Fraud Mama

In the hours and days and months after J was born, I was a fraud. A fraud of a mother. Certainly, mothering takes all shapes. No one mother is the same, and no one mother does it just right. But, in all of the ways I believed I would be a mother to J, I was nothing.

For starters, there was his birth at 26 weeks. Boy, that was a flop. I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to at least get to your 9th month.

Then, there was the manner of his birth. Emergency C-section wasn’t the route I had planned. I’d chosen a highly-dignified yet hard-fought natural birth in which I’d be quite the champion. Instead, I turned out to be a chump at labor and delivery.

To add insult to injury, I had J at a hospital that could only care for babies born at a minimum of 32 weeks. It never crossed my mind to seek out a hospital with a NICU any larger, since I was planning on that full-term, natural birth thing. So, just hours after J’s birth, he got his first ambulance ride to a hospital 30 minutes away. He now loves anything with wheels, so surely I get points there?

I’m pretty sure I lose ground on the next one, though. I met J for the first time just after my anesthesