Correspondence with Cole: one month

Dear Cole,

Today you are one month old. Today marks 30 days since the morning the doctor vacuumed you from my womb, sat you on my chest and subsequently whisked you away. 

I waited two days to hold you, three days to nurse you and five days to buckle you in a car seat and drive you home. 

Looking at you in the NICU, with an oxygen helmet over your face, afterbirth still in your hair and wires in your belly button, it was hard to believe you were once in my tummy and that your father and I were responsible for such a man. 

Three days after you arrived, the nurses laid your bare body on my chest and the feelings of maternity flooded me. 

Our first attempt at nursing didn’t go well and nurses didn’t want you to associate breast feeding with frustration. So along with the wires and oxygen tube, they laid your bare body against mine. 

When skin touched skin, I learned what motherhood felt like.  

That evening, after your father and I returned to the NICU, washed our hands for three minutes and bid you good night, I stood by your plastic wheel cart and cried. Perhaps it was the postpartum hormones or just the pressure of parenting a child under such circumstances, but I wept for fear I wasn’t worthy. I just wanted to be a good mom to you, and at times, I already felt like a failure. How can someone who eats Frosted Mini Wheats for dinner possibly be a good parent?

You didn’t grasp my finger the first time I grazed your hand, but that night, you grabbed tight. For many years, I will hold you, but that night, you held me. 

Today, you entertain us with faces which turn from sweet infant to angry teenager faster than the days on the calendar turn until you become one. We like dressing you in outfits and laugh when they don’t quite fit. Your father jokes about your pants and how they make you look like grandfather, they’re so high. Don’t worry, when you grow up, we’ll make fun of daddy’s clothes too. In fact, I already do. 

Today, we rush through your diaper changes because you’ve taught us a baby’s bum is a loaded weapon. My first christening was at 6 a.m. the second day we had you home. I had no idea kiddie keisters carried so much force. If you ever have children, know their rear ends explode like sundown on the Fourth of July.

Already, our families joke about your entrance into this world and how it must mean you’re adventurous, a fighter or if nothing else, a little shit. 

But I know better. 

You’re a big softie. 

We used to think you cried because you hated diaper changes after feedings, but realized it wasn’t the changes you hated, it was their loneliness. Once we held you close, the tears ceased. Aside from the diaper drama, you cry when you’re hungry. And that’s it.  

I hope you know that while we lose our patience at 2 a.m. when you sound like nails on a chalkboard, when we wake in the morning, we know we’re fortunate to see you cry. I’m not sure we deserve a baby as easy as you. 

Help me remember that when you’re 15.

Love,

mama