"But, I’m a mom, too." I said that to my husband before we fell asleep last night. It’s true. I am a mom. Just not the way everyone else thinks of a mom.
I carried and birthed my child like other moms. I felt the same motherly instinct and overwhelming emotions that come with those experiences.
She grew inside of me for 18 weeks. I went through normal symptoms of morning sickness, extreme fatigue, ultrasounds, excitement, and planning. I created images of who my child would be. Of what she would look like, be like, and who she would become. I dreamed of the day she would enter into the world. How happy it would be as we start a lifetime together; the start of our little family.
We made it to so called the “safe zone” of 12 weeks. We celebrated that milestone, and the stress of a previously labeled high risk pregnancy finally eased up. I began planning the nursery, touring the hospital, signing up for and taking a birthing class, researching daycare, googling “best product” of every category, and adding to our registry. I stressed about being a “good” mom. I cried at the possibility that I could let her down by being ill-prepared. I read books. I prayed often for her, and for the parent I would become. My husband and I read endless sites of baby names, jotting down ones we liked. I watched my expanding belly and felt my excitement grow in correspondence. We took weekly pictures of my slowly forming bump, and paired it with my weekly fruit comparison. I giddily checked my pregnancy app for daily and weekly updates. I felt flutters in my stomach several times. I felt her tiny first kicks. I talked to her. I read to her. I powered through workouts with her. I laughed deep laughs and found joy in imagining her feeling my joy, too. I was mindful of what I ate; knowing that everything I did would directly impact her. I had cravings and aversions; I learned quickly what she liked and didn’t. My world had already begun to revolve around her. It was pure bliss in those weeks. I loved it; I loved her.
Although much earlier than planned, I went through labor like other moms. I labored for 42 hours before we met our little girl. I had contractions during this time and endured each painful wave. I focused on what I had to do for her. When we moved into active labor, my husband held my hand and coached me through the intensifying pain (an ironic foreshadowing). I got fully dilated, I pushed, I watched her come out, and my husband cut the cord. I met my little baby and was so captivated by those moments. The nurse handed her to me and I held her close. Her teeny tiny body so perfectly formed. We beamed over which of those features she got from whom. I imagined the girl she could grow into and all she could become. I wrapped her in precious swaddles, and placed a specially sized headband around her head. Her skin was delicate, and I stroked her body gently. I tenderly planted kisses on her little head. Her eyes stayed peacefully shut. I watched the beat in her chest in amazement. I looked at her in amazement. She was part of me and I of her.
I gave my baby everything I had for the entire short time we had with her. I gave her a safe life while inside of me. And, when she entered the world, I gave her everything I could possibly offer; I gave her my love. For every single minute of her life, all she knew was love.
The difference between me and other moms is this: the same day I met my baby, I also had to give her back. On the same day I saw her life begin, I watched the last beat in her chest. The same day I brought my dreams to life of all she would become and all I could teach her, they were ripped away. The same day others dressed their child in a pre-planned coming home outfit, I dressed mine for burial. The day they got to leave the hospital with their child, I left with a memory box and her bunny.
I, too, had the world in my hands, but I was forced to watch that world end.
The biggest tragedy of it all, is that no other mother or father has to defend or remind others of those roles, except for parents of angel babies. They are often forgotten or overlooked by others, thus making it challenging for even them to accept the title for themselves. My daughter may not physically be here like other babies, but her memory is living. Her life happened, and her life will always matter. We are not able to watch her hit milestones and grow, but she is, and always will be, our first child. Please, never forget that.
I know the exact same indescribable love of other moms.
I know it, because I’m a mom, too.