Maternal instincts: Maybe she’s born with it (maybe I’m not)
For some reason, I decided to time the last class of my postgraduate program with maternity leave. Our first assignment was a draft about someone who has shaped us. It was written a month into the fourth trimester. I fought sleep deprivation and a crying newborn just to reach the word requirement. It’s not my best work, but it might be my proudest.
“What are you doing?” My husband’s voice is faint over the whooshing of white noise.
“Shh, nothing,” I whisper, though I doubt he waited for a response before falling back to sleep. This is my shift for baby duty. Adam takes the next one.
Sleep when the baby sleeps, I think, tiptoeing to the bassinet. That’s harder than it sounds.
While the grunts, snores and rapid breaths keep me up, it’s the sudden silence that gets me out of bed. Erratic breathing is normal in newborns, I’m told. Still, it’s unsettling for a first-time parent, especially when your baby spent her first three nights in the NICU with lung issues. Now I make up for those missed nights together by staying awake, checking on her.
I found out I was pregnant on Thanksgiving. The pregnancy test sat radiant but forgotten on the toilet for an hour before I remembered to check. Then I took five more to be sure, even going as far as to take them in different bathrooms; you know, in case the steam from the shower caused a false positive. I’d always known I wanted to be a mom, but before that moment, it was just something I said – like I’m going to write a book or I’m moving to the beach. It felt more like a daydream than something that would happen for me. Once it became real, anxiety and self-doubt took the space where excitement should’ve been.
I compare myself to my own mother: Taking care of others is in her bones. Over the years, our mother-daughter relationship has evolved into a friendship, but she’s still a parent first. She always seems to know what I need, even if it’s just reminding me to drink water. What if I don’t have those same maternal instincts? What if I don’t have what it takes?
I shine the light from my phone screen over the bassinet. Palmer’s head is to the side, with blonde wisps framing full cheeks and puckered lips. She looks just like her dad. I watch for her chest to rise and fall, then put an ear to her mouth, listening for soft breaths. Lastly, the third and final step in this song and dance, I point a fingertip under her nose, feeling the warm exhalation.
Relieved, I shuffle back to bed, inching one leg at a time under the comforter. I pull the covers to my chin only to swat them away. My body can’t decide if it’s hot or cold these days.
It’s only been four weeks, but pregnancy and childbirth feel like years ago; everything before that feels like a lifetime. Adam and I reminisce on our pre-parent lives like college friends who haven’t seen each other in decades. We share memories of brewery hopping, last-minute getaways, our first apartment. To an outsider, it might sound like we long for the way things were. Those were different times; we were different people. One day, we’ll talk about these days the very same way, with the very same fondness.
I think back to the first time I held her. At 9 pounds, Palmer wasn’t a small baby, but she felt like precious glass in my arms. One false move and she might break. In the photos my husband took of those first moments, you’d think our bond was immediate and effortless. She’s gazing up at me; I’m smiling down at her, a proud new mom. The truth is I was insecure, like I’d been hired for a job I wasn’t qualified for. I prayed my tiny boss wouldn’t expose me.
Before that moment, I’d never held a newborn, let alone kept one alive. Thank goodness for the NICU nurses, who cared not just for my baby, but for me, showing me how to burp her, how to change her diaper and how to hold a bottle. They were so much more natural with her, I felt like they were the parents, and I was a babysitter dropping by to help.
On the day she was released to go home, I held my breath as the wires were removed. The monitors only tracked her vitals, but as each one was turned off, another security blanket was taken away. Now it was up to me to keep her alive – no nurses, no monitors, no security blankets. Just me.
We’ve come a long way from that first week, when each time she’d cry, I’d panic and pass her to the nearest family member. I’d watch as they’d comfort and calm her, only to be engulfed with guilt, plus a little envy. Just like in the NICU, everyone else knew my daughter better than I did; everyone else seemed better suited to be her mother.
Over the last month, I’ve grown and learned through sleepless nights (and a lot of Googling). Now instead of looking to everyone else for guidance, I find myself saying, No, she likes to be burped like this. She’s not hungry, she’s tired. Here, let me do it. I watch as others try to soothe her, then pass her to my arms where her body goes limp, relaxed. I wonder when that’ll stop surprising me – that it’s me she wants.
I wasn’t born knowing how to be someone’s mother, but my daughter is teaching me by changing me. Each time I let my coffee go cold to hold her, or ignore my stinging incision to rock her, or plod half asleep across the room just to admire her, I know I’m not who I was yesterday. I’m not even who I was this morning. Every day brings a new version of me that’s stronger, less selfish and – who knows – maybe even a little more maternal, for her.
I’m pulled from my thoughts by a whimper from the bassinet. Maybe I’ll never be the perfect mother, but I know tomorrow I’ll be a little better. And the next day, I’ll be better than that. For now, I need to go to sleep. But first, let me just check on her one last time.
