The Birth Story: The Conclusion

So, I sat on the bed and waited.

I sat on the bed and waited for the nurse to come back, load me gingerly into a wheel chair, and burn rubber down the 60 feet of lineolium between me and my kid. She was 18 hours old and had yet to meet her mother. I was frightened FOR her. I can't imagine how freaked out she was. I don't like going into new convenience stores because of how scared I am about "not knowing how that one WORKS". Can you imagine popping out into this crap with the only place you've ever known being a warm and squishy and somewhat quiet place? (I say "somewhat" because she is MY kid and she did hear me prattle on for approximately 9 and a half months.)

I know that studies and most psychologists will tell you that kids don't remember a whole lot about anything until between the ages of two and three. BUT, psychology will also tell you that the ability of a child to attach in a healthy manner and sustain long and fulfilling relations is developed in the first two years of life. You know what that tells me? That although babies don't retain details of certain happenings and circumstances, that there is an impression made upon their brain that unconsciously guides these future abilities. Actually, there is. Because a babies brains are still forming up until, I don't know, around 21, I think? (Which is why teenagers make such ill-informed and stupid decisions, by the way) Being away from their primary caregiver creates a stress hormone called cortisol that can actually permanently alter brain connections. All I can think about is my kid laying down there having no idea what in the sam hill just effing happened to me? Hell, I'd like to meet her so we can at least commiserate.

In short, I wanted my child because I REALLY didn't want to pay those therapy bills later. If I'm going to pay for therapy, I'm going to make damn sure its because of something that I did.

So, I sit and wait for this nurse to show up with the wheelchair so she can take me to the NICU. And we wait. We wait for about an hour until she comes in and says one of the most morally offensive statements that I've ever heard.

I ask her, "Where is the chair?"

She very happily says, "OH, you don't need one! She's been in the Well Baby nursery since 8am. So we are going to just roll her on down here and she's yours. She's perfectly fine!"

I have to resist the urge to vomit on her. Or maybe take off this puppy pad I'm wearing and throw it at her face. I don't even know what to say at this point. I mean, I KNOW what to say...but I'm pretty sure it would have security called and then it would be just a wee bit longer before I HELD MY DAMN KID.

So, I take a breath and act excited and practically scream at the nurse to BRING HER THE HELL DOWN HERE ALREADY. And I sit and I wait. I sit and I wait with my mother, my mother-in-law, my father-in-law and my husband to see my baby for the first time. It felt foreign and strange. I was excited and apprehensive. Its not unlike waiting on a blind date to pick you up. People have kind of told you about him, given you descriptions of him, but you don't really KNOW him. And, besides that, I had NO IDEA what she'd be wearing and if my corsage matched, you know? I was nervous.

The nurse finally wheels in this plastic bin-not unlike a large tupperware container-holding my baby. She then spends ten minutes explaining exactly how not to KILL HER. I don't listen to a whit of it and am vibrating with excitement. And, well, here's a two minute video about how that went. (You will notice the grandmother's attempting to stay away and give us our space and failing very sweetly at it.)



During this entire two minutes and seven seconds of video I wanted to scream, "SHUT UP AND HAND OVER THE BABY AND NO ONE GETS HURT." I think I handled it beautifully and came off looking happy and composed, no? I think the fake eyelashes definitely helped. The video stops right when the nurse is about to make me "sign" for Parks-like she is a UPS package-and I finally get to hold her.

I looked at her. She was staring at me. The nurse called her "very alert" and told us "She has a set of lungs on her." I feel angry that this woman knows this about my child and I do not. I do not know anything about her except where she liked to kick my ribs and how much she enjoyed chocolate and peanut butter and oranges.

My first impulse is to strip her naked and check her out-like a head of cattle. I immediately announce this to everyone in the room and begin taking off her clothes and just LOOKING at her. I begin lifting up her gown and taking off her socks and hat.

Look at those HUGE FEET.

Where did all that black hair come from??!??

She has dark cobalt blue eyes that are almost strangely grey. I've never seen a color like them before.

She has all her fingers and toes and legs and arms and ears and she cries. Full and loud. And I love it and I want to hear it more.

But, wait....she totally has hair on her butt. I excitedly point it out to The Man and tell him our child definitely has an Italian throw back gene from my side of the family. Then we lament on how long that will take to fall out. It is THEN that I realize what it feels like to be a parent.

Because I love every single hair on that butt.

Not that I'm not totally excited that it finally fell out. But, in general, I would never find a child's hairy butt attractive. The thought that I found mine "cute" tells me a lot about what this whole parenting thing is going to be about.

I spent another three days in the hospital recovering. Friends had told us to take advantage of the Well Baby nursey while we were there so we could sleep at night. I was so traumatized by her birth she never left my room except for their "checks". She layed beside me in her tupperware container and slept. I breastfed her every two hours and stared.

After three days, the nurses came down to discharge us and this is when I quickly found out what the OTHER part of being a Mom means.

She'd had an IV port in her arm the whole time we were there. They had given her IV antibiotics in case the reason the fluid on her lungs was due to an infection. Their tests later came back and said there was no infection and it was just fluid. They "couldn't really explain the cause." Like someone just accidentally left some fluid laying around and, WHOOPS, there it is! In your baby's lungs! WOW! Glad we found that, huh?

They had left the IV port in the whole time we were there and I couldn't even look at it. When she was with me I tucked the newborn pocket of her sleeve over that arm and acted like it didn't exist.

At discharge the nurse was going to remove it and as I sat there waiting on yet ANOTHER wheel chair to take me out of the hospital (these wheel chair people have really got to get their shit together), she asked if I wanted to "leave the room" while she removed it.

"Leave the room? Why? Nah, I'll stay in here." I had no idea what she was talking about.

She turned to take out the IV and Parks started screaming and I saw blood and my stomach turned. I looked out the hospital room window and laid my head against the glass and wiped uncontrollable tears out of my eyes.

I got it then. I'd never felt more vulnerable or scared in my life.

And then we took her home.

A wheel chair actually showed up and two women, one steering me and another steering a cart with our bags, wheeled us out of the hospital right after they told me I could "take anything that was in the room because I'd paid for it". So, we loaded up on diapers and wipes and slippers and pads. Right before we got to the car I remembered the heavy terry cloth bathrobe that had been hanging on the back of the door. I had totally forgotten it.

I spent the next two weeks of her life mad as hell that I'd forgotten to steal the bathrobe out of the hospital room bathroom. I'd EARNED that robe. Actually, I sometimes still get mad about that robe-ten months later.


As for her? Ten months later that sweet angel turned into this hot mess of crazy!



And that, my dear friends, is definitely MY child.