The Gift of a Loving Mother // My baby deserved The one thing I couldn’t give her

My world was encased in fog. And so was my reflection in the mirror. Listless eyes, pale lips. And the acne breakout on my skin didn’t make things any better. Something inside me was crumbling.

I did my best to make out the location of the recliner through the haze, although it was better not to see. How had I gotten to this place?

The wooden cradle in the middle of the room had a pink blanket peeking out from between the spindles, its edge sweeping the floor. I turned my eyes the other way, utterly miserable. 

She’s your baby! Your own flesh and blood! You ought to love her.

My well of tears had long run dry. My old self was melting away like snow under a blazing sun.

I had always seemed like a happy-go-lucky kid. From the outside I looked like an outgoing girl who mingled easily, but in fact I was very unsure of myself. Beneath the lively layers lay a lack of self-esteem and confidence. I was a member of the popular clique, but I was never sure of their loyalty. My school years passed in a blur of unease at trying to fit in.

Then I got married. None of my friends were even engaged yet. Moving on to the next stage of life before they did, I felt like an overgrown plant sticking up awkwardly out of a manicured expanse of lawn.

When I found out that I was expecting, I cried, the immature tears of a young woman afraid of life. At the tender age of 18, my husband was thrilled with the news, rushing to inform our parents. “A child of our own!” he kept saying, while my heart shrank smaller and smaller.

Am I even capable of raising a child? I don’t even know how to be a wife yet! I thought.

Ten months after we stood under the chuppah, I gave birth to a baby girl. My husband thought she was so cute and kissed her. 

I stared at the baby, searching for dimples. She had none. I asked the nurse to place her in the hospital bassinet. I tried to get a good shot of her to send to my friends, but in the end I didn’t send any because I was embarrassed that my baby had no chein.

Feeding her was draining. I would keep at it for almost an hour before handing her to the nurse, only to have her return 30 minutes later and say, “Your baby is hungry, sweetie.”

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