Libby stared at the tiny, wriggling bundle in her arms. Her baby boy, Max, yawned, his little fists punching the air as if he were fighting off invisible foes. Libby’s heart swelled with a love so profound it scared her. Yet, underneath the warmth of her affection, doubt gnawed at her. Was she doing this right?
Max had arrived two weeks earlier, a whirlwind of late-night feedings, diaper changes, and sleepless nights. Libby was exhausted, but she wanted to be the perfect mom. No, she needed to be the perfect mom. Everyone had an opinion about what that looked like—her mother, her friends, the endless blogs, and even strangers on the internet. But the advice was contradictory, leaving Libby more confused than ever.
Today, the question hung over her like a storm cloud: Is this the way to care for him?
She glanced at the clock. It was nearly time for Max’s next feeding. She’d been breastfeeding, but her mother had suggested switching to formula. “You need to rest, darling,” her mom had said, her tone both loving and insistent. “You can’t pour from an empty cup.”
Libby sighed. She didn’t disagree, but every time she thought about giving Max a bottle, guilt clawed at her. Weren’t the best moms supposed to endure everything for their kids? She wanted Max to have the best start possible, and if that meant pushing through the pain and exhaustion of breastfeeding, wasn’t it worth it?
She carried Max to the nursery and settled into the rocking chair. He latched onto her breast, his tiny mouth working rhythmically. It didn’t hurt as much as it had in the beginning, but the fatigue was relentless. She leaned her head back, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment.
The door creaked open, and Libby’s best friend, Tara, peeked in. “Hey, you okay?” she whispered.
Libby nodded, though tears pricked her eyes. Tara stepped inside, her presence grounding. She had been a lifeline these past weeks, always ready with a meal or a reassuring word.
“What’s on your mind?” Tara asked, sitting on the edge of the crib.
Libby hesitated. “I just… I don’t know if I’m doing this right. Everyone has an opinion, and I feel like I’m failing no matter what I choose.”
Tara chuckled softly. “Welcome to motherhood. The land of unsolicited advice and constant self-doubt.”
Libby managed a weak smile. “How do you handle it? You make it look so easy with your kids.”
Tara shook her head. “Oh, Libs, it’s not easy. I’ve cried in the shower more times than I can count. But here’s the thing: there’s no one right way to care for your baby. The best way is the one that works for you and Max.”
The words sank in, but the weight of her guilt didn’t lift entirely. “But what if I make the wrong choice?”
“You will,” Tara said, her tone light but kind. “We all do at some point. But babies are resilient, and love covers a multitude of mistakes. You’re doing great, even if it doesn’t feel like it.”
Max finished feeding and drifted off to sleep. Libby carefully placed him in his crib, his tiny chest rising and falling in peaceful rhythm. She turned to Tara, her voice barely above a whisper. “What if I gave him a bottle tonight? Just so I can get some rest.”
Tara smiled. “Then you’d be taking care of both of you. And that’s not just okay—it’s important.”
That evening, Libby prepared Max’s first bottle. She felt a pang of guilt as she watched him drink from it, but it was overshadowed by relief. For the first time in weeks, she slept for more than two hours in a row.
When she woke up, the sun was streaming through the window, and Max was cooing in his crib. Libby picked him up, pressing a kiss to his forehead. She felt clearer, more present, and for the first time, she believed she could do this.
She didn’t need to be perfect. She just needed to love Max and do her best. And that, she realized, was more than enough.
