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I Was a Parenting Writer, But I Couldn’t Care For My Own Child
Mothering doesn’t always go the way we imagine. But can it be okay anyway?
As an ex-teacher, mothering was something I approached in the same way I approached my academic life. I was an A student in Education and, as soon as I found out I was pregnant, I became an A student in Mothering.
I sat in the back of the biggest bookstore in my town, colorful stacks of parenting books on the wooden desk in front of me: sleep methods, baby whispering, feeding routines, parenting philosophies. I stayed for hours, devouring every piece of advice available — and there is a ridiculous amount available. I puzzled my way through contradictory approaches until I found one that sat well with me.
Attachment parenting seemed perfect, most likely because it’s the complete opposite to how I was mothered. My own mother left when I was six and my sisters and I were raised by our dad.
Mothering was almost a blank slate and I was determined to research every aspect of it. It became an obsession.
With my method of parenting researched and selected, I swaddled, sung, swayed, and shushed my way through the baby years. I carried my little girl everywhere, pressed up against my heart, and enriched her life with books…
