As a former educator, I approached motherhood with the same dedication I applied to my studies. After excelling in my Education program, I was determined to be an exemplary parent once I learned I was expecting.
I found myself in the largest bookstore in my town, surrounded by vibrant stacks of parenting books. The wooden desk in front of me was filled with titles on sleep strategies, baby soothing techniques, feeding schedules, and various parenting philosophies. Hours flew by as I consumed every bit of advice I could find—there’s certainly no shortage of it. I sifted through conflicting viewpoints until I found an approach that resonated with me.
Attachment parenting felt ideal, likely because it contrasted sharply with my own upbringing. My mother left when I was just six, and my sisters and I were raised by our father. With motherhood feeling like a blank canvas, I was determined to explore every facet of it, and it quickly became an obsession.
Once I settled on my parenting method, I swaddled, sang, swayed, and soothed my daughter through her infancy. I carried her close to my heart, filling her early years with books, music, friends, and the beauty of nature. Then, when she turned two, I fell ill, and suddenly, all my research felt irrelevant. I was struggling to fulfill my role as a mother.
“I just need a full night’s sleep,” I assured my concerned partner, brushing aside the strange pains coursing through my body. There was no time to focus on my own health when I had a young child to care for.
My daughter had been born prematurely, and from the very beginning, I was getting less than 45 minutes of sleep at a time. Keeping up with the feeding schedule of a newborn was exhausting. Even by age two, her sleep was still erratic, which meant mine was too. Most of the strategies I had prepared for a healthy baby didn’t apply to my sick, premature child.
The issue was more than just exhaustion. Eventually, my body could no longer be ignored. I found myself curled up in a fetal position, and my partner had to call for an ambulance.
Two weeks later, I returned home, having lost 24 pounds from my already slight frame. I was unable to consume solid food and was plagued by relentless pain. Doctors diagnosed me with Crohn’s disease and filled my hands with medications. “Let’s hope for remission,” they told me. “It varies for everyone.”
For months, I was confined to my bed, my body broken. During this time, I began to write. Propped up on pillows, my neck too weak to hold my head, I typed on my laptop. Between restless naps, I crafted parenting articles for various magazines, and to my astonishment, editors eagerly accepted them. Writing had always been a dream of mine; now it became my only outlet.
It’s a peculiar experience to be a parenting writer while being unable to physically parent your own child. I wrote articles like “Fun Winter Activities” and “Support for Your Child’s Speech Development.” I drew from my experiences of the past two years for anecdotes and inspiration. Writing about motherhood helped me feel connected to that identity, even though my partner was carrying the parenting load. I spent my days in bed, writing.
For an entire year, I observed life from the sidelines. I cherished the cuddles with my daughter, but even that became painful with a lively two-year-old. Books and storytelling became our primary connection. We would sit together, and I would read to her, share my writing, and spin funny tales about her. I created children’s stories just for her, and she would ask for them repeatedly. “Read the one about the zoo, Mommy!” “Make me a story about a spy!”
I wrote to uplift other mothers, to entertain my daughter, and to provide comfort for myself.
Gradually, my health improved. One morning, I watched my daughter play with her aunt on the living room floor. They rolled around pretending to be lost in a jungle, laughing uncontrollably. “There’s no way I’d have the energy for that,” I thought, forcing a laugh. Today was a tough day. But yesterday had been better. I had eaten and managed to move around.
As I sat on the couch, observing my daughter’s joy, I began to question myself. Was it truly impossible for me to play with her, or was I simply reluctant? The previous year had been filled with hospital stays, bed rest, and pain. Perhaps I was relinquishing my role as a mother to avoid the pain of not being able to engage fully. Just like my mother had done. Motherhood is not always what we envision; it can be complex and painful.
Over a decade later, my pre-teen and teen daughters snuggle beside me on the couch, reading their own stories aloud. Some days, that’s all I can manage—listening, reading together, and cuddling. There are times they care for me more than I care for them. I may not be the perfect parent I once aspired to be, but who needs perfection? Cuddles and stories come pretty close.
If you’re interested in similar topics, check out this insightful post on navigating parenting challenges while living with chronic illness, or explore resources about home insemination, like this authority on the topic and this excellent resource for pregnancy and home insemination.
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Summary: This heartfelt narrative explores the challenges of parenting while living with Crohn’s disease. The author shares her journey from aspiring to be the perfect mother to navigating the complexities of motherhood amidst chronic illness. Through writing, she connects with her children and redefines her role as a parent, proving that love and creativity can bridge the gaps left by physical limitations.
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