What my daughter’s birth taught me about parenthood
TW: This blog includes a personal account of a premature birth. Please take care when reading.
Growing up in New England, March was never my favorite month. Other parts of the country would be celebrating the beginning of spring, while all around me, winter showed no signs of letting go. Dirty brown snow clung to the curbs, sidewalks were surprisingly icy, and we grudgingly pulled on our down coats and snow pants, coated in salt, every morning before school. In February, winter felt justifiable, and we had a week-long break that allowed the short month to pass even faster. March was gray and endless. April often provided more glimpses of spring and another week off from school, but it wasn’t until May that winter finally felt safely behind us, and the sun seemed to truly breakthrough.
When I learned I was pregnant and my due date was May 14th, Mother’s Day, it felt beshert- the Yiddish word for what is meant to be. I had not planned on learning the sex of my baby before she was born, but early in my pregnancy, I had the most vivid dream about her birth, and in it, she stared up at me with piercing blue eyes, the color of my grandmother’s, as if to say, “Here I am. Here I have always been, just waiting to meet you.” After that dream, I knew in my heart that I was carrying my daughter, but strangers and friends would try to convince me that I was carrying a boy. (Also: why do people do this?)
In January, I asked my doctor to tell me the sex so I could surprise my husband on his birthday in late February. She and I gazed at the screen together, and there was my daughter, moving constantly, dancing already, communicating once more: “I’m here. I’ve always been here. Just waiting for you.” I thanked my doctor, drove straight to a baby clothing store, and picked my husband up from work, handing him the onesie, unable to keep the surprise a moment longer.
It was also in January that we found our house, and when the closing was scheduled for March 20th, it felt meant to be again. It would give us nearly two months to move, settle, and nest- a phase of pregnancy I had heard about and imagined I would love. But of the many things I have been able to experience in motherhood, a nesting phase was one I never had.
I had some scares throughout my pregnancy, but they would always turn out to be false alarms. By March, I started feeling like the boy who cried wolf. When I woke up bleeding on March 16th, I was scared, but I had been there before. I called my doctor, walked carefully through the ice and snow to my car, and drove myself to the hospital before the sun came up. My husband had been en route to New York City for a work trip and turned around to meet me. Once again, we did all the tests, and, once again, everything looked fine. My daughter was so active during my ultrasound that it took less than two minutes to confirm that she was okay. The bleeding had stopped, and there was no explanation, just as there hadn’t been an answer all the other times. I felt a little embarrassed for causing so much fuss when there was no need to panic. I was put on bed rest for the next 24 hours, and my husband went to New York while I stayed with my parents. It was only March. Everything was fine. We had plenty of time.
I started to have Braxton Hicks contractions when I got home from the hospital, and when I saw my doctor at a follow-up the next day, I was assured again that everything was fine. The doctor could feel her moving during my exam, and there was no sign of distress. I mentioned that she seemed to be moving less during and after contractions but was told, again, that everything was normal. By late the night of March 17th, the contractions were intensifying. I remember sitting on the side of the bed, watching my stomach contract into a basketball, holding my husband’s hands to my belly. I was listening to my daughter, not knowing yet what she was trying to tell me. This time of year, it’s hard not to think about the what-ifs. What if I had told myself I was overreacting again? By early morning of the 18th, I called the doctor. “You were just here,” she said. “Everything looks fine. But if it would make you feel better, your OB is on call starting at 8 am. Maybe rest for a bit, and then you can see your doctor to give yourself some peace of mind.” Had my doctor not been on call that day, would she have told me to stay home?
On Saturday, March 18th, we arrived (again) at the hospital, in our pajamas, expecting another quick visit, another reassurance. At 6:42pm, my daughter arrived by emergency c-section, a surgery that saved her life and mine. It took a few minutes before I could see her, but then there she was, my universe contained in a 4-pound and 17-inch package. There were her piercing blue eyes, being whisked away from me by the team of NICU doctors and nurses all too fast.
My entry into motherhood was not what I imagined. I was not someone who prepared a birth plan, knowing that birth and parenthood were full of the unexpected, and being rigid instead of flexible would likely only increase my stress. The only thing I imagined or planned on was being able to hold my child. As I waited to be cleared to visit the NICU that first night, I had a singular focus of being able to hold her. I couldn’t yet process that her life had been saved- it only felt like she had been taken away from me. I needed her back. I needed us connected again. I was finally wheeled into her large sterile room, almost entirely empty except for the isolette where my tiny universe slept. My arms were outstretched, reaching for her, when the nurse told us, “You can hold her for a bit tonight. But after tonight, you can only hold her twice a day, during her feedings. It causes her body too much stress to be held too much.”
My entry into motherhood was not what I imagined, but it taught me so much about being a parent. I thought I knew what was best for my child, and I wanted it to be what was best for her, but at that time, it wasn’t- it was what I wanted and what was best for me. My daughter recently asked if it was a “bad thing” that she was an early baby. “It’s not a bad thing,” I told her. “But it was a hard thing. Your dad and I just wanted so much to take you home and have you with us all the time.” “But Mom,” she replied, “I was getting the care I needed from the doctors and nurses.” So often, we want to provide all the care our child needs. But there will be times when they need someone or something we can’t provide. Parenthood is this juxtaposition of holding tight and letting go. It’s knowing that sometimes, May sunshine needs to come in the gray of March.
For the next 32 days, I sat with my daughter 11 hours a day, waiting to be permitted to hold her. There were resources offered at the hospital- social workers and support groups- but I couldn’t get myself to leave her unless it was to pump or eat (so that I could pump again). For the 31 weeks I was pregnant with my daughter, she found ways of communicating, “I am here with you,” especially when it mattered most. For those 32 days she spent in the hospital, I desperately wanted to be everything she needed, to fix, to solve any issue, to protect her from any potential harm. But all I could do was sit with her and tell her again and again, “Here I am. Here I have always been, just waiting for you.”
On April 19th, 2017, our daughter came home for the first time. Now, we are celebrating her 8th birthday, and I am all too aware of how fast time is moving. My daughter is incredibly empathetic, caring, and curious. She often starts a sentence with, “Mom, can I tell you something?” And I always reply, “You can tell me anything.” Being the best parent I can be doesn’t mean that I’ll always have the perfect response for her, and it doesn’t mean I’ll always be the person she wants to tell everything to. But I always want her to know she can. If nothing else, I want her to hear the words she once communicated to me, “I am here. I have always been here. Just waiting for you.”
