The day you were born, I wasn't ready to become a mother. The idea of giving up my freedom, of becoming responsible for keeping something not just alive, but happy and nourished from the soul outward, was completely overwhelming. I hadn't felt a tremendous attachment to you during the months you spent in my belly. I'd try to chat with you before bed some nights, especially if you were twisting and flipping around in there and I wanted to test out my mom skills, but it felt weird. I didn't know you yet, nor you me. I guess in those moments, I really didn't know myself either.
I remember taking forever to fall asleep that Friday night, because I was anxious and knew you'd be appearing sooner than later, and you made quite certain I knew it with all your acrobatics inside my uterus. My eyes felt like they'd barely closed before I woke up startled with a brand new sensation of pain. I tried to breathe and calm myself back into sleep, gently rubbing my belly and telling you to go to sleep, too. But you didn't. And neither did I.
A couple more hours passed and the pains worsened. I finally woke up your daddy, trying my best to sound calm and collected, but simultaneously assertive and alarming. We started timing the contractions, and over the course of an hour realized we needed to call the doctor. "Go to the hospital," she said. "I'll let them know to expect you." This wasn't really what I'd expected from this Saturday. I wasn't ready. I remember shaking Aunt Lex around 6:00 with the wake-up call of "OK, it looks like I'm having a baby today!" and then jumping in the shower, trying to appreciate that this would be the last bit of time to myself I would have for a very, very long time. I even painted my nails, for fuck's sake! These were my priorities before entering motherhood? I wasn't ready.
Thank goodness we lived so close to the hospital, because the drive was excruciating. With every bump in the road, I begged you to be gentle with me. I remember pulling up to the entrance of the hospital, getting out with my suitcase, and standing on the pavement waiting for your daddy to park the car. I don't think I'd ever been more annoyed with anyone until that moment. I've never seen anyone walk slower in my life, but with every step he took he might have been having the same anxieties I was: "I'm not ready."
We made it to labor and delivery on the fourth floor. First step: triage. It doesn't feel great that they associate this word with the pre-admittance labor process. Triage makes me think of natural disasters and horrifically depressing Grey's Anatomy episodes. I'd better not be inspiring one of those after today. The fluorescent lights were giving me a headache on top of all the other fun stuff happening inside me. Anonymous staff members began poking and prodding in places where I usually would require knowing first and last names, life stories, greatest fears, hopes and dreams. But OK, we'll relax those rules based on the special circumstances of today. Because we were definitely about to have a baby. It was 9AM, my body had been convulsing with pain for nearly eight hours already, and I had only gotten an hour of sleep the previous night. I wasn't ready.
For months, I'd tried to predict what labor would be like, feel like, look like. No amount of planning could have prepared me for what was about to happen to us that day. Pain. It hurts. A lot. What a joke it was, remembering ever complaining about anything else that had ever happened to me. Hangnails? Tooth infections? Sprained fingers? Pfffftttt. I knew immediately that I wasn't going to make it through this process without drugs. I wish I'd been stronger to have stuck it out longer than I did, but I so wanted (needed!) to sleep. I also hadn't eaten anything since dinner on Friday night. This was going to be a longer day than any of us were prepared for. Especially without pizza. I wasn't ready.
Once I got that epidural, I could think a little clearer about what was happening instead of only being focused on the pain ripping through my body. I was having a baby today; I was going to meet my son, the little stowaway that had been causing all sorts of unprecedented internal chaos over the past ten months. I was going to be a mother. But the word still didn't feel like it was meant for me. "Mother" - that configuration of six letters invokes so many emotions for me, because I was raised by one of the best. I tried to channel her and feel tough like her. I was supposed to be confident and empowered. How else was I supposed to push a (hopefully) tiny human out of me? But I couldn't feel any of those things, because I wasn't ready.
I took a few cat naps, getting poked and examined in between, going numb all over below my bellybutton, and feeling cold and hot simultaneously. Freeze pops never tasted so good. Special peanut-shaped pillows were used to keep my body from becoming totally useless. The doctor had an appointment at 3PM, so she wanted you to be born before then. (LOLz!) We all tried to laugh and make jokes and keep the atmosphere light, which was slightly helpful in distracting me from the absolute terror about what I was facing. I don't think I looked anyone directly in the eye the entire day because I knew they'd peer into my soul and realize that I wasn't ready to be a mother. I didn't want everyone to abandon me once they saw this in my eyes, because it was true. I wasn't ready.
