The "Perfect" Mommy Moment

I think most mothers-to-be day dream about the birth of their child. We fantasize about that movie-perfect moment when our water breaks, and we wake our husbands up in the middle of the night with a gentle, "it's time, honey". In our weaker moments we fear the pain and wonder if we can handle it; in our rational moments we know better than to think about it; and in our super-mom moments we are certain that we will be the mom that goes through labor in 2 hours with minimal pain, no tearing, and without breaking a sweat. The moment I think moms (and maybe dads too) reflect on the most is that magical moment when they hand you your baby, either still slimy, mad, and wailing or bundled, warm and happy. Moms tease their husbands about whether they will cry (of course they will) and have no doubt they will flood with tears of joy. A mother-to-be imagines that instant when she sees her baby and her heart swells with love, joy, and maternal bliss and bonding. Most mothers can tell you exactly what they felt the moment they first saw their baby.

The hardest thing about pre-mature birth and NICU life is having one's fantasy blown out the window and the disconnect between mom and baby. At 26 weeks, there was nothing about me ready to give birth. My body wasn't ready and my babies certainly weren't. I never had the chance to whisper, "it's time, Ben" or struggle through labor pains. I never even had labor pains - a few Braxton Hicks, but nothing painful. Delivery was a breeze. I just had to lay there. Because the girls were so little and needed immediate support, the doctor didn't even lift them over the curtain for me to see. There were no tears - of pain or joy. There was no instant bonding. It felt like I'd given birth, but had nothing to show for it. But, surely, I thought, all the expected emotion would come later - when I could see them.

It was at least 5 hours later when I first saw my children. Everyone else had seen them: Ben, my mom, dad, step-mother, in-laws, and sister. I was wheeled in to the side of Natalie's isolette. She was so small...and dark...and wrinkly. She was also attached to a zillion monitors that dinged and beeped in a cacophony of strange sounds and lights. I was hard to even see her face with the ventilator and all the tape holding it in place. My sister warned me that they were very small, but I was prepared for that. I wasn't as surprised by their size as by the lack of emotion I felt seeing them. As a nanny, I had fallen in love with a number of children. I loved these kids with all my soul. With the depth of love I had for children that were not even my own, I was certain the love I felt for my own children would surpass anything I could even imagine. I had read of moms not bonding with their babies right away, but as much as I loved kids, I knew that would never be me. But, I never imagined having to love my children through the glass of a life-saving cocoon that kept them distant from me - not just physically, but emotionally as well. To be so close to them, yet so far away at the same time...it is the hardest part of NICU life.

Holding Natalie at 10 days old was the first time I really felt like a Mother. Even then though, still on the vent and lying against my chest, I couldn't really see her face and gaze into her eyes. Abby wasn't able to be held until she was over a month old. She was then on CPAP and had even more of her face covered. Seeing her face was completely out of the question. As the girls have gotten bigger little by little and more and more stable, we have been able to do more things for them. We can change their diapers, hold them more, and even just touch them more. And, finally, finally, I had that "perfect" Mommy Moment.

Last Thursday, July 12, I preparing to introduce Abby to breastfeeding. Prior to this, every time I had held her, it was through Kangaroo Care - meaning I held her against my bare skin as she snuggled on my chest. As I mentioned before, you can't see the baby's face this way. This time, however, she was swaddled in blankets with just her little head showing and her little hands sticking up near her face. She was breathing on her own so the only thing on her face was her feeding tube - a small tube in her nose. She looked exactly like the babies on TV look when the nurse hands the mommy the baby for the first time. And - it happened. The Mommy Moment - the moment I'd been waiting for since I found out I was pregnant. I held her in my arms and looked down at her, and it was as if I was seeing her for the first time. Her big eyes stared back up at me, searching my face, (I hoped, in recognition). Tears filled my eyes. I had my little baby in my arms, and she was absolutely beautiful. It was everything any mother had ever dreamed about. It was everything I had dreamed about.

In the end, I still had to put Abigail back in her little "glass mansion". I wanted to scoop her up and take her home. Once more, I had to tuck her in, whisper "I love you", and leave her behind. I joke a little about being a parent without any responsibility. I can stay up late piddling around and sleep as late as I want in the morning. I can go anywhere I want, whenever I want without car seats and strollers in tow. I don't have to change diapers or feed babies or wake up in the middle of the night. We are parents without babies. But, by missing out on the responsibility, we miss out on the joy too. I can't hold my babies whenever I want because it might stress them out and cause them to lose weight. I can't even hold both of them in the same day without going home to take a shower in between. I have an empty crib and drawers full of clothes that they are still too small to wear. My babies are not just in two different isolettes, right now they are in two completely different rooms and it's a juggling act to spend "equal" time with each of them. Natalie and Abigail are two months old and we still don't have a picture of them together or a family picture of all four of us. So far, being a mommy is nothing like I thought it would be. I love them with all my heart, but when I have to leave them behind, I can go home and almost forget they are real. I ache for the day when I can take care of my babies. I ache to hold them all I want and snuggle them together. I want to see them without any wires or tubes. I want to be there when they cry so I can comfort and soothe them. I am so thankful everyday for the wonderful nurses who take care of our girls. We are so blessed by their attentive care. But, I can't wait until I can give them the care they need and be the one to meet their needs with all the love a mother has to give.

Until the day comes when the girls come home, I will continue to love them through the windows of their isolettes. I will look for and hang on to those Mommy Moments. And when those Moments happen, I will remind myself that no matter how imperfect the beginning of their lives turned out to be, in that moment, all is as it should be.

As I Love You Through The Glass

As I love you through the glass
a tiny hand sweeps across the blanket
reaching out to me.
You lie there in the stillness
of your slumber clinging to life;
I reach inside to touch you
and you stir slightly;
I feel a tiny breath like a feather
caress my fingers
as I love you through the glass.
One eye opens
easily staring into mine;
Can you see me?
Can you feel my presence
as I love you through the glass.
I ache to hold you;
I await the moment
when you peacefully rest in my loving arms.
A silent tear rolls down my face;
I slowly turn to walk away
only to glance back one more time
as I love you through the glass.

(c) 1998 Elena Murphy All Rights Reserved