from the archives

You were born a little yellow and your second night here, you had to sleep under those crazy blue lights. I could hardly stand it, seeing you there with just a diaper and a blindfold on, aching for comfort. I warmed up blankets and put them all around you and stayed awake all night to keep a (moving) hand on you and savor the few minutes I could hold and nurse you. In the spectrum of things that can go "wrong" with a baby, this was surely mild, but the only time I have felt more helpless was the night before, when after a day and a half of labor it became clear that you would be delivered from an incision in my abdomen. You were so new, so fresh, so small. Your place was in my arms, on my chest, at my breast. Not under those blue lights. Not alone. My body ached for sleep, but I was afraid that if I nodded off, I'd awaken to find you staring up at those LEDs, going blind, or flailing in search of human touch. I spent the time between nursing nervously adjusting your blindfold, stroking your cheeks and arms, lending a finger for you to hold. You slept, but only after we finally offered you the pacifier. When I think back now to how opposed I was to them, I feel silly. I "get" the arguments for avoiding them. They are logical and practical. In a perfect world we may have avoided them. But just like with almost everything else that has happened since you were born, being certain isn't a luxury I have. In fact, certainty is foolish.

When you were in that little plastic box, I realized why most parents will do almost anything to comfort their children. I wanted to protect you, too, from the billirubin in your blood. I was on the brink. It worked. Thank God. I learned a lot that day. Hard lessons that cemented my growing, changing role as your Mama. I will spend my life in the flux of protecting and comforting you. Praying I get it right.