My daughter was a force to be reckoned with even before she made her grand entrance into the world. “She simply won’t budge,” my obstetrician remarked as he removed his hands from my expansive belly after attempting to turn her from her breech position for what felt like an eternity. “I could try this all day, but she’s firmly lodged in your pelvis, much like an egg in a cup.” I was aware that the 36-week inversion might not yield results, but with a baby’s head pressing against my diaphragm, making every breath a struggle, I was desperate enough to consider anything. I also understood the potential consequences of a breech birth: most likely a C-section, and possibly congenital conditions such as hip dysplasia or plagiocephaly — the medical term for a flat back of the skull.
While I had heard that around 3% of babies in the U.S. are born with birth defects, I was convinced my daughter would defy the odds. After all, I had worked tirelessly to conceive, practiced prenatal yoga faithfully, and avoided soft cheese even during a visit to Paris! Besides, none of my friends had experienced serious issues with their children. Why on earth would I be the exception?
When Lucy finally arrived, she resembled an Olympic diver poised gracefully above the water, her legs arched high over her head. As the pediatrician attempted to straighten her legs, they sprang back into position like rubber bands. It was clear to my husband and me that something was amiss. Her hips appeared loose, resembling Silly Putty, and her legs refused to lie flat unless we swaddled her tightly.
Just two days post-birth, a pediatric orthopedist popped Lucy’s dislocated hips back into place and delivered the news: she was diagnosed with severe hip dysplasia. The doctor informed us that she would need to wear a harness for at least 22 hours a day for three to four months, forcing her legs into an upside-down “U” shape to facilitate proper ligament and joint development. With any luck, this approach might help her avoid surgery and a lifetime of hip discomfort.
We found ourselves commuting to weekly appointments, and during one particularly long visit, the orthopedist fashioned a unique device from PVC pipe to stabilize Lucy’s legs. Clad in her harness, Lucy resembled a baby marionette dressed in lederhosen. It was no laughing matter — especially not for me.
Where had my dream of a perfect child gone? I had tossed aside all the cute clothes she could no longer wear. When I took her for a stroll, I draped a blanket over her legs, even in the sweltering heat, to shield her from curious stares. Beyond the discomfort of my C-section recovery or the relentless fatigue from sleepless nights, I was overwhelmed by a feeling that still fills me with regret: shame. I didn’t want a daughter who was different — I wanted everything to be fine, and that meant having a baby who didn’t require a harness.
Three months later, I returned to work as Lucy’s doctor visits became less frequent. At four months, she was free from her harness, and by six months, the orthopedist declared her as good as new.
During this time, I unexpectedly ran into an old acquaintance on the street. She shared that her six-month-old son had to undergo outpatient surgery for a condition affecting “you-know-where.” The urethra’s opening was in the incorrect position, necessitating a surgical adjustment for his comfort.
In that moment, it dawned on me: I was not alone, and neither was Lucy. So why had I insisted on seeing her as different?
In the following weeks, I challenged myself to be more open and connect with others. I came to realize that my daughter wasn’t a fragile, rare porcelain doll; she was a regular child with a complication, much like many others experienced.
“My son wasn’t growing adequately in the womb,” my college roommate shared. “I had to be induced, and he was only five pounds at birth, with almost no body fat. It took a while for him to catch up.”
“My brother’s child was born with a club foot,” a colleague recounted. “A cast and brace fixed it in just a few months.”
And some stories made my experience seem like a breeze. “Jack was born with a rare blood disorder,” a fellow mom at the playground revealed. “Fortunately, it’s treatable, and we’re hopeful a bone marrow transplant will cure it.”
Despite their challenges, these children are thriving, happy, and enveloped in love — not only from their parents but also from supportive friends and community members. Like every baby, they weren’t born “perfect,” but the truth is, perfection was never the goal. Watching my now four-year-old navigate monkey bars and sprint with joy reminds me of the wisdom intertwined in her imperfections. Lucy and her peers have shown me that other parents can create a nurturing, judgment-free environment — but only if we shed the burden of shame and open ourselves to connection.
For those considering the journey of parenthood, you might find useful resources like this intrauterine insemination guide or explore at-home insemination kits for support.
In summary, my journey with Lucy taught me that imperfections are a natural part of life, and embracing them can lead to a deeper understanding of ourselves and our children.