The Incompetent Mother

This story has been the hardest, so far, to write. I am, in essence, “airing my dirty laundry.” I do it in the faith that there are other mothers who know exactly what I am talking about...who remember being lost and who still cry at the thought. I do it with the hope that one mother, who is in the middle of this gigantic culture shift called motherhood, will read this and feel better about herself and about her thoughts. This doesn’t have to be a lonely journey. If you know someone who might need to read this, pass it on…


The doctor said “Push!”

My dad shouted “I can see the head!”

I thought “who cares what you can see? Get this baby out…NOW!” I think I screamed the last part out loud, but at that point there was so much commotion between my dad, the doctor, the midwife and the vacuum-suck thing that brought my son into the world, no one noticed. My husband did notice that our newborn son had a head shaped like a banana. I noticed…that I had done the birth thing all “wrong.” The birth had not gone as planned, had not been the way that all the books, articles and the birth instructor had described it would be. The only conclusion I was capable of reaching at that time was it was somehow my fault. I tried to cheer myself up. “So what if your hair is doing a great impression of Don King?” I told myself, “and who cares that you threw up on your husband...twice? The point is you and the baby are safe and healthy.” It didn’t work. Somehow I had failed my first initiation into the responsibility of motherhood.
I didn’t know then what I know now. In fact, it is only now that I can say for sure that all those books, articles with “how-to” tips on toilet training, keeping the romance working and having children, and baking the perfect cookies, ...are all a lie. Mothering is never that simple. I was not wise then. And it almost cost me.

A few days later a nurse wheeled me out the doors of the hospital with our newborn. My husband drove the car around and opened the door. I stood up and the nurse peered into the car to see that we had a car seat. She smiled, said goodbye, and turned quickly back towards the hospital.

It was at that moment that I knew there was something inherently and deeply wrong with the system. Why on earth would they let two idiots who clearly did not know what they were doing take home this fragile, helpless creature?

I turned towards the nurse with questions in my head “Are you for hire? Will you follow us home and tell us what we need to be doing? Where are the operating instructions? No one gave us instructions!”

“Honey,” my husband said, “can you help me with this?” He was trying to put the baby in the car seat. While I was deciding whether or not to scream “help!” my husband had taken our child from my arms and was now attempting to strap him in. I hadn’t even noticed. Proof that maybe I didn’t have that 'natural' mothering instinct.

“Yes, I know you feel no attachment to this banana head shaped baby at the moment,” I said to myself. “But some of the books did say that attachment is not so immediate for some. Besides, the tag around his wrist does say he’s yours. So if nothing else, let that comfort you.”

For three weeks, I functioned in a fog. People spoke to me, I spoke back. I nursed him, I burped him, I swadled him, I cooed over him and sometimes I even remembered to change his diaper. But none of it made sense. It was as if I was in a foreign country and didn’t understand the rules of the culture.

One day the infant started to cry. And cry and cry and cry. Every moment he cried was a moment I confirmed that I really didn’t know anything about mothering. Holding your crying infant is like someone yelling in your ear with a bull horn…..”YOU SUCK AT THIS!”

So, hearing “YOU SUCK!” screamed at me, I walked inside with my crying child. I walked outside with my crying child. I nursed my crying child, I burped my crying child. I swaddled my crying child. I cooed over my crying child. I changed my crying child. My crying child kept crying.

I called the doctors’ office.

“Well,” said the nurse, “babies will do that. Call back if he continues to cry for two more hours.”

What? TWO MORE HOURS! Indignation gave away to helplessness. I don’t think I can do this. Why is this not natural? What’s wrong with me?

I called my husband.

“Well,” said my husband, “if you really neeeeeed me to come home I will. But honey, do you really neeeeeeed me?”

Again, why couldn’t I handle this? Why did I feel utterly un-equipped to deal with this newborn?

“No,” I said, “I’ll be all right.” Never before had I told such a lie.

I called my mom

“Where’s the baby?” she asked in a rush of words, filled with concern.

“In his crib crying,” I answered, my chest tightening. I wanted to say, “Mommy, I can’t do this. I can’t take his screaming and my incompetence and feeling like I am doing this 100% wrong.” Instead, not wanting to give away my secret, not even to my mother, I stayed silent. “Sweetie,” my mom said “Let him cry it out. Go outside where you can’t hear him and let him cry it out.” WHAT????!!!!! This was clearly a violation of the good mother rules. God…no wonder I’m so messed up! Besides, what if I left and came back in and find a dead baby? What then? Then everyone would know what I already feared, that I was simply not cut out for this.

I hung up. I took the baby to the rocker and a promised to rock till either he stopped crying or my husband came home.

There were no ‘how-to articles’ describing what a mother feels like when her infant has been crying for long periods of time. I don’t know if there are any now. Nothing addressed the panic, intense fear, the loneliness, and the inadequacies of not being able to protect or help or sooth your own flesh and blood. Nothing prepared me for what I did next.

I rocked and rocked my son. I just needed him to stop. I needed 10 minutes of peace, to wrap up my nerves, to hear my own voice, to reassure myself that I was and had been doing the right things. But babies do not understand that need.

I began wishing, praying, for him to stop crying. With tears coming hot and fast, I begged him. “Please, little man, please stop crying. Just for second. Please, please just stop. I need a second. Only a second”

I looked at the wall and wondered…if there was a way that I could bang his head on it and not hurt him, but knock him out. I began reviewing my college biology course; which side of the brain controls the “awake” part, and which part the breathing? Which side? How much impact would do it? How do I measure the amount of impact? How the hell do I measure the amount of impact?! If I could just get him to pass out and not die then he would be ok and …I would be OK. I can’t do this. This is just to $#@^ hard!

Like a cold gust that whips open your coat, I suddenly realized what I had been contemplating doing. Terrified of what I had been thinking, I laid my baby in the crib, turned my back on him and walked out of the room. I shut the door behind me.

I walked outside to the stone wall and found myself on the wet, cold ground, sobbing. Wanting to hurt my child was truly the sign of an incompetent mother, a bad mother. I couldn’t do this. And if I, a woman of “birthing” years couldn’t do something that is supposed to be so natural…then what could I do?

Three hours and six minutes after he had started crying, he stopped…and then he slept. Two hours later he awoke. I nursed him, I burped him, I swaddled him and I cooed over him. I even remembered to change his diaper.