As far as I could tell, there were two kinds of mothers. The ones who were efficient and eager and then, there were those who barely hung on. The latter described me. I put on a good façade that I had it together, but the fact was, I sucked at being a mom. There were too many details, lots of things to be afraid of, and fear of failure. I hadn’t made a conscious decision to be a mother, it just sort of happened. Of course, I knew the result when two people engaged in unprotected sex—another life to share with mine, forever. It seemed like the right time. Almost immediately after the wedding we were bombarded with inquiries as to when we were going to procreate. Perhaps they wanted to join in, watch the act, inspect our positions for proper seeding. Deep down, I lacked the burning desire to have a child that my friends had exhibited.

My pregnancy was uneventful. One time, I almost hurled in the grocery store. It was the raw chicken. Just looking at it made me gag. My mouth watered. I squelched it down while running out of the store. My cart left alone in the refrigeration area, cold and abandoned. I wondered if I’d leave my child the same way—perhaps forget I had one or lose it by accident. I shuddered and pushed down my anxiety. No point in worrying. After all, my best friend who was also pregnant, was accidentally taking her husband’s Vicodin which looked quite similar to prenatal vitamins. One a day until the bottle was empty. It was me who took notice while running errands together with our matching swollen bellies. She asked me to grab the pill bottle from her purse which was resting on the floor by my feet. I read the label.

“Vicodin,” I said. “That’s not prenatal vitamins as far as I can tell.” She grabbed the bottle from my hand.

“What?” she said, zooming her eyes into the label. “Oh, my God! I’ve been taking one of these every day. Please don’t tell my husband.” Her hand flew over her mouth. “No wonder I’ve been feeling so great.”

The incident passed uneventfully. Her child born healthy. Mine arrived shortly after. A baby boy, wiry and thin with a cry that could move a mountain. I loved him the minute I laid eyes on him and prayed I wouldn’t make too many mistakes. The nurse tried to show me how to breastfeed but my little one wouldn’t latch on. My first failure as a mother—giant boobs and no milk. We brought in lactation specialists, the La Leche league, feeding tubes—whatever it took to try and make me feel worthy of motherhood. I was a dry well.

“You’re too stressed out,” my non-existent husband exclaimed. He existed as a human, but was of no emotional support. I lived in my own hell. A failure as a woman. My son finally grew when I gave him formula, and he smiled at me with eyes of forgiveness. Three months into motherhood, a small mark appeared between his eyebrows. I feared the cat had scratched him. The red blotch grew and puffed out like a blister. Other kids would push it and touch it during play dates. Mother’s peered into my stroller and gasped. To me, it was nothing because he was mine. He loved me more than I loved myself. The doctors said it would go away, to leave it alone, and so I did. I figured the lesson for me was to see past people’s imperfections and to look at their whole selves.

As my cherub grew, I continued to make rookie mistakes. Some would haunt me in my dreams. It might not have been a good idea to put the bouncy seat on the counter but my son loved the view. He’d bounce and bounce and when it seemed as though he was going to bounce right off the counter I grabbed the frame. My son’s weight unsnapped the safety strap and he soared through the air landing on his back. I clutched him in my arms and prayed he was going to be okay while he screamed and cried. Thankfully he was but the emotional scars left me believing I wasn’t fit for motherhood. Someone else should be the one mothering this child. Yet, he continued to be there, to love me. To smile at me.