The 21st Century SAHM

For leisurely reading, I gravitate toward dark novels with excessive pain and suffering. American slavery. WWII and the Holocaust. The Dust Bowl. These are topics covered in the books I choose, and my husband has many times found me ugly crying into the pages at midnight. He has often asked why I read books that so clearly destroy me. The one thing I can say to explain this warped interest in catastrophe and despair is that it inspires me. Reading about a woman who birthed her baby in a covered wagon on the prairie circa 1852 makes me want to be a better woman, a better mother, a stronger person. Stories like this provide perspective and shake out the pity party of “How much does my life suck because my fat, healthy toddler bit me today and my husband-with-job-security is out of town, while I read this book in my air-conditioned house and drink my wine…” And knock me down a couple of notches, which isn’t a bad thing.

Well I had an experience lately, in real life, that has certainly doused me with some perspective and appreciation for all that I have. We may be living in 2015 in a modernized world of convenience and excess, but there are still warrior moms who are just as tough as the 1852 mom on the prairie. And one category of warrior moms that I’d like to pay sincere homage to is the NICU moms.

My experience with NICU world is minimal. Okay, it’s non-existent. I’ve only heard about this experience second-hand from other mommy-friends and mommy-friend-nurses. And I now have a dear friend whose baby is currently in the NICU, having been born at 24 weeks. Knowing that she is sitting at the hospital for hours a day and staring at her tiny person who is just trying to make it in this world, I wanted to do something, anything. So I put together a little care package of treats to help her pass the time and let her know she had some love and support. And I dropped it off, at the NICU, in person… which was where I received my reality check.

Back story: I had 3 very boring births. (I know this now, in hindsight.) Of course at the time, what I perceived as “dramas” or “issues” were incredibly minor and not even issues at all.

Baby #1: Dramatic because he was the first (as lots of first labors are). Mom was terrified, Dad was terrified, baby would. not. come. the. frick. out. And baby had pooped in utero (fancy term: meconium / husband’s term: poop water) So I had to wait like 49 agonizing seconds for the nurses to suck his lungs clean BEFORE I could hold him. Woe is me.

Baby #2: Almost did not wait for doctor to arrive at hospital. I believe the nurse’s words were, “You need to hold her in. The doctor’s not here yet.” And I believe my words were, “Yeah. She’s coming out.” This is the only time my super-involved-not-afraid-of-being-down-there-husband left the “down there” section of the bed and returned to his original post at the “up top” part of the bed, as if to say to the nurse: “I ain’t catching her. That’s on you.” Doctor made it, and caught Danica Patrick with seconds to spare. Again, major issue? No. I was IN the hospital. With drugs and medical personal up the wa-hoo swarming about. Not in a ditch or a taxi cab or in the middle of a tornado or something.

Baby #3: All of the babies were fat, but this one was SO fat (that sounds like a “your mama” joke) that he had to get his gigantic foot pricked every few hours for 2 entire days. Drama? Sure. Sorry buddy. Your mom fed you so much damn ice cream while you were cooking, that now the nurses are afraid of you going into sugar shock until the good stuff starts shooting out of Mommy’s nipples.

So yeah, I was pretty spoiled. And I LOVED my nurses, who were happy and chipper and funny and kind and gentle. The nurses at the NICU that I visited the other day were not. They were all business. There was no warmth and fuzziness. Clearly this world was not rainbows and butterflies, as was the boring old fat-baby land where I delivered. And at first (being pretty self-absorbed and excited about my good deed), I was miffed. Why weren’t the nurses happier? Did they not like their jobs? GASP: Did they not like babies?! And then as the day went on, and as my dear friend told me the entire story of what she has been through in the month since her precious little girl was born, the reality started to set in. You’re right, oblivious mommy. It isn’t rainbows and butterflies here. These babies are 1 – 2 pounds. They are fighting with every breath to live. So their nurses are serious. Because, as my NICU mom friend stated, “They are responsible for my baby for all the hours I am NOT there.”

In all honesty, and I know I joke a lot (because humor and alcohol keep me sane), please pray for NICU moms and thank NICU nurses. My friend’s little girl, like all NICU babies, has a long road ahead of her, as do her mommy, daddy, and big brother. This mom is a warrior. She is the kind of mother I read about, the kind of mother who inspires me to be stronger, be better. She drives 30 minutes each way every single day to sit, for hours, staring at a tiny person who came into this world too soon. Sometimes she can hold her; sometimes she can’t. Sometimes she just has to watch her and talk to her and pray for her. I’m praying for her too. And I am in awe of her mother’s strength and courage. I’m not sure I am tough enough to birth and care for a baby in a covered wagon on the western frontier in the 1800s, but this NICU mom, she sure could.

 

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