On being a mother

I had a baby. This wasn’t a particular surprise, since for the last 34 weeks my abdomen steadily grew larger, and clearly contained some kind of moving, kicking, twirling entity. What has surprised me is how in one instant, one solitary last push, my life changed forever. I will never – can never – be the same.

I know it is normal to take a few days or weeks or months to bond with your children, but for me it was love at first sight. She is tiny, beautiful, perfect. Except that she’s not – she came too early, before her body was ready for this place with cold air and atmospheric pressure and germs.

My baby is in the neonatal intensive care unit with tubes and wires and IVs extending from what seems like every square inch of her body. She sleeps in an incubator (when she’s not in a special bilirubin crib for jaundice) with an insulating pad surrounding her because she is unable to regulate her body temperature. An IV drips glucose into her bloodstream because she's too small to eat enough on her own. Monitors record her EKG heart patterns, blood pressure, temperature, respiratory rate, and oxygen saturation at all times, and whenever one of them increases above or decreases below set thresholds, the monitors beep with increasing volume until one of the attending nurses comes to see if it’s a false alarm or if my baby is indeed failing to thrive.

Tim and I spend all the time we can in her room. As I feed her, I stare at the monitors, willing them with my tear-filled eyes to stay silent. I am hypnotized by the patterns displayed by her nascent attempts to survive outside the womb. Tim tells me to ignore the monitors, to tune out the beeping. I know he is right, but how can I? She is my daughter, the one perfect thing I have ever done in my life. The doctors and nurses tell me she is doing great – that she is a star – that she has beat the odds so far and should continue to progress and might even go home earlier than anticipated. I am comforted by their words, and I myself believe in the statistical probability that she is and will be fine… and still... I stare at the screens, feel a conspicuous rise in my blood pressure every time they begin to beep. I walk past the “Well Baby Nursery" on the way back to my room, and feel resentful of all the full-sized infants, just lying there in the open air looking pink and warm and smug.

My friend Amy had a baby not long ago. She talked about her experience of being a new mother, and about feeling so enamored with her daughter that it was a “joy that’s on the edge of being mournful.” I understand what she meant, this joy that transcends happiness to the edges of sorrow because with every happiness comes a terrible risk of losing whatever precipated it.

But it’s okay, this mournful joy. I love taking care of this teeny, tiny little girl. I will gladly forfeit sleep so that I can hold her next to my skin to help regulate her temperature. I will pump until my nipples are sore and aching so that my little girl can have a few extra proteins and protective antibodies. I will scrub in dutifully, even though my arms have a rash from the harsh soaps and alcohols. I will endure the beeping machines, the irregular patterns on the screen. I will do anything in the world for this squeaking, kicking, blue-eyed creature with a synthetic tube extending from her forehead.