A Letter to my Daughter

Today, after arguing with you for about an hour to try to get you to brush your hair, I smacked you on the leg with the hairbrush. I thought it was just a tap, an attempt to bring you back down to earth, but it left a red mark and I realised I had let my anger get the better of me. It frightens me to think I have the capacity to hurt you, even if just slightly.

My relationship with you is complicated, I struggle with it constantly. Motherhood hasn't settled easily with me - which is something I never expected. I look after things, I always have - people, animals (although I've never been that great with house plants)and I just expected to be a natural mother. But there was a whole lot of stuff I didn't anticipate...

I wanted a baby, I wanted to get pregnant and I wanted to be a mother. After two years and two miscarriages though I was defeated and depressed. I'd almost given up on the idea of having a baby and as is usual for cases like this once I stopped trying, I got pregnant. But unlike the previous two - you hung in there. I can't describe the elation I felt the first time I felt you move, you were my little passenger, my constant companion and I felt such a bond to you it was euphoric. But after 14 hours of hellish pain, exhaustion and finally a forceps delivery I was so physically and emotionally wrecked that when we finally met face to face I couldn't care, I just wanted to go to sleep.
Apparently it's not unusual for mothers to not have that instant maternal bond that we hear about. There is supposed to be an endorphin rush that wipes away all memory of the pain and induces a flood of love for the new baby, but it doesn't always happen. It certainly didn't happen for me. I didn't feel like I was your mother, my brain couldn't make the connection between the little passenger and this new baby - I didn't know who you were. Yet I was fiercely protective. When the nurse did the heel prick to take a blood drop I heard your little dolphin squeal and I jumped out of bed and ran straight to you, even though I was in so much pain from the episiotomy that all previous attempts to walk had been unsuccessful.
A few days later I walked out of the hospital with you in my arms and was baffled that no-one was trying to stop me. It felt so wrong, I had no idea how to look after a baby and I couldn't believe I was being allowed to take responsibility for this little life. The mother-baby bond just wasn't there. I felt like your caretaker and if a woman had knocked on my front door and said "thank you for looking after my baby, I'll take her now" I probably would have handed you over.
For the next few months we fought every four hours as I tried to get you to breast feed, eventually just the act of me picking you up would have you screaming in anticipation of the coming battle. It broke my heart that I couldn't feed you, I felt like a failure. The basic instinct of mothers is to feed their young and I couldn't do it. I tried everything to get you to feed - I took you to an osteopath who said the forceps had compressed the skull plates and you had a constant headache. After that treatment your mood did improve, but you still wouldn't feed. I went to a lactation clinic every week and dozens of midwives tried to help us. I took you to a doctor who said you were tongue tied. I remember your little face looking at me with total innocence, then the look of shock as the doctor shoved her fingers in your mouth and the look of total betrayal when the doctor snipped the membrane under your tongue. Your little mouth filled with blood and you screamed - the whole time looking at me not comprehending why I had let someone hurt you.
The battle to breast feed became harder and harder until after 10 weeks I finally surrendered. I didn't want to fight you anymore, I wanted us to be friends. I wanted to try to build our relationship but I felt so wretched, I condemned myself as the worst mother in the world and I've never really been able to shake that.
I also couldn't understand why I couldn't get you to settle to sleep - it took over an hour every time. You cried and I didn't know why and I couldn't comfort you. More failure. Eventually your reflux was diagnosed and medication changed our lives. Suddenly you were a happy baby, the heart burn that had afflicted you was gone and you got on with the business of being a baby.
But by this time my mental health was failing. I had reached a stage where I was convinced you hated me. Usually what would happen is that after an hour of fighting with you to breast feed or trying to calm you to sleep I would give up and your father (if he was there) would take over and be the conquering hero with the welcomed bottle or his calmness would be all that was needed for your exhausted little mind to finally surrender to sleep. I was the bad parent. Also failing was our ability to support ourselves financially. I had changed jobs too recently to be eligible for paid maternity leave and your father had mismanaged our investment property and lost us a considerable amount of money. I was forced to return to work when you were only 3 months old.
I hated leaving you at creche, in the care of strangers, while I went off to work. The first day I tried to relished the luxury of being able to drink a coffee while it was still hot, to go to the toilet at my leisure, of being able to spend a day uninterrupted but the guilt nagged me. When I got back to day care and they told me how good you had been, how quiet and compliant you had been my heart sank. My belief that you hated me and didn't need me was obviously true. Total strangers could take better care of you than I could. I was wrong. The minute we left the premises (how did you know??) you stared screaming and you let loose a whole days worth of fears and anxieties and pain. You gave me what you had been saving all day long, what you had been unable to let out with strangers. For over an hour I sat let you cry and cry and tell me, I imagined, all about how lost and abandoned and frightened you felt. Finally you settled enough for me to take you home.
Eventually we formed a routine and you began to enjoy day care. As you got older I began to realise you would have more fun there than you would ever have with me at home and my anxiety waned.
The stress of work and a baby that was still feeding at night was too much for me, the sleep deprivation and the lack of support from your father wore me out. I fell into depression. Once I realised that there was something wrong with me I went to the doctor and she gave me antidepressants. With the medication, you sleeping through the night and support from my work mates I finally began to cope.

