I am finding myself focused on my two year olds birth, The Tater Tot. From my past post, you can see that it was a bit of a traumatic, unexpected birth since he arrived at 33 weeks. Its funny... when you have a preemie baby, your life shifts in ways you could never anticipate. I find myself remembering things that I haven't thought of in a while. What's funny is, we've made it past 33 weeks... this little Firefly is cooking in there, and we are now almost to 36 weeks, so these concerns shouldn't be consuming me, but that just isn't how the brain works I guess.
I am remembering the NICU vividly. I remember waking up the morning after he was born and finally being able to see my son and walking through the cold halls of the hospital in socks and multiple hospital gowns to find my son. I remember the multiple isoletes that held all the little babies and being ushered to mine. I was able to hold him, I was in shock, I was dazed. He had wires on him, he was hooked up to things that I didn't understand at the time. I remember being told I could do kangaroo time right away and having no idea what a blessing this was... I just remember being afraid. Afraid I was going to hurt him or do something wrong. All the wires were hard to manage while trying to put him to my chest.
I remember being discharged from the hospital and leaving without my son. I never want to feel that pain again. People were cheerful, telling me that he was in the care of professionals, that I should relish the sleep since I could go home and sleep for a whole night. But I couldn't, they were wrong... I had to pump every 2 or 3 hours, I was worried, I felt a part of me was missing, I didn't sleep while my baby was in the NICU. In the mornings, I rushed on the subway with the hoards of commuters going to work while I was going to the hospital, anxious to get there during Rounds so I could see the doctor... I rushed to get there before one of the NICU nurses feed my son, since I wanted to do it myself.
I remember arriving at the NICU with my 2 or 3 oz of milk that I had painfully pumped all night only to see other NICU Mom's with multiple 8oz bottles of milk ready for their child. I had to settle for formula, supplemented with my drops of milk.
I remember walking through the hospital and seeing parents with their plump little babies in cute little outfits milling about the hospital and feeling so mad at them... I don't know why I was mad, but I was and I feel terrible about that.
I remember my notes... the copious notes I took about The Tots weight, feeding schedule, strange terms that I had to Google when I got home that night. I still have all of those binders with all of my notes and they seem like they come from a different time, because they do.
And oh, meeting all of the other parents and their babies all in varying degrees of distress. Offering advice to the new parents, watching the parents who had been there for months who seemed to know what they were doing.
And The Husband, forging this path with me and our little boy, also unsure and scared, but positive and strong. Going back to work so we could "save up" on his paternity leave so he could take it later if we needed it. Telling me over and over that I was doing a good job and supporting me while I struggled to pump for months and helping me give myself permission to stop.
As I sit here with 36 weeks within my grasp, I realize that the birth of the Firefly might be uneventful, and I don't even know how to feel about that. I am thrilled, keeping my fingers crossed that it is a "normal" birth, but quite frankly, all I know is trauma and NICU time, so I am yet again faced with the unknown.
Writing this out helps... I think. Being emotional during this time is hard, and normal, so I accept that it is normal, and this is just where I am. I am here, and my second child is safe for now and I can relax... so I will try.
