Unfit For Motherhood

The Imperfect Mom: Candid Confessions of Mothers Living in the Real World
by Therese J. Borchard

(Page 2 of 3)

Maria Rodriquez

I wasn't over the imperfect birth of my first son, as a planned cesarean, when I learned that my second child was sitting breech position in my womb at eight months pregnant. Although the C-section resulted in a healthy, six-pound baby boy, I still felt gypped of my dream of a natural, vaginal birth in a birthing center with my baby's father cutting his umbilical cord.

The first time around, I failed miserably at all my attempts to turn the little guy's head down. Nothing worked. Not even my constant flips at the swimming pool, or my lying on the ironing board upside down for half an hour every day. A screaming baby arrived from behind the blue drapes hiding my split-open belly. I could only kiss him and rub my cheek against his for my arms were tied to the operating table.

This birth of my first son had taught me, at the gut level, that not everything in my life was under my control. Since I saw my second pregnancy as a chance to finally make things right, I was devastated upon learning that I should not attempt to deliver baby number two vaginally either. Following my doctor's instructions, I scheduled a cesarean at the hospital. And I was even more terrified, because in addition to the recovery of a major operation, I'd have a toddler running around the apartment.

Still, I did not give up. In my search for the perfect delivery, I read plenty of material to better understand the breech presentation, and why it happens. Some experts believed that it could be a result of tension held in the mother's lower abdomen, caused by excessive fear over something.

I spent hours at night wondering what exactly scared me so much. So many things bothered me. How could I find the one, that magical point that could transform me into the perfect pregnant woman? Clearly, something needed fixing, but I could not pinpoint what it was. In a bizarre twist of my mind, I began to consider my inability to carry the babies properly as a testament to my many failures, to my sheer imperfection.

I would have continued my pointless wondering in this mental world had it not been for my cheerful toddler and the most unreasonable urge to nest. As the beautiful weather approached, I was busy walking my one-year-old to the park, picking up daisies and bugs, cleaning the sand from his toys. I cleaned up the apartment, changed around the rooms, did a lot of groceries and laundry, sent lots of parcels with birthday presents and notes to our friends, and made new curtains. At night, as I lay exhausted on my bed, I touched my huge belly and felt my baby's head up close to my heart and his little feet kicking softly down my pelvis. This all kept me grounded and connected to the real world.

It was in the middle of one of these busy summer days when I climbed down from a city bus, waddling onto the sidewalk. A strong breath of air caressed my face, messed up my hair, and draped my blouse softly around my belly. Caught by surprise by my reflection in the mirror, I smiled. Strangely enough, I suddenly felt lightness in everything around me. For a moment I was a little girl giggling and skipping down the street saying out loud, "So what??"

"So what if I cannot find the missing piece in the breech baby puzzle?"

"So what if the baby is born by cesarean?"

"So what if I am so imperfect?"

"I am happy being here, being myself, carrying this little baby inside of me."

That night I felt an irresistible urge to write a letter. To whom I didn't know, but it was one of rage: against myself and against my own imperfect mom. As I contemplated my relationship with my mom, so much anger and pain surfaced. But then I began to envision her as a little girl, crying by herself in a room where the noise of my grandma's sewing machine was all she could hear. And then I saw my imperfect grandmother, making a wholehearted attempt to support her eight children, running up and down the house trying to make ends meet.

I cried for a long time, acknowledging all the love used up in trying be good mothers. At the end of the night, my desk was covered with stories of imperfect mothers woven together: their mistakes, vices, and love twined onto a fine thread woven down to my own experience with my sons.

The next morning I went to visit my midwife. As she massaged my back to release tension that day, she noticed more room in my pelvis. She said my body was ready, and began to try to turn the baby inside of me. He responded and positioned his head down the birth canal, in preparation for a natural birth.

When the happy moment of the birth arrived, we were all there: my deceased grandma, my mother living an ocean away, and myself. We were breeding life, and I embraced our imperfection as I did my new son.

Copyright © 2006 by Therese J. Borchard.

About the Author

Therese Borchard is the editor of I Like Being Catholic. Therese Borchard has written seventeen books, including Winging It: Meditations of a Young Adult and the acclaimed children's books series The Emerald Bible Collection. She lives in Annapolis, Maryland.