“Mum..ah..” The sound rises from his mouth like a bubble, lifting into the air and popping gently at my ears. He’s grinning up at me with one of those gorgeous, full-face bursts that shows off his four newly erupted pearls.

 In response, I snuggle my face into the soft exposed space of his round belly. Try to get my nose into the tiny, perfect indent. Try to make him squirm and put his chubby little hands up in happy protest. Try, somehow, to make this moment stretch, to preserve this fluttering in my chest, the joy surging with every exhale. Try to extend the soft sound of his very first “Mama” even as it lifts and dissipates.

 I wanted to love pregnancy and breastfeeding, but I didn’t. Each experience for me was brutal, exhausting and overall uncomfortable. I was diagnosed with prenatal depression with my first and hospitalized for severe anemia with my second. I pumped breastmilk for months the first time and suffered from mastitis the second time.

 I used to go to coffee-gripping mom circles and hear other mothers gush about how connected they felt. The flood of maternal joy that filled their bellies. The empowerment that accompanied breastfeeding. I would mutely nod, but the silent agreement was a facade. I never felt that way about pregnancy or breastfeeding. I felt inherently off, misshapen because my experience surrounding both was mostly negative, and either topic was something I would rather avoid discussing altogether.

 I don’t miss my heavy nine-month belly, the back aches or crippling sciatica pain. I don’t lament late-night nursing sessions or choosing clothing based on its boob-accessibility. I was relieved when my sons transitioned easily to the bottle and I could tuck my tits back into my little bralettes and take a long, hot shower while my partner gave a bedtime bottle.

 When a friend bemoaned she was done with pregnancy and folded up the last muslin blanket with misty eyes, I gently patted her shoulder, but I couldn’t empathize. I don’t miss the insomnia, the freaky dreams, constant pressure to Eat! Eat! (but don’t eat that). Or the feeling that my body wasn’t exclusively my own for the months of pregnancy.

 I don’t fondly remember the engorged breasts, stinging stitches in my perineum, or swelling of my labia during the postpartum period. None of it felt magical to me, despite what the other twinkling-eyed moms had to say about it.

Initially, I took this to mean that my mothering was askew. That something in me required readjustment because I didn’t enjoy the parts of motherhood that are so often glamorized. I never caught a whiff of the newborn smell or lost track of time staring down at my three-week-old, asleep in my arms.

I carried around silent guilt about breastfeeding, too. Afraid to let the other moms know I hated how it made me constantly thirsty, always ‘on-demand’ and overwhelmed that my tiny, vulnerable child was wholly dependent on my deflated breasts.

It was easier - even for me, an extrovert - to avoid the foam-matted play groups with those perfect mamas who felt something when they were breastfeeding or were swollen with joy during pregnancy. Maybe I should wander the grocery store aisle: compare boxes of macaroni and scrutinize a bunch of grapes, instead.

So, I took a break from the local mommy groups and mediocre coffee. I prioritized healthy doses of sunshine and some time to myself every day. Learned to eat lunches I liked, no matter if the ingredients would increase my milk supply or not. Discovered a Saturday morning yoga class; learned how to exhale the comparisons, how to not feel a stab of guilt every time I glanced at a mother happily breastfeeding her baby. Overcame my fear of disapproving stares and prepared bottles of formula in public, even hefted my baby in a sling or carrier for on-the-go naps.

Just as he began to walk and babble, our world became smaller, more magical, too. How long did we crouch together over a line of black ants? Did I ever tire of accepting bud after yellow bud of the flower tops he pressed into my palms? I watched him clap his hands on iridescent bubbles and spin under the confetti of yellow and brown leaves, completely oblivious to anyone else in the park.

More and more, I found my mouth spontaneously erupting into a grin. Like when I observed him delicately dab his fingertips in purple paint or carefully turn the pages of his favorite book with his own soft hands.

In the same manner that babies change, gradually, yet rapidly, I did too. I shifted from staggering under guilt and a numbing sense of ‘otherness’, to this cognizance that I knew the meaning of each of his cries and could gauge his sleepy cues. That I was raising this little one; and he was curious and healthy and happy, despite the formula feeding and my inability to wrap a decent swaddle. I was doing this parenting thing - I was his Mama.

One day a friend told me that she’s a “newborn kinda mama”. That she loves the first days with a wrinkly, sleepy baby. She doesn’t mind the runny yellow poops or the sleepless nights, it's all sacred for those few first weeks. She soaks up every bit and misses that special phase as her child grows and enters toddler, preschool years.

There it was; the key. The thing that was “askew”; it wasn’t me, but the belief that I must appreciate pregnancy and pretend I’m not in pain postpartum. That I should enjoy nursing and night feeds, even when I don’t. So I tipped, tilted my perception and tried on a new badge.

I am no newborn mama; I am some other kinda mama. A mud-pie-making, finger-painting, insect-watching, leaf-collecting, bath-sharing kinda mama. A formula-feeding, mimosa-drinking, pacifier-giving kind of mama. A forest-walking, baby-wearing, part-time working kinda mama. A schedule-ditching, cookie-permitting, raspberry-blowing kinda mama.

And that’s okay, too.

Because really, all that matters - after the first two weeks or the first twenty years - is ultimately the same for all of us mamas: that we raise healthy, happy babies, without becoming unhealthy ourselves.

Thoughts, like pinpricks, poke my psyche, say I’m too selfish, too busy. How dare I like caffeine and independent walks? That I must make a medical excuse for formula feeding. That Saturday mornings should be about pancakes and legos, not yoga practice.

 Interrupting - even silencing - these accusations are tiny bubble-words, popping around my ears; lifting up from the drooly chin of my healthy, happy child; “Mumm--mmah”.

-Ree Pashley

Ree Pashley is an American ex-pat who is raising her family in sunny Tanzania. She holds degrees in Justice and Social work and over a decade of experience working in Canada. She loves her kids, but doesn't love the pregnancy or postpartum stages. Ree has been published by MotherFigure, the University of California Press and Matador Network.