A Rabbit Hole of Perspective
Just the other night, Curt and I were standing side by side brushing our teeth and as the hum of my electric toothbrush rolled, I went down a rabbit hole of thought. It started by remembering something as simple as a discussion I had earlier that day with my sister about her decision to switch her baby boy to formula as she neared the end of her maternity leave, and what resulted was a progression of thoughts, one after the other, that brought me to a profound place that I never would have imagined myself reaching.
The process looked a little something like this: Should Mabel switch to formula too? She is almost nine months. It’s funny I’m still breastfeeding her because pre-baby, I was convinced I would wean her once she got teeth. Actually, new-baby, I could hardly wait to wean her. Wow, I really did hate breastfeeding her at first, didn’t I? Man, I never felt as disconnected from my own body as I did at that time. Remember how many people told you that breastfeeding would be bonding for you and your baby and remember how many times in those early months you wanted to expose those liars because in reality you would look down at that baby on your body and feel like she was a stranger taking so much from you? Remember how at one point you felt like you didn’t even know her? But breastfeeding is so convenient and simple, I don’t really mind it anymore. Oh man, and the way she puts her little hand up to touch your face while you sit with her in the stillness of the most ungodly hours of the night. She probably knows the look and feel of your face more than anyone else on this planet. I love those quiet moments alone with her. Those are moments I could never capture on a camera or write about to do them justice. Those are moments I need to mentally take in and savour every second of because I bet she won’t breastfeed much longer. I don’t want to think about this. I’m not ready for her to stop, I’m not ready for her to wean. She will only get more independent from this point on. Will we ever be as connected as we are right now?
My rabbit hole of thought progression that happened as I brushed my teeth one random evening brought me so much perspective. I couldn’t believe that I had reached a point where the thought of weaning my baby nearly brought me to tears – I couldn’t have imagined myself thinking this way in those first few months of feeding her.
Our breastfeeding journey together wasn’t complicated. Mabel latched easily and fed easily. She even switched back and forth between formula and breast a few times within the first month of her life and barely batted an eye. I never bled. I was never blocked or sore. By standards of the books, breastfeeding was easy with her.
But the emotional journey of breastfeeding was a completely different story. The nurturing aspect of becoming a mother didn’t naturally come to me. I felt overwhelmed by the fact that she was so completely reliant on me and my body, especially after the trauma of giving birth had already ravaged me physically. I didn’t feel an immediate connection to her. In fact, I felt like she was a complete stranger, so the fact that she was so intimately connected to me while feeding felt unnatural. There were moments when I literally burst into tears and felt so used and out of control of who I was. I hatedbreastfeeding.
My mom was incredibly encouraging. She explained that she stopped breastfeeding her first early on because of how painful and overwhelming it was, but she was also one of the many who pointed out how bonding breastfeeding is. I knew I could have stopped at any time and not been judged, and although I couldn’t relate to the bonding aspect of feeding, out of convenience I just kept going. And going. And feeding. And going.
Until the other night when I realized that these days I really only nurse my sweet baby before her nap and before she goes down for the night and how precious those quiet moments are to me. How sometimes I just want to squeeze her into my arms. Or nibble on her little fingers as she reaches up. Or hold her there a little longer when she drifts back to sleep. Because my baby is changing and growing into a beautiful little girl and these nine months have already flown by and I don’t know how much longer I will be holding her there in my arms.
How many times have I fed her? How much time have I spent stopping what I’m doing to tend to her need for sustenance? Or comfort? Or ritual? How much time have we spent alone together, because no one else could offer her what I could? That time is a bond that she could not have with anyone else.
I’ve realized that we are bonded together. Me and her. Her and I. I didn’t think I would ever be here, but I am. And I couldn’t ever find the words to write just how special that is to me or how much love I feel for her.
Which is my point – the perspective that came to me when I went through that thought-filled rabbit hole while I brushed my teeth the other night. Time. Time changes everything. Time passes everything. Time gives us distance, and thought space, and growth, and perspective. Hard things often don’t change in a blink and submitting to time can be one of the hardest things to do, but at some point you look back and realize that it has already been nine months and everything has changed in what feels like the blink of an eye.
You may not be breastfeeding or new-mothering. But I want to take this random thought to remind you that time passes, time heals, and time brings perspective. You may be in a hard place that feels overwhelming and difficult and the people around you – like me – may be telling you that this will pass and nine months down the road things will feel very different than they do right now. And you may feel like you want to scream at us all because it doesn’t feel like that will be true. But it will be true. Embrace the time it takes because what you will find is something really beautiful.
Perspective.