Nurses shifts changed; it was dark outside now. We'd been there for twelve hours already, not including the five hours we labored at home before deciding you were on your way. You were being stubborn; maybe you sensed my anxiety and tried to give me some time to get my shit together. Finally, I pushed and cried and screamed and begged for someone to tell me this would end soon. I vomited on several innocent bystanders. Every time I felt we were making progress, it seemed like we ended up going backwards. They had the little baby tray prepared: the cute hat, swaddle blankets, mucus-sucker. Everything was ready, except me.
Somehow, though, we did it - you and me, we battled together, pushing for two hours and you came barreling into the world. The cord was around your neck, and in that moment I became a mother. Nothing else mattered - my own fears, hunger, pain, and exhaustion suddenly meant nothing. Those selfish feelings of terror I'd been having for months ("I'm not ready") were abruptly replaced with protective ones ("Please let him be perfect"). It all happened in a matter of seconds; the cord was cut, you started wailing, we locked eyes, and the drugs of motherhood overpowered the epidural I'd had that afternoon. I was hooked. To this day, I've never winced at your cries. They are a special kind of music that you and I share. (Plus, your pouty face is pretty much the cutest thing ever.)
It's only now, looking back, that I'm able to appreciate how truly magnificent the human body really is. I didn't need to be ready, and I was never going to be. My body was going to do the work for me, regardless how I felt. And the second you had emerged, I knew everything was different. It didn't matter how terrified I still was. I'm going to make a lot of mistakes as your mother. I've probably already made dozens of them. But, you were here, you were mine, and we were a family. Thinking back on life prior to that day, it all feels like a fog; like I had spent years living in one of those cinematic movie reminiscences, where the camera lens is purposefully hazy to remind you this is the past. Once you were laid on my chest at 9:16PM, it all changed. The fog I had until that time been unaware of, lifted. You changed my life. You changed me.
I wasn't ready then. But I am now. I'm ready to tackle the whole world with you. Buckle up, little man. We are going to have a lot of adventures together.
3/21/15: The day I became ready for anything.
I remember taking forever to fall asleep that Friday night, because I was anxious and knew you'd be appearing sooner than later, and you made quite certain I knew it with all your acrobatics inside my uterus. My eyes felt like they'd barely closed before I woke up startled with a brand new sensation of pain. I tried to breathe and calm myself back into sleep, gently rubbing my belly and telling you to go to sleep, too. But you didn't. And neither did I.
A couple more hours passed and the pains worsened. I finally woke up your daddy, trying my best to sound calm and collected, but simultaneously assertive and alarming. We started timing the contractions, and over the course of an hour realized we needed to call the doctor. "Go to the hospital," she said. "I'll let them know to expect you." This wasn't really what I'd expected from this Saturday. I wasn't ready. I remember shaking Aunt Lex around 6:00 with the wake-up call of "OK, it looks like I'm having a baby today!" and then jumping in the shower, trying to appreciate that this would be the last bit of time to myself I would have for a very, very long time. I even painted my nails, for fuck's sake! These were my priorities before entering motherhood? I wasn't ready.
Thank goodness we lived so close to the hospital, because the drive was excruciating. With every bump in the road, I begged you to be gentle with me. I remember pulling up to the entrance of the hospital, getting out with my suitcase, and standing on the pavement waiting for your daddy to park the car. I don't think I'd ever been more annoyed with anyone until that moment. I've never seen anyone walk slower in my life, but with every step he took he might have been having the same anxieties I was: "I'm not ready."
We made it to labor and delivery on the fourth floor. First step: triage. It doesn't feel great that they associate this word with the pre-admittance labor process. Triage makes me think of natural disasters and horrifically depressing Grey's Anatomy episodes. I'd better not be inspiring one of those after today. The fluorescent lights were giving me a headache on top of all the other fun stuff happening inside me. Anonymous staff members began poking and prodding in places where I usually would require knowing first and last names, life stories, greatest fears, hopes and dreams. But OK, we'll relax those rules based on the special circumstances of today. Because we were definitely about to have a baby. It was 9AM, my body had been convulsing with pain for nearly eight hours already, and I had only gotten an hour of sleep the previous night. I wasn't ready.
