When You Were Born

That’s a familiar feeling, right there at the precipice of exhaustion. I can feel the tears welling up in me, and I just want to sleep.

Not unlike when you were born. I woke up with every movement, every sound, every tiny squeak or out-of-sync breath. I’d sit up in my hospital bed, no matter what time, put my hand on your chest, adjust the swaddling blanket, lay back down.

Here I am now, sitting in a chair next to your hospital bed, waking up with every movement, every whimper or sigh or irregular breath amplified by the breathing machine between us. I put my hand on your chest, adjust the iv lines, sit back down.

The second-hand looks like a swiftly moving sundial, a shadow cast by the fluorescent light above. I watch the hours roll by, dozing in between nurse visits and your big movements that threaten to disturb your supplies. I watch the sun come up as the minute hand sighs closer to 5 am.

I remember when I let them take you to the nursery as a one-day-old. I felt like a bad mom, like a failure. I didn’t know yet how to accept or ask for help. I thought I had to do everything myself. I wanted them all to know I was a good mom, and that meant breastfeeding through cracked and sore nipples, crying when I couldn’t figure out how to help you latch, feeling awkward and fumbling and incompetent.

Jaundice didn’t make things easier, and we fed you formula through a rubber nipple and I once again felt like I wasn’t enough. Every time you ate, I sat up with you for 15 minutes, otherwise, all that hard work would come shooting out and we’d have to change you again. When the nurse came in and fed you and laid you down, I timidly spoke up.“We keep her up 15 minutes so she doesn’t spit up,” I said and the nurse might as well have rolled her eyes as she laid you down, assuring me you’d be fine. I ignored my instinct to get you out of the plastic bassinet, telling myself she knew what she was doing. She’d done this a hundred times and I was brand new to this gig.

When you vomited all over the place, I felt a little sense of triumph. I cleaned up my victory and heralded the first step toward trusting myself as a mom.

13 years later, we’re in the same boat now. The formula looks the same, but instead of a rubber nipple, it’s a plastic tube into your tummy, dripping through a feed line. I speak for you now with more assurance of what you need, because of what I’ve heard from you in the years since you lost your voice. I am more in tune with you now because I am more in tune with myself and I trust myself to know what you need.

I still long to hold you to my chest, rock you, rub your back, stroke your hair. I sometimes miss the days when you fit in my arms, but when my legs fall asleep from the weight of your 13-year-old body, I treasure the pins and needles. The tingles and pricks mean you’re here with me and I am strong enough to carry you.