You'll always be 'baby' to me

Many thanks to Kara for the honor of being asked to contribute to the Mother's Day Bloggect 2006!

I didn't become a mother when I gave birth to my son, in 1997. I thought I would, but I didn't. Oh, sure, I was someone's mother, but I didn't feel very mother-like. My pregnancy was difficult, my labor and delivery even more so. Christopher was born via c-section after his heart rate fell while I was pushing. I remember seeing Pete holding him and then I woke up in my room to the sound of the television blaring and my roommate talking loudly on the phone. When the nurse brought my son to me, I was terrified. I wasn't supposed to lift anything over ten pounds (Christopher was nearly that at birth), I was in a lot of pain, and this little baby was hungry.

We went home after five days in the hospital. I learned a lot from the nurses in those five days: how to diaper, how to swaddle, how to breastfeed. I didn't know how to mother, though. I was afraid of my child, truth be told. He frightened me. He cried a lot and he nursed almost non-stop. I was incredibly grateful that my own mother was going to stay with us for a couple of weeks, just until we got the hang of the parenting thing. But after she left, I still felt unsure of myself. My husband had chosen to work while my mother was with us so he could take some time off after she left. My son was nearly six weeks old before I was left alone with him. Strangely enough, I still didn't feel like my son's mother. Honestly, I felt like a full-time babysitter. I loved him, of course; from that first look I knew I loved him. I just knew something was missing.

It was about nine in the morning when Christopher had the seizure. He was sleeping on my chest, his favorite place to be, when he started jerking and flailing. I held on to him, scared out of my wits. He threw up and then the seizure stopped. He was lethargic and limp and I got to the phone as quickly as I could. The doctor told me to take him to the hospital immediately. I calmly gathered things together, packed the diaper bag, made phone calls, and bundled my nine-week-old son into his cold-weather clothes and car seat. I didn't drive like a madwoman, even though I wanted to. My doctor had called the hospital to let them know we were coming, and when I told them my son's name, everyone flew into action. My husband arrived at some point (or did he come home first? I can't remember now.) and the testing began. I was asked a million questions while Christopher's vital signs were monitored and while hospital personnel swept in and out of the room. The doctor came in and we chatted about why we were there, he checked the chart, and told us that he needed a blood sample. In order to get the sample, someone would have to do a blood draw; not from the foot, but with a needle, from my child's veins.

Of course we agreed to it. We had to find out what was wrong with our child. One of the nurses asked us if we wanted to stay in the room with him. I must have looked at her like she was insane, because she said, "Sometimes it's too hard for the parents to hear their child cry." I opted to stay. One nurse held down his little legs, one held down his arms, and one started to try to get blood. And my child howled. I had to leave the room.

Actually, we had to go down the hallway because we could still hear him screaming. I kept my eye on the clock and when five minutes had passed, I had had enough. I walked into the room and said, "Stop. I want someone else to do this, someone who knows what they're doing."

In that moment, I became my son's mother.

The nurses all looked at me like I was an idiot, but I repeated my demand (let's face it, it wasn't a request) and the one who had been sticking him left the room. Another nurse came in and got blood on the first try. After that horrible ordeal, my little baby had to have a spinal tap to rule out meningitis. I agreed to it, but on the condition that someone with loads of experience would do the procedure. It went off without a hitch and the tests came back clear.

We never did find out what caused his seizure. He spent the night in the hospital and never had another one. I wish he had never had the seizure, and I wish he had never had to go through all those tests and needles and scary things, but if he hadn't, I wonder how long would it have been before I was slammed into motherhood? I've been a mom now for nine years and two kids, and this has been the most amazing, tiring, joyous, painful, mind-boggling journey I've ever undertaken. Nothing will ever compare to this, to being someone's mother.

Nothing.