Somehow, the look of a fresh-out-of-the-womb baby didn’t (and still doesn’t) appeal to me. Blame it on the hysterical hormones too.

As a new mum trying to figure out what on earth happened to her body after growing and ejecting a mini human (that looks, frankly, half-human), trying to love my child unconditionally – like mums are expected to – was one of the biggest struggles I faced in my fourth trimester, or the postpartum period.

The first thing that happened after my baby was delivered? The nurse dried and placed her on my chest for skin-to-skin contact, as though it was a lost kitty I was trying to comfort. I know, the health benefits of skin-to-skin contact are plenty for both the baby and mother. But both times post-labour, what I looked forward to the most was for the nurse to *ahem* wheel my newborn away to the nursery, so I could have time to be with myself, and my emotions. It’s hard to tune into my needs when there’s wailing and whining on repeat, you know.

Was that too much to ask? I mean, I would be spending the rest of my lifetime with my kids, so a few hours (or days) away from them wouldn’t hurt.

So when Zoe confessed: “Even after looking at him for two weeks, I still wasn’t used to it. He felt really foreign. Like, who is that?” I felt as though I’d found a kindred soul. Someone who wouldn’t judge or shame me for not being besotted with my child after birth.

You see, this unnecessary judgment can come from anywhere, even close family members. During my confinement, when I asked for help with mum duties such as diaper-changing and carrying/soothing my baby, someone in my household lamented: “She’s your daughter, you should be spending more time with her!”

I still remember my first words to my firstborn in the flesh: “Hello, stranger.”

Oddly, I felt a lot more bonded to her when she was in my womb. Maybe it had to do with our physiological connection, and the fact that she hadn’t disrupted my life just yet.

During the early days of motherhood, when family members referred to my baby as “bao bei 宝贝” (which means “treasured one” in Chinese), I would cringe inwardly each time I heard it. I couldn’t bring myself to think about any terms of endearment, let alone witness others use it on my child. And… wait a minute. If my baby is “bao bei 宝贝”, does that mean that I’m not treasured anymore? It felt wildly unsettling that a stranger whom I’d hosted for nine months in my belly took over my place of emotional security, just like that.

Here’s another confession: While mums are thought to refer to their babies as “precious” or “bundle of joy”, my secret endearment term for my baby during my fourth trimester was “beautiful nightmare”. The process of bringing her to this world was beautiful, but I couldn’t help wishing that the postpartum period was a nightmare I could wake up from.

With such discombobulating moments, I buried those “Am I loving you enough? Am I a terrible mum for not loving you more?” sentiments deep in my heart, afraid to dwell on them, let alone share them with anyone. What’s more, the mums around me seemed mostly thankful, if not “blessed”, after delivering their kids, so I assumed that some mothers are just meant to adore their children from the get-go. And I was just not one of them.

So thanks, Ah Jie, for disclosing your postpartum thoughts in such a natural, honest way. I now know that I’m not alone in thinking my kid “looked weird” after birth.

Thank goodness my kids are looking less alien and more adorable to me as they grow. My love for them has intensified so much, though sometimes I still consider them my beautiful nightmare.

Estelle Low is the editor of The Singapore Women’s Weekly. She loves her kids unconditionally, but hates how parenting is a severely undervalued job. She thinks the world would be a better place if more mums open up about their struggles and ask for help. DM her on Instagram (@estellelow) if you have something to share.

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