what is the best at-home insemination kit?
As a former educator, I approached motherhood much like my academic pursuits. I excelled in my education program, and when I learned I was expecting, I committed myself to being a top-notch mother.
I spent hours in the largest bookstore in my area, surrounded by a rainbow of parenting books on the desk in front of me: sleep strategies, baby communication techniques, feeding schedules, and various parenting philosophies. I absorbed every piece of advice available—there was a staggering amount of information. I sifted through conflicting methods until I discovered one that resonated with me.
Attachment parenting seemed ideal, likely because it was the polar opposite of my own upbringing. My mother left when I was six years old, and my sisters and I were raised by our father.
Motherhood was essentially a blank canvas for me, and I was determined to explore every facet of it. It quickly became an obsession.
With my parenting style selected, I swaddled, sang, swayed, and shushed my way through the early years. I carried my little one everywhere, holding her close to my heart, enriching her life with books, music, friends, and nature.
Then, when she was two, my health deteriorated, and all my research and preparation fell by the wayside. I felt like I was failing at motherhood.
“I’ll be okay once I can get a full night’s sleep,” I reassured my concerned partner, ignoring the strange pains wracking my body. There was no time to focus on my health while caring for a small child.
My daughter was born prematurely, which meant I was getting less than 45 minutes of sleep at a time. Keeping up with her two-hour feeding schedule was a full-time job, and even at two years old, she still didn’t sleep well—neither of us did. The research I had done seemed irrelevant to my reality as a parent of a sick, premature child.
But it was more than just exhaustion. My body eventually refused to cooperate. I found myself curled up in a fetal position, and my partner had to call for an ambulance.
Two weeks later, I returned home after losing 24 pounds from my already slender frame. I could not eat solid food and was in constant pain. After numerous tests, doctors diagnosed me with Crohn’s disease and loaded me up with a cocktail of medications. “Let’s hope for remission,” they said. “Each case is different.”
Confined to bed for months due to my failing body, I turned to writing. Propped up on pillows, my neck too weak to hold my head up, I typed on my laptop. Between fitful naps, I penned parenting articles for various magazines. To my surprise, editors eagerly accepted them, asking for more. Writing had always been my dream; now it was the only thing I could manage.
It’s a peculiar experience to write about parenting while unable to physically care for your own child. I crafted pieces titled “Fun Winter Activities” and “Tips to Aid Your Child’s Speech.” I drew from my experiences of the past couple of years for inspiration. Writing about these subjects helped me maintain my connection to my identity as a mother, even as all the parenting responsibilities fell to my partner. I sat in bed and wrote.
For a year, I observed life from the sidelines.
I cherished cuddling with my daughter, but even that became painful with a squirmy toddler. Our primary connection became books and stories. We’d sit together in bed, where I could read aloud, share my work, and tell her amusing tales about herself. I invented children’s stories just for her, which she requested repeatedly. “Read the one about the zoo, mommy!” “Create a story about a spy!”
I wrote to uplift other mothers, to entertain my daughter, and to comfort myself.
Gradually, my health began to improve. One morning, I watched my little girl play with her aunt on the living room floor. They rolled around, pretending to be lost in a jungle, giggling uncontrollably. “There’s no way I could keep up with that,” I thought, forcing a laugh. Today wasn’t a good day for me. 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. Is it truly impossible for me to engage with her, or am I just reluctant to try? It had been a long year filled with hospital visits, bed rest, and pain. Perhaps I was relinquishing my role as a mother, allowing myself to let go to avoid the hurt of not being able to play. Just like my mother had.
Motherhood often defies our expectations and plans; it can be painful and complex.
Now, over a decade later, my daughters, who are now pre-teens and teens, snuggle beside me on the couch. They read their own stories aloud. There are days when that’s all I can manage—listening, reading aloud, and cuddling. There are times when they take care of me more than I care for them. I may not be the perfect parent I aspired to be, but who needs perfection? Cuddles and stories come pretty close.
For more insights on motherhood and home insemination, check out this other blog post. You can also find excellent resources on pregnancy and fertility at ACOG. If you’re considering at-home insemination, make sure to look at this trusted authority for the right tools.
Search Queries:
- Home insemination methods
- Self insemination kits
- How to support a partner with Crohn’s disease
- Parenting challenges with health issues
- Attaching parenting style explained
In summary, my journey as a mother has been shaped by my experiences with Crohn’s disease, which challenged my ability to physically parent my child. Despite the obstacles, I found ways to connect through storytelling and by embracing the moments I could share with my daughters. My understanding of motherhood has evolved, reminding me that it doesn’t have to be perfect to be meaningful.
Leave a Reply