For months, I'd tried to predict what labor would be like, feel like, look like. No amount of planning could have prepared me for what was about to happen to us that day. Pain. It hurts. A lot. What a joke it was, remembering ever complaining about anything else that had ever happened to me. Hangnails? Tooth infections? Sprained fingers? Pfffftttt. I knew immediately that I wasn't going to make it through this process without drugs. I wish I'd been stronger to have stuck it out longer than I did, but I so wanted (needed!) to sleep. I also hadn't eaten anything since dinner on Friday night. This was going to be a longer day than any of us were prepared for. Especially without pizza. I wasn't ready.
Once I got that epidural, I could think a little clearer about what was happening instead of only being focused on the pain ripping through my body. I was having a baby today; I was going to meet my son, the little stowaway that had been causing all sorts of unprecedented internal chaos over the past ten months. I was going to be a mother. But the word still didn't feel like it was meant for me. "Mother" - that configuration of six letters invokes so many emotions for me, because I was raised by one of the best. I tried to channel her and feel tough like her. I was supposed to be confident and empowered. How else was I supposed to push a (hopefully) tiny human out of me? But I couldn't feel any of those things, because I wasn't ready.
I took a few cat naps, getting poked and examined in between, going numb all over below my bellybutton, and feeling cold and hot simultaneously. Freeze pops never tasted so good. Special peanut-shaped pillows were used to keep my body from becoming totally useless. The doctor had an appointment at 3PM, so she wanted you to be born before then. (LOLz!) We all tried to laugh and make jokes and keep the atmosphere light, which was slightly helpful in distracting me from the absolute terror about what I was facing. I don't think I looked anyone directly in the eye the entire day because I knew they'd peer into my soul and realize that I wasn't ready to be a mother. I didn't want everyone to abandon me once they saw this in my eyes, because it was true. I wasn't ready.
Nurses shifts changed; it was dark outside now. We'd been there for twelve hours already, not including the five hours we labored at home before deciding you were on your way. You were being stubborn; maybe you sensed my anxiety and tried to give me some time to get my shit together. Finally, I pushed and cried and screamed and begged for someone to tell me this would end soon. I vomited on several innocent bystanders. Every time I felt we were making progress, it seemed like we ended up going backwards. They had the little baby tray prepared: the cute hat, swaddle blankets, mucus-sucker. Everything was ready, except me.
Somehow, though, we did it - you and me, we battled together, pushing for two hours and you came barreling into the world. The cord was around your neck, and in that moment I became a mother. Nothing else mattered - my own fears, hunger, pain, and exhaustion suddenly meant nothing. Those selfish feelings of terror I'd been having for months ("I'm not ready") were abruptly replaced with protective ones ("Please let him be perfect"). It all happened in a matter of seconds; the cord was cut, you started wailing, we locked eyes, and the drugs of motherhood overpowered the epidural I'd had that afternoon. I was hooked. To this day, I've never winced at your cries. They are a special kind of music that you and I share. (Plus, your pouty face is pretty much the cutest thing ever.)
It's only now, looking back, that I'm able to appreciate how truly magnificent the human body really is. I didn't need to be ready, and I was never going to be. My body was going to do the work for me, regardless how I felt. And the second you had emerged, I knew everything was different. It didn't matter how terrified I still was. I'm going to make a lot of mistakes as your mother. I've probably already made dozens of them. But, you were here, you were mine, and we were a family. Thinking back on life prior to that day, it all feels like a fog; like I had spent years living in one of those cinematic movie reminiscences, where the camera lens is purposefully hazy to remind you this is the past. Once you were laid on my chest at 9:16PM, it all changed. The fog I had until that time been unaware of, lifted. You changed my life. You changed me.
I wasn't ready then. But I am now. I'm ready to tackle the whole world with you. Buckle up, little man. We are going to have a lot of adventures together.
3/21/15: The day I became ready for anything.
