Shortly after my son arrived, things were all fuzzy. I was tired. The doctor was stitching me up. My son was on my chest, looking shocked and sucking on his fingers. People all around were talking. Once that was all taken care of, it got quiet in the room, and we were able to have a “golden hour” as a family of four. I couldn’t believe that our little boy was finally here.
While I was so happy that he got here safely, it didn’t feel the same as the last time I had given birth. I knew I loved this little baby, but it differed greatly from my daughter. I couldn’t quite pinpoint the feeling, but it grew over the next 24 hours. It was like a slow bloom at first - as I stared at him. Then, tracing his nose and holding his little fingers, it felt surreal that he was actually in my arms. He would open his eyes and look at me with this intensity, too. He was perfect and very calm.
While at the hospital, I felt safe. If I had questions, the nurses would answer them. If we needed help, a nurse would come in. If you’ve ever given birth, you know that you get little to no sleep at a hospital. Surprisingly, I found comfort in that. There was always someone there if needed. And even though this was not my first time having a child - it had been 14 years since I had gone through this - everything was so different.
We were released the following afternoon, and while we were all excited to be going home, this is when my anxiety started to creep in. I worried about the car seat. I kept checking his breathing. When we got home, I thought I would feel more comfortable, but it was the complete opposite. Gone were the nurses. No one at home knew CPR. There wasn’t another person checking on my son to make sure he was okay in the middle of the night. Adding to that anxiety, he did not want to sleep while swaddled or in a bassinet. All he wanted was contact naps. And that’s when things started going downhill for me.
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