It's not what you're thinking. I'm not talking about the moment of elation when the double pink line appears, confirming successful conception. I'm not talking about the morning I woke up to the first sign of a baby bump at my waistline, or the first time I felt a kick. It wasn't an ultrasound, a baby shower, or when my water broke and I was rushed to the hospital. It wasn't when I pushed every muscle and vein in my body to their physical limits to pass my baby through the birth canal, or even when I heard his cry or held him for the first time. These were all the physical signs I was a mother- but none of them could prepare me. The physical experiences, the advice and warnings from my loved ones could not prepare me for the moment my life would change forever. The moment when internally- emotionally, intuitively, instinctively- I became a mother.
They had taken him from me, minutes after his birth. We held him, inspected him, took photos, and thanked G-d for our healthy baby, and then they took him away to the nursery. I had been sick all week with flu-like symptoms and I was still nursing a low grade fever that I passed on to him. As a precaution, they hooked a tiny little IV to his tiny little foot and administered antibiotics*.
While they cleaned him up and took steps to keep his fever down, I was moved out of labor and delivery and onto the maternity ward. It was a small room, they were overbooked! Jacob was a couple of weeks early, and we did not get the cushy room we were expecting. But we hadn't slept much the night before as I was moved from admitting to pre-labor, to delivery waiting for labor to start (It never did and I was induced at 5:30 a.m.). By now my husband was fast asleep in the bed next to me, and my sister and best friend were off on a pizza run- we hadn't eaten all night either. I was "alone" laying quietly in my hospital bed. My body feeling an exhaustion unlike anything I had ever felt before, nor since; my senses heightened and aware, but I don't remember feeling pain.
The room was dark. I finally gave birth at 6:30 in the evening in late autumn. The light from the TV sunk down over the room casting a blue glow. Feeling somewhat glazed over, I hadn't the energy to channel surf. My conscience was keenly aware but my eyes were heavy and for brief intervals I would allow them to close and open again- fixed and zoned out in a stare. Then the nightly news came on. There had been an active case of a missing child in our area. It seemed at the time to be a high profile case, but I can't find anything about it now on the internet (It was not Caylee Anthony). But people had been implicated, then cleared; among them the girl's mother and step father. They had been all over the news crying and pleading for help to find their precious little girl. On this evening, the night I gave birth to a new baby boy, the breaking news was that police had recovered the body of the little girl, and were arresting her stepfather for the murder. The very people who night after night cried to the public and the media about their missing child- they were the killers!
My skin was crawling with goosebumps and my heart felt stomped on. My eyes were filling and my cheeks felt hot. Alone, except for my sleeping husband next to me, I'm not sure how I looked. But I imagine it to be something like the Hulk- my body, my emotions transformed with rage. I was feeling something new. We all experience feelings of horror, disdain, disgust for the monsters who prey on children. But this was different. This was the first time I felt like this, as a mom.
I have always been a peacekeeper. I don't exactly enjoy confrontation. I'm not a hunter or a gun owner- I have never even held one. I've never been a fighter. I'm about as nonviolent as they come. But something changed that day- that moment when for the first time I could fully process that other human being, my baby, was completely dependent on me for safety and survival. The deepest love between my husband and me, reincarnated pieces of our hearts and souls into this little newborn baby, who would now reflect everything that is beautiful and innocent and loving in this world.
And now I know and feel deep in my bones and my organs, my blood and my guts, that if danger came upon him, by human or animal by nature or by circumstance, the Hulk inside me could rise up and bring out violence in me. Not pretty, I know. But that night, hours after giving birth, lying in that hospital room as a new mother, I knew I could be driven to violence. Come near my child, just try to harm a hair on his head, and I could bring a world of hurt upon you. On that day, hours after giving birth, I knew a love I had never felt before- one of legend told generation after generation by parents and grandparents but never real until you live it. It was transforming. This love, this joy could also bring you somewhere so dark and so dangerous. It was an uncomfortable realization, but a real one.
More than sixteen years later, the feelings haven't changed. My son is bigger and stronger than me, more than likely able to "hold his own," but it doesn't matter. The mama bear thing is real. Animal instincts drive our desire to protect our babies. My skin may not turn green, but the ugly inside will surely come out if anyone dares to come close to my baby. Welcome to motherhood.
*Please note, that I have no qualms with how hospital personnel handled this. My son went home perfectly healthy and that was one of maybe three times he's been on antibiotics in his entire life.
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