But is was hard. When you were less than 2 years old my marriage with your father ended. His career was in question and I didn't know if he would be employed again soon. My own job was subject to funding and unstable so I accepted a job that wasn't close to your day care and that wasn't sympathetic to my single parent status but it was permanent and paid well. Once your father moved out of the house my bond with you started to solidify. All we had was each other. I realised I had put so much energy into resenting your father for being unsupportive that once that was gone I had more energy for you. However, the conflict that had always existed remained.

I remember one morning we left the house, you were in the car seat in the back and I was driving. It was a cold day so I had put a jumper on you. You didn't want the jumper. In the thick of Melbourne peak hour traffic you started screaming "I want to take my jumper off". You screamed until you were hysterical, then you kept screaming. I couldn't pull over, there was no-where to go in the heavy traffic and I couldn't reach you. Eventually we arrived at day care and I found a parking spot. I reached into the back and ripped the jumper off you then collapsed into tears of my own. You were shocked, I don't think you'd ever seen me cry before. You crawled into my lap, apologised and tried to comfort me.
Another time we were driving to Torquay for the weekend, it was Friday night, it was getting late and I was lost. You were in the backseat babbling as usual and I started getting stressed. You asked me what was wrong and I said we were lost. You replied "it's OK Mamma, I'll take care of you".
Bless your little two year old heart.

When you were 4 years old there was a headlice epidemic at the day care centre and every three days I would comb conditioner through your fine, thick hair with a fine tooth comb. Generally you were pretty good and tolerant of the procedure. Unfortunately your father was less vigilant and when you returned to me after a week with him I would invariably get a call from day care telling me you had head lice and to come and get you. My sick leave and annual leave got used up very quickly. The manager was furious and even though I told her to dock my pay and I didn't let my work suffer she refused to be sympathetic to my situation. The stress at work became so bad I was constantly sick, my ability to cope erroded and eventually the only solution I could see was to quit my job and move us to Canberra to live with Marc.

The move hurt you. You missed your Dad and you missed your friends at day care. The preschool I enrolled you in had only 10 students and 7 of them couldn't speak english. You struggled to make friends, your outgoing and happy nature dissapeared and you became shy and withdrawn at preschool and volatile and uncooperative at home. My efforts to rescue us had back fired.
That first year in Canberra we really got to know each other. We had only had weekends and evenings together your whole life - you had effectively been raised by the day care staff. I knew how to be a part time mother but full time is totally different, I had a lot to learn. I knew how to be organised with food and clothes and how to get you to places on time but when we didn't have to go anywhere, when it was just you and I for days on end I was unsure. But we muddled through and when you started school I stood and cried with all the other mothers. A week later I was still crying and they all started to think I was a bit soft in the head.

Your only friend from preschool went to a different school and once again you were alone and insecure. I went back to work and you started attending after school care, it was there you finally started making friends and some of your spark came back.
We had settled into Canberra but the distance from your father and his inconsistant contact was hard for you - you missed him. When you returned from a visit with him you were always an angel, but as the weeks passed and his phone calls dwindled your behaviour would deteriorate and we would end up fighting.

You're an early riser - I like to sleep late. Marc is a night owl so in order to spend time with my husband but also take care of you I was perpetually sleep deprived and as a result: cranky. Unfortunately you feed off my energy and the crankier I got the worse your behaviour got and we would invariably end up screaming at each other.

I want you to know I've done my best - I've tried to enjoy playing with Barbies and the endless board games you own but it just isn't in me to fake it.
Recently we had a mother/daughter week of activities - my attempt to build some bridges and give us some time together where we weren't bickering. I mostly succeeded but WOW was it exhausting. When we were in the pool I realised that it was the first time I had been swimming with you. You went swimming all the time with your father and I realised I had to start letting myself be the good parent too. I think you're at that age now where we can enjoy more things together and I know I need to make the most of it because pretty soon you'll be embarrassed to be seen with me and trying desperately to get away. But you're still very young. I think I expect you to be more self sufficient that you're ready to be. I get cranky when we are riding our bikes and I have to stop every 10 meters to adjust the strap on your helmet or wait for you to catch up because you had stopped to look at a twig. I need to remind myself that it's the journey.
You are one of the most tolerant and big hearted kids I have ever met. You continue to love me even when I loose my temper and smack you with a hair brush. You are generous and caring and very loving and I will always be fiercely protective of you. I guess the whole point of this is to tell you that I love you more than anything and I try to be a good mother - I'm just still working out how.

We've been together over seven years now and our bond is solid. You are my one and only and you tell me "you are the best mother I've ever had" and can't ask for anything more. Oh, except that you brush your hair.