[ Osor Pertin Lego ]
I thought I was ready – ready because I had helped take care of my niece. I knew how to feed her, change diapers, and rock her to sleep. After all, babies only eat, poop, and sleep, right? I thought I was ready emotionally, mentally, financially, and socially. I had a supportive family, a loving and understanding husband. I thought I had everything in place.
And then, on 14 June, 2024, I held you in my arms for the first time.
The first three days, you slept like an angel. I thought, “This is it. This is what motherhood feels like.” But I realize now, you were just resting… for the storm ahead.
What followed was weeks of non-stop crying. “All babies cry,” I told myself, but deep down, I knew something wasn’t right. The doctor said it was colic. Gas, they said. But those endless nights, the wailing, the sleepless hours – it felt like something far more exhausting than just gas.
I rocked you, hummed lullabies, and paced the room. Every short nap came with the dread of your next cry. I was anxious all the time. I couldn’t relax. Not even when you slept peacefully, because I was bracing for the next breakdown.
Even the things that once brought me joy – my pets, familiar footsteps in the house, visiting relatives -began to make me anxious. Would they wake you? Would they see you crying? Would they judge me as a mother?
You refused to breastfeed and preferred the bottle. But everywhere I turned, the pressure was to breastfeed. “It’s best for your baby,” they said. I wanted to give you the best, too. Your refusal to breastfeed made me feel like a failure as a mother. With bottle feeding came the problem of gas. Every formula change, every bottle switch – it didn’t ease your pain, or mine.
My stitches hadn’t even healed, but there I was, climbing stairs at night with a crying baby, desperate to bring you some relief. I began to fear you. Your cries felt like rejections. And someone even said, “He feels your anxiety, that’s why he cries more.”
Eventually, my cousin, calm and experienced, stepped in to soothe you. That brought relief… and guilt. Was I not enough?
Every time you cried, I cried. All the joy and excitement I had felt about motherhood began to drain away.
The pressure to breastfeed. The colic. The constant chores – sterilizing, laundry, cleaning, and surviving on no sleep. The guilt from snapping at my husband and my mother, the only people I could truly be vulnerable with. I felt so alone, even in a house full of people.
But slowly, I began to open up to other mothers. Talking to my cousins, hearing their postpartum stories – it made me feel less alone. They told me, “This too shall pass.”
And it did. Time that once crawled began to fly.
Do you still cry? Yes. Sometimes over the tiniest things. Like that time, you fell off the bed – you cried like the world had ended. But I guess you’re just like me – a crybaby.
You don’t like meeting new people, you don’t like being touched, you need your space. And I’ve learned – this is just how you are. Not because I spoiled you. This is how you were born.
That acceptance changed everything. It brought peace.
Today, you are my little koala bear – clinging to me wherever I go. Yai calls you “Ai’s bubble gum.” In a house full of ten people, you still choose to be glued to me. And I cherish it. Because I know one day you’ll let go, seeking your father’s arms and the world outside.
So, I hold you close. I’ll carry you a little longer. I love you a little deeper.
And now, as I look back, I feel I can handle any baby. But am I truly ready again? Maybe not. Every child is different, and so is every mother’s journey. Not every woman will experience postpartum like I did.
To the mothers-to-be: don’t stress. There is no perfect way. You will find your own. Just like I did.Motherhood is a wild, wonderful, soul-shaping ride.
Happy first birthday, my son. You made me a mother. Love you.
Your Ai
