Cheyla Burkett: I have a mom confession

(Another contributor whose writing will be featured on Inside Joplin is Cheyla Burkett. Cheyla, a Joplin High School graduate who has attended Missouri Southern State University, is known to area theatergoers for her performances at Stone's Throw Dinner Theatre and Joplin Little Theatre. She will be writing on Joplin area culture and other topics. In her first column, Cheyla, the mother of two, writes about the arrival of the second child.)
I have a mom confession. I didn't bond with my daughter the day that I met her. I didn't bond with her that next week. Or month.

I found myself feeling guiltier and guiltier when I looked at this soft-skinned, squinty-eyed, creature I had spent nine long months creating all I saw was an unattractive, swollen, sticky mess of spit up, poop, and other various bodily fluids screaming at me for food. I didn't see my beautiful daughter or feel a rush of love so intense I could burst. Everyone that came to see her would hold her and say “She's so beautiful!” and all I could do was smile and thank them, while secretly I called them all liars.

I was jealous because it seemed as though everyone else, her brother, her father, her grandparents, her aunt, had all fallen in love with her so fast and here I was sitting awake at 3 a.m. with her attached to my already cracked and sore nipples, staring down at her with resentment. Oh, don't look at me like that. Countless late night Google searches have shown me that I'm not the only one with this issue.

The mom guilt weed inside me was already huge because this reaction was vastly different than the one I had with my son.

 When I found out that I was pregnant for the first time, I was excited. It was a completely new adventure for me. Parenthood. But I was also terrified because up until that point my experience with children had been limited to briefly holding two newborns and some very basic babysitting of two boys who were 4 and 6 when I met them. I didn't know anything about babies or toddlers, and thought of having one was overwhelming. The thought of having to teach a child, foster independence in a teenager, and raise a valuable member of society was too much to handle.

Anxiety ridden, I took to the internet (which, as anyone could tell you, is the BEST thing to do when you're concerned,) and I read article after article about pregnancy and birth. 

Everything had a central theme of excitement. Excited to get through each trimester, excited to meet the baby for the first time, excited to be a mom. This is where the first seed of mom guilt hit me, and once it was planted it grew quickly, like vines squeezing my heart and stomach, keeping me awake at night. I wasn't excited. I didn't feel anything at all. Nothing. 

Each article or blog I poured over sang the joys of pregnancy and the love each woman felt for the this growing child inside them. I did not love my baby. What kind of a terrible mother was I going to be? I anxiously awaited each pregnancy milestone that countless family members and friends told me would be when I would feel that rush of love. “The first time you hear that baby's heartbeat, you'll feel so much love!” Nothing. “Those first flutters and kicks are amazing. They make it so real! You'll feel it then.” Nothing. “Don't worry. Sometimes it just takes finding out the gender. When you can connect with the idea of a boy or a girl, it will come.” Nothing. I even called him by the name we chose for him once we discovered we were having a boy, and it still didn't help. I felt absolutely nothing for this life growing inside me and I was absolutely disgusted with myself.

So imagine my relief when I was handed my beautiful, round-faced, chubby-cheeked, angel boy and felt all of that love and emotion come rushing through my entire body in such a forceful crashing wave that the water had to escape from somewhere, so I cried the victorious and elated tears of a proud new mother. I immediately believed all of the blogs and articles about seeing your baby for the first time and loving them like they had always been the biggest part of your life. I became that obnoxious mother who would give that advice to any scared pregnant lady who would ask.

On May 13th, 2015, I met my daughter for the first time. I spent this pregnancy much like the first, scared to death that I wouldn't love her. So when I pulled her sticky, red body up onto my chest and looked into her blue eyes for the first time, I waited for the tidal wave of love. When nothing happened I kept telling myself it would come. I spent every sleepless night waiting for the moment that I would look down at her feel my heart swell the way that it did for my son. I walked around in a sleep-deprived fog, breathing in anger and resentment toward this helpless human that was demanding the time and attention that I wanted to give to my son.

Honestly, I can't look back and pinpoint the day that I realized I love her with the same intensity that I love him. What I did realize was that although the bond I have with her grew with time, the love was always there. The want to keep her healthy and happy, the want to be the mother she deserved... that was always there. There was an amazing amount of love buried in each moment of anger and swimming in every single frustrated tear. But I love her differently. I love my son with the excitement of firsts. I love my daughter with the gentle hand of experience.

I look into her blue eyes and see an amazing child with the potential to do great things and I feel intensely grateful to have the honor of being her mother. So what if I didn't feel that way on the first day? Who says these things have to be automatic? Bonds can happen in an instant... or they can take time to develop. One isn't better than the other; They're just different.

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