ER instead of the doctor’s office. I was scared when they admitted her into the children’s hospital and took her from me to run tests. I was scared when she cried all night long and there was nothing I could do for her – not even feed her since she wasn’t allowed to eat. I was scared she would start bleeding again once I was allowed to resume feeding her but fortunately she did not and we were released a few days later with the prognosis of a stomach bug.



When my daughter was four months old, I was happy, happy that she was slowly changing into a baby and not a newborn. Happy that she was learning how to roll over and how to sit up like a big girl and eat big girl food too. I was happy that she no longer screamed when her daddy took her from me to get his loving in too. I was happy that she was beginning to like her Grammy and she enjoyed playing and spending time with her sitter.



When my daughter was six months old, I was proud, proud that she was such a brave girl when she got her ears pierced, proud that she was sitting up all by herself, proud that she was now saying “dadadadada” all the time even though she didn’t know what she was saying. Mostly I was proud that she still always wanted her mama when she was tired or upset.



When my daughter was eight months old, I was shocked, shocked at how sharp those two little teeth were that she’d cut, shocked at how quickly she figured out how to continue to pull herself up after the first time, shocked at how fast her hair was beginning to come in but mostly I was shocked at how quickly she learned how to crawl when she really wanted to go play with that cat.



Now that my daughter is on the move I am relieved that she can entertain herself, naïve at how many things she can get into, scared that she will get somewhere too quickly and hurt herself, happy that she becoming more independent and can now feed herself allowing me to eat dinner too, proud of how much she loves her big brother and shocked at how quickly this time has passed.