It's okay not to love instantly.
Honestly, it took until my daughter was about 6 months old for me to say 'I'm so glad you're mine'. If you've read our birth story you would know that it wasn't very conventional, or very positive. I was overwhelmed with worry, I was anxious about the future, I was concerned about my daughter's health.
I was fiercely protective of this little girl from the minute we took her home. The first week in hospital was rocky and I felt like she wasn't ours - we kept leaving her in the special care nursery and it was all so surreal... I didn't go outside for a week and had very little concept of night and day. Time passed in 3 hour blocks, the next time we could see her, feed her, change her, and hopefully have a cuddle.
There was no bond. Once we got her home and I stared at her for hours on end for a few weeks, we learnt each other's noises. I was so very concerned with keeping her fed and making sure she slept enough, and stressing about trying to breastfeed, that I didn't enjoy her. Then the appointments started - checking her heart, her weight, her little milestones. Meeting people from all walks of life and fitting in extra checks and therapy. Worrying that she wasn't smiling or rolling or going up a size or pooing enough. I was on autopilot, and my life continued on that 3 hour schedule that eventually stretched to 4 hours and then settled into a usual routine.
She was such a placid baby. Really relaxed and just went with the flow, sleeping wherever and whenever she liked, drinking bottles like a champ and pooing all over the place... just like any other baby. She would look at me like I was the most amazing thing she had ever seen and I would just look back at her and wonder how she was mine.
I constantly compared her to other babies - the Golden Rule of parenting is 'Don't Compare' but let's face it, we always do. I compared her to her typically developing peers, and I compared her to her peers with Down syndrome. I still do. I was hypersensitive to the fact that she was different - always introducing the subject into conversation early to avoid the awkwardness of someone not knowing... until one day I realised that no-one really knows (or cares) what it means. It's a label, one that is associated with so many outdated opinions.
I was stopped one day by a lady in the supermarket - Emma is pretty charming and always smiles at random people. She asked me how old she was, and I answered. She mentioned that she was small for her age and I just said 'yeah, but that's what makes her cool' instead of the usual 'she has Down syndrome that's why she's small'. After a little more small talk we both went on our merry ways and I realised that I don't HAVE to tell everyone that Emma has Down syndrome. It doesn't have to be a Big Deal conversation with someone I've just met. I realised that I was giving myself such anxiety about her diagnosis, but that it didn't actually matter.
I started looking at my daughter as Emma. I stopped seeing the Down syndrome and started seeing the person. I started seeing her attempts at communication, her passion, her drive, her enthusiasm. I started seeing her Dad in her mannerisms, and then I saw myself. I looked at her one day and thought 'you are sooo me'... and I loved her.
I always said I loved her, but I never believed it. I protected her, I cared for her, I fulfilled her needs. I provided a safe home and a great family. I knew that she was always going to be a part of my life, and that I didn't want her to be anyone other than who she was, but I didn't love her until that moment.
I didn't love her until I stopped looking for the different and started seeing the same.
It took me a long time, but it was worth it.
I was fiercely protective of this little girl from the minute we took her home. The first week in hospital was rocky and I felt like she wasn't ours - we kept leaving her in the special care nursery and it was all so surreal... I didn't go outside for a week and had very little concept of night and day. Time passed in 3 hour blocks, the next time we could see her, feed her, change her, and hopefully have a cuddle.
There was no bond. Once we got her home and I stared at her for hours on end for a few weeks, we learnt each other's noises. I was so very concerned with keeping her fed and making sure she slept enough, and stressing about trying to breastfeed, that I didn't enjoy her. Then the appointments started - checking her heart, her weight, her little milestones. Meeting people from all walks of life and fitting in extra checks and therapy. Worrying that she wasn't smiling or rolling or going up a size or pooing enough. I was on autopilot, and my life continued on that 3 hour schedule that eventually stretched to 4 hours and then settled into a usual routine.
She was such a placid baby. Really relaxed and just went with the flow, sleeping wherever and whenever she liked, drinking bottles like a champ and pooing all over the place... just like any other baby. She would look at me like I was the most amazing thing she had ever seen and I would just look back at her and wonder how she was mine.
I constantly compared her to other babies - the Golden Rule of parenting is 'Don't Compare' but let's face it, we always do. I compared her to her typically developing peers, and I compared her to her peers with Down syndrome. I still do. I was hypersensitive to the fact that she was different - always introducing the subject into conversation early to avoid the awkwardness of someone not knowing... until one day I realised that no-one really knows (or cares) what it means. It's a label, one that is associated with so many outdated opinions.
I was stopped one day by a lady in the supermarket - Emma is pretty charming and always smiles at random people. She asked me how old she was, and I answered. She mentioned that she was small for her age and I just said 'yeah, but that's what makes her cool' instead of the usual 'she has Down syndrome that's why she's small'. After a little more small talk we both went on our merry ways and I realised that I don't HAVE to tell everyone that Emma has Down syndrome. It doesn't have to be a Big Deal conversation with someone I've just met. I realised that I was giving myself such anxiety about her diagnosis, but that it didn't actually matter.
I started looking at my daughter as Emma. I stopped seeing the Down syndrome and started seeing the person. I started seeing her attempts at communication, her passion, her drive, her enthusiasm. I started seeing her Dad in her mannerisms, and then I saw myself. I looked at her one day and thought 'you are sooo me'... and I loved her.
I always said I loved her, but I never believed it. I protected her, I cared for her, I fulfilled her needs. I provided a safe home and a great family. I knew that she was always going to be a part of my life, and that I didn't want her to be anyone other than who she was, but I didn't love her until that moment.
I didn't love her until I stopped looking for the different and started seeing the same.
It took me a long time, but it was worth it.
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