First came love, then came marriage, then came baby in a golden carriage… right?
The love: Check.
The Marriage: Never happened.
The baby: He arrived, but not in a golden carriage, that’s for sure!
Caribbean traditions
Traditionally, for every child born out of wedlock in a Caribbean household, marriage is the rite of passage, no?
How dare I bring (more) shame on my family and not marry this man?
But we couldn’t make it work and I stayed true to myself.
Pregnancy unicorn
Ready to glide into Motherhood, this was going to be a breeze.
My collection of Barbie dolls and taking care of my brother was all the practice I needed, right??
I celebrated being a Magical pregnancy unicorn! What was morning sickness or any other uncomfortable experience?
Wake-up call! Giving birth felt like when Cinderella’s clock struck midnight.
Birthing reality
The carriage turned into a breadfruit to be expelled from my hoo-ha.
The ball gown? A hospital gown and the glass slipper I envisioned myself wearing to gracefully enter Motherhood had shattered.
Shards pierced the perfect bubble I imagined this new life to be.
Often, I pondered if our grandmothers had to endure episiotomies, cracked, bleeding nipples and looming thoughts that Motherhood might hurt their professional ascent.
Postpartum depression
It was enough to spiral anyone into postpartum depression.
PD, as I called her, overstayed her welcome.
My mom had intended to stay for two weeks, which turned to six weeks and then frequent visits because I just. Couldn’t. Get. It. Together.
PD stole the experience of me fully becoming “Mommy”.
Irrational fears
For weeks, irrational fear gripped. I saw no problem not bathing him for fear he’d have drowned. (Embarrassing, I know!)
“What you mean not bathe the child?” Blasphemy! How dare he not be bathed, powdered and placed in a vest to get breeze in the gallery???
I’m pretty sure PD smirked at me that one time I worked up the courage and attempted bath time.
Two splashes of water later, he slipped out of my hands. Numb, I handed him to my mother and walked away.
Suffocating
PD sat next to me yet didn’t dry a single tear while I breastfed and failed miserably.
She stifled me when all the vervine and fenugreek teas still didn’t work to produce more milk.
When we switched to formula permanently, she was there, her presence a thick blanket suffocating any attempt be in the light.
As time went on, it was me who slipped out of my self-reliant hands into the tub of shame and guilt.
PD was there, every night, when jealousy bubbled up as I watched my son’s father sleep (snore actually).
Breaking point
Empathy for his own struggles was inaccessible, further driving a wedge between us. I felt alone and afraid and PD bathed me in anger, daily.
Everyone has a breaking point.
Mine arrived as a fracture along the spine of this new life of diapers, bottles, spit up and colic.
I don’t remember the exact incident that put me in the ER of my mental health, but I needed help.
The 'secret'
What would the mothers of yesteryear have done?
Would they have just gotten on with the chores, keeping the house pretty while her family protected her ‘secret’?
Would her husband have played charade of “you know she moody”? Would her children have learned the dance of walking on eggshells?
Nope! Couldn’t be me. Cloaked in bravery, I sat with PD until anger became sadness who then introduced grief for what I felt I lost out on.
Cultural stigmas
Working through the guilt and shame because “breast was best” was hardest.
Was it because in our culture we unknowingly stigmatize a formula-fed baby? I truly felt I had ‘failed’ as a mother.
The Gift? Shifting perspective and trying to understand what PD needed to reach me.
I learned to cut myself lots of slack because I was a newborn, too.
Comparison is the thief of joy
Silencing the voice of comparison that often shouted “but is just one yuh have. Plenty people had 3 and 4 to mind! How yuh woulda make out??” took practice.
It didn’t matter because in my ocean of Motherhood, the waters were too deep.
Not having witnessed another woman navigate the fourth trimester before, I wondered did her shame show up differently and we missed the signs to better support her?
The magical pregnancy unicorn didn’t convert into the Fairytale Mother I had hoped to be at first.
Making peace
I’ve made peace with that.
My best work? Finding all the ways to create a version of the mother I longed to be, one bath and bottle of formula at a time.
