Pregnancy is a time of daydreaming and preparation. Like a bride plans a wedding, the mom-to-be “plans” what sort of mother she will become.  But unlike a wedding, which can be micromanaged to the last detail, parenting is messy. It also lasts for 18+ years! Modern moms-to-be who derive comfort from controlling everything in their life may mistakenly expect the same from parenting. And yet parenthood is a far richer experience when you remain open to its transformative power.

While I was pregnant, I tried not to establish any unrealistic expectations about becoming a mom or even delivery. I purposefully avoided drafting a birth plan because I knew I would be disappointed if my experience didn’t live up to the document. I read the books but tried hard to remain open-minded about most issues.

In spite of my attempts, one thing stuck: babywearing. I fantasized about babywearing while I was pregnant. I was mesmerized by Dr. Sears’s description of doting parents toting blissed-out infants. The books reassured me I would be able to cook meals, do chores, shop, and save the world while wearing a baby. I didn’t want to be one of those miserable, exasperated moms pushing a stroller around a crowded mall.  I was obsessively fearful of how having a child would limit my freedom; babywearing reassured me that I could retain a modicum of independence.

Unfortunately it took some work to acclimate Scribble to being carried.  He was too small to fit in the sling at birth and by the time he had gained enough to be worn safely, he was used to being unconstrained. In my preggo babywearing fantasy, babies always loved being carried.  So why didn’t mine? I learned to put him in the wrap, then make laps around my house to calm him down. Eventually he settled in.

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Scribble’s surrender to the wrap coincided neatly with onset of a serious case of postpartum cabin fever.  I was ready to get out of the house and start exercising regularly.  I carried him lots of places; my greatest babywearing moment was carrying him at a BBQ festival when he was just six weeks old.  His daddy and I started taking him on walks every afternoon.  The sling made me feel so free!  I was the hip, unencumbered mama of my prenatal fantasies!

One day we were taking our customary walk. I was focusing ahead of me; a woman and her dog were approaching and I was thinking about how we were going to keep our own dog from having a complete meltdown.

I stepped into a small pothole and fell hard.  I managed to cradle baby’s head while I was falling and caught our weight on both knees. I cried and looked down. Thankfully, baby was sleeping peacefully on my chest, completely undisturbed by my tumble.

I, on the other hand, was terrified. My legs were bloodied. My husband tried to help me up but I could barely balance myself with a baby on my chest.  I hobbled back to our home, shell shocked and trembling.

It wasn’t a terrible fall of course: two badly skinned and swollen knees. The realization of what might have happened stung the most. Every time I closed my eyes, I pictured nightmare scenes. I felt ashamed. In all the time I had fantasized about babywearing, it never even occurred to me to worry about falling.

I wish I could say I got back into babywearing. I still use my wrap, but only in safer scenarios like grocery shopping, when I can put two hands on a cart. I feel much more comfortable using padded, structured carriers. Logically, I know that babywearing is safe. There are other things I do—like occasionally cosleeping! – that are arguably more dangerous than carrying baby in a wrap.  And around the house, babywearing is unquestionably safer than simply carrying baby in arms.

I know my anxiety is a little silly, but it still lingers.

Falling was a watershed moment for me; it was the moment I realized that the image of the cool, independent, totally in control momma was a fiction. It gave me permission to reconsider the expectations I had unwittingly built up about how productive, active, and unencumbered I would be as a parent. That day and every day I give thanks that motherhood has forced me to slow down.  Independent to a fault and stubborn, I had never felt such fear as I did in the moment I fell while babywearing (I have in subsequent moments of parenting, but never before). Parenthood has left me just as vulnerable as my child.

Don’t we all have our moments of “falling?” Moments of failure in parenting that leave us breathless, overwhelmed, or convicted of our own inadequacy? Sometimes it is these moments, and not the books, websites, or advice from well-meaning friends, that shape us for the better as parents.