When the moosh came out I didn’t instantly fall in love with her.
I thought it was cool she came out with all her parts in the right place in seemingly right proportion.
I wasn’t in love with her three months after I brought her home.
I felt a sense of obligation to her. But I didn’t feel love.
She was pretty, yes. She had a darling smile, yes. I even liked her sometimes. But I felt like I was going through the motions of making sure she was fed, clothed and clean.
She felt like a job. An exhausting job that payed crap. A job that I was supposed to love.
I feel like I faked it well. But I was tormented. Everyone else was so in love with my baby, I was not. I put up a good front though.
However there were nights I put her in the crib a little too hard. There were nights I left her wailing in the the other room while I shoved my head under a pillow and screamed if only to drown out her crying. She was never in danger, she was always taken care of.
She just wasn’t loved by her mother.
I felt broken, yet obligated.
Try telling anyone in this world you don’t love your baby and you’ll hear “Oh yes you do, you’re just tired and overwhelmed.”
“Excuse me, no I don’t.” is what I wanted to say back, but never did. I just forced a smile and said “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”
Then at seven months it happened.
I fell in love.
I had been reading Harry Potter to her before I put her to bed. I turned her around to burp her one last time. She snuggled into me and fell asleep. Her chubby little hand over my heart.
Those were a long seven months.