Dear James,
You were born on June 12th,
2016 at 2:39am. I asked you to be born at that time and you listened.
I had no idea the toll your birth would take on me. Not in labor,
which is what I prepared for, but in my life. It wasn't the impact I
thought it would have. I wrote a blog post a couple months ago that I
never posted about my worries. I was afraid of not being as good at
work. I was afraid that I would lose myself and all the things I
loved and I would blame you. You have taken none of these things from
me. While I'm not back at work yet, I've already found myself
thinking about it and having new ideas and feeling energized to
return. I'm going to miss these days with you, but the truth is that
I feel like a few quality minutes together are as good as one day
where I'm feeling trapped and bored. I love the late night feedings,
except when I'm tired. I love watching you learn new things. I also
love my job and the career I've built for myself. I love it more
because you exist. I spend my days writing code to helping workers'
voices be heard. I want to do this all the more because any one of
these workers could be you. I look at you, James, a white man growing
up relatively affluently in the US and I know you could be anyone.
You could be anyone and I would love you the same. It's funny because
when other people see your picture or meet you they say, “What a
perfect baby!” or “Wow, he is cute!” and I feel proud but I
also think, I hope every mother gets to hear this about her child.
Because when I look at you James, I think you're special and I don't.
I don't think you're special for being cute, for being healthy (which
we now know you are after your NICU stay), for being white, for being
male, or for being anyone but yourself. You are my child and I love
you for being in my life. I love you for the way your father lit up
when he first saw you. I love you for the joy on the faces of my
parents, in laws, and siblings when they met you. Even if I didn't
get to see it, I love you for the joy the people I love felt knowing
you were in the world. I try not to overshare your picture because I
would hate to foist it on someone who didn't want to see it. I am
hesitant in how I post about you on social media because I don't know
who is reading my posts and I want to protect you.
Two days into your life, you swallowed
milk wrong and started gasping for air. The hospital staff took you
away and I believed they would return telling me you died. I also
thought it was my fault. They came back and explained this happens
sometimes when babies are learning to eat and that you had recovered
on your own, as all they'd done is put you on a warmer. You started
your NICU stay that day and after testing you for inflammation, they
announced they were keeping you for seven days to have you on
antibiotics. Honestly, I feel I should have been upset but I was on
some level relieved. I hated missing those days, but I was scared I
wasn't the best caregiver for you. I felt grateful that someone else
would be responsible for keeping you alive. It felt like a gift. I
got to visit you and enjoy you and learn from the nurses how to take
care of you. I started feeling joyful at the idea that other people
could take care of you, as I realized it would mean I could go back
to work but come home every day to you. By the time you came home, I
had learned the gift was different than I thought. While you were in
the NICU I had been triggered by a lot of family, personal, and
hospital dynamics and my anxiety level was higher than ever. I had to
get on short-term medication—something I'd always avoided—and saw
my therapist for an extra session. When you came home, I felt even
more protective of you and of myself than before. I realized that of
course my first job is to keep you alive, but after that I have a lot
of other responsibilities to you, to myself, and to your father. I
owe it to you to protect your emotions, but only as much as I can. If
there is nothing I can do, I owe it to you to walk away, maybe just
for a few minutes, maybe until you need me. I owe it to myself to
take care of my needs and to make sure your father and you, as you
are able to understand, know what they are. I owe it to your father
to help him meet his needs, but not at the expense of my own. That is
how we will become a family that can do the hard things we need to
do. I'm not sure what all of those things are yet, but I've realized
doing hard, worthwhile things is important to me. The worthwhile part
is important, as I don't want to be a family that does hard,
pointless things.
James, I'm not sure when you'll be able to understand
all this. But know, that your mother is so glad she has you in her
life. I had my doubts during pregnancy but I don't doubt my decision
to have you anymore. I also don't doubt my decision to return to
work, or to be a software developer, or to work at LaborVoices. I
love the life I've built and I love it more because now I have you in
it. I left social work, I learned to code, so that I could have a
meaningful career and have you and it was the right decision. I wish
everyone had what I have—a life they want. I'm debating whether to
post this to my blog because it's very personal for me, though
probably not for you yet. I feel like so far in your life, you've
done nothing but share your joy with others. So many NICU nurses told
me how much they loved you. And yet, for me, sharing joy terrifies
me. I don't want anyone to crush it, because I believe it's fragile
and tender. I look at you, though, and wonder if it isn't a strong
force, something that can't be killed.
Love,
Mom
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