I Finally Refused to Accept the Blame as a Struggling New Mom
Maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t all my fault
As I sat in the pediatrician’s office and explained the situation, I knew how he saw me: a frazzled, overtired, desperate new mother, grasping at straws, Googling solutions to sleeping problems, diagnosing issues without any medical experience.
I stumbled over my words, rattled by his lack of empathy, while my son squirmed on my lap.
The doctor sighed and glanced at the clock. “Let’s have a look.”
He wheeled toward us on his rolly chair and held a tongue depressor toward my toddler, who stared back defiantly. I like to think my boy had picked up on the mood in the room and was having nothing to do with this doctor who wasn’t taking his mommy seriously.
“Hold his head,” the doctor commanded.
I hesitated, then obediently complied. I locked my poor son’s head between my hands as the doctor forced his mouth open and looked down his throat. My son was furious, wailing in protest.
I regretted that moment, knowing it could have been handled better. If the doctor had asked permission first, had explained what he was going to do, had let me tell my son it would be okay, then my son would have opened his mouth like a baby dinosaur at dinner. Instead, we had to do it the hard way.
It felt like we’d been doing it the hard way for four years.
We hadn’t slept through the night since I first brought my son home from the hospital more than four years ago. My son woke well over a dozen times every single night, crying and flailing in bed. I dragged myself into his room to soothe him, again and again, staggering to him as I staggered through my day, in a fog of fatigue. My work suffered, my relationships suffered, my ability to make good decisions suffered.
My husband and I had spent thousands of dollars on sleep consultants, night nannies, coaches and gurus, to no avail. I had done cry-it-out four times in four different ways. I had read parenting books, downloaded sleep solution manuals, and posted on mommy forums pleading for advice.
Like so many others I told our story to, I knew that the pediatrician believed my failings as a mother had led to this situation. The advice that came back was always in a similar vein: I was molly-coddling my child, not being firm enough, not setting boundaries or establishing effective routines.
It was the dentist who mentioned my son’s tonsils. During his first dental check-up, she said he was having trouble breathing while she inspected his teeth. She said he had very large tonsils.
I asked if she thought they could be affecting his sleep, and she answered with one word that reverberated through my bones: “Absolutely.”
Maybe, just maybe, our sleep problems were caused by a medical condition and weren’t just another symptom of my poor, inexperienced parenting. Maybe it wasn’t all my fault.
I immediately made an appointment with our pediatrician.
I tried to explain that I thought my son had sleep apnea. That he couldn’t breathe at night. But as the doctor’s skepticism filled the room, I was the one short of breath as I tried to put it all into words.
The pediatrician rolled back to his desk. “His tonsils are medium sized.”
And that was that. He typed some notes into his computer and I carried my son out of the office.
Once again, I found myself feeling defeated and deflated, worried we would never function like a “normal” family.
For four years I’d been wearing a cape of shame related to how I parent. Somehow, I wasn’t doing it right. For four years I felt like we were floundering, and that the sleep issues—and every other challenge we encountered—were due to my own shortcomings.
Something changed that day, and I think it was because, deep down, I knew I was right. And this time I couldn’t let it go.
My shame and guilt began to shift into annoyance, then anger, and then I was truly pissed off. I immediately called and made another appointment with the pediatrician.
At the next visit, I brought reinforcements: my husband. He explained the situation as I had done, only without tears.
After looking down my son’s throat again, the pediatrician nodded his head. “His tonsils are huge. They need to come out.”
Suddenly things were different. We would be referred to a surgeon right away.
I was outraged. It had been only two days since he’d last looked down my son’s throat. Only two days since he’d dismissed my concerns. Only two days since he’d written me off.
Nothing about our situation had changed except that my husband was there. Did the pediatrician believe my husband to be a more credible source of information? Did I come across as too emotional, too dramatic? Did he make assumptions about me because I was a first-time mom suffering from a lack of confidence and struggling to cope?
How many times are new mothers reduced to less than what we are because we may be unable to come up for air during a time in our lives that is often traumatic and devastating, beautiful and miraculous — a hot mess of overwhelming emotions?
Instead of getting treated with respect and admiration, it’s been my experience that some of the people most qualified to help too often let new mothers down.
The surgeon said my son’s tonsils and adenoids needed to be removed before he even looked down my son’s throat. “I can hear it in his voice,” he said.
After the surgery, everything changed for my family.
Things aren’t perfect—far from it—but we can sleep at night now. And that’s pretty huge.
I want to let go of the anger I still feel toward the two pediatricians we had before my son’s medical condition was diagnosed and treated. But I’m not just angry at them—I’m angry at myself.
I should have asked more questions, spoken up more often, voiced my concerns more openly and honestly.
My failings weren’t in how I parented; my failings were continually letting someone else’s opinions and judgments count for more than my own.
I repressed the internal voice that told me something was wrong.
I don’t think my situation was overly unique. I’m concerned by the way new mothers are treated, portrayed, and even caricatured, not just by doctors, but also by society at large. By comedians, scriptwriters, employers, well-meaning friends, and people who don’t have kids of their own.
By other parents who have “been through the trenches” and seem to believe that parenting as a walking zombie is not only acceptable but amusing.
By professionals who can’t see past the pain and raw emotion to hear the truth of what’s really going on.
This isn’t how we lift families up. Instead, we can truly listen. We can offer genuine support, free from judgment, and hold out a hand instead of rolling our eyes.
And I can refuse to see myself as a failure, choosing instead to recognize my own power and potential as a mother.
