As a former educator, I approached motherhood with the same zeal I had for my studies. I excelled in my Education degree, and the moment I learned I was expecting, I dedicated myself to mastering the art of parenting.
I spent hours in the largest bookstore in my area, surrounded by a vibrant array of parenting books on the desk before me: techniques for sleep training, methods for baby whispering, routines for feeding, and various parenting philosophies. I absorbed every morsel of advice I could find—there was an overwhelming amount. I sifted through conflicting methods until I settled on one that resonated with me.
Attachment parenting felt ideal, likely because it starkly contrasted with my own upbringing. My mother left when I was just six, leaving my sisters and me in our father’s care.
Motherhood was a blank canvas for me, and I was determined to explore every aspect of it. This quest became an obsession.
Once I had chosen my parenting style, I swaddled, sang, swayed, and shushed my way through my daughter’s baby years. I carried her everywhere, keeping her close to my heart, and enriched her life with literature, music, friendships, and nature.
Then, when she turned two, I fell ill, and suddenly all my preparation seemed irrelevant. I felt like I was failing as a mother.
“I’ll be fine once I get a full night’s sleep,” I reassured my concerned partner, dismissing the unusual pains in my body. I thought I had no time to focus on my health while caring for a young child.
My daughter was born prematurely, and from day one, I was managing sleep in short bursts of less than 45 minutes. Keeping up with the feeding schedule of a newborn was exhausting, and even at two years old, her sleep patterns were erratic, which meant I was perpetually tired. Much of what I had learned about parenting didn’t apply to a sick, premature child.
However, it was more than just fatigue. Eventually, my body could no longer be ignored. I collapsed into a fetal position, and my partner called for an ambulance.
Two weeks later, I returned home, having lost 24 pounds from my already slight frame. I couldn’t eat solid foods and was plagued by constant waves of pain. The diagnosis: Crohn’s disease. The doctors handed me a plethora of medications and said, “Let’s hope for remission. It’s different for everyone.”
Confined to bed for months due to my ailing health, I took to writing. Propped up by pillows and too weak to hold my head upright, I typed on my laptop. During restless naps, I penned parenting articles for magazines across the nation. Much to my surprise, editors were eager to publish my work, and I found fulfillment in writing—I had always wanted to be a writer, and now it was my only outlet.
It’s a peculiar experience to be a parenting writer while unable to physically care for your own child. I crafted articles like “Fun Activities for Winter” and “Ways to Enhance Your Child’s Speech,” channeling my experiences from the past two years for inspiration. Writing helped me stay connected to my identity as a mother, even though my husband was carrying the parenting load. I spent my days in bed, writing.
For a year, I observed life from the sidelines.
I cherished the cuddles with my daughter, but even that became painful as she was a wiggly toddler. Books and storytelling became our primary means of connection. Together, we would sit on the bed, and I would read to her, share my writing, and tell her amusing stories about herself. I crafted unique children’s tales just for her, which she adored. “Read the one about the zoo, mommy!” “Can you tell me a story about a spy?”
I wrote to uplift other mothers, to entertain my daughter, and to provide solace to myself.
Gradually, my health began to improve. One morning, I observed my daughter playing with her aunt in the living room, both lost in a jungle of imagination and laughter. “I wouldn’t have the energy for that,” I thought, forcing a laugh. That day was tough. But yesterday had been better—I had eaten and managed to move around.
As I sat on the couch, watching my daughter laugh, I began to question myself. Was it truly impossible for me to engage with her, or was I simply reluctant to do so? After a year filled with hospital visits, bed rest, and pain, I wondered if I was subconsciously relinquishing my role as a mother to avoid the hurt of my limitations. Just like my mother had.
Motherhood often defies our expectations and plans; it can be painful and complex.
Now, over ten years later, my daughters, who are now pre-teens and teenagers, snuggle beside me on the couch, reading their own stories aloud. There are days when that’s all I can manage—listening, reading, and cuddling. Some weeks, they take care of me more than I can care for them. I may not be the perfect parent I once envisioned, but who needs perfection? Cuddles and stories come pretty close.
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In summary, navigating motherhood with a chronic illness like Crohn’s can be challenging and complex. It reshapes our understanding of parenting, making it necessary to find new ways to connect with our children through love, stories, and shared moments, even when physical limitations exist.
Keyphrase: Parenting with chronic illness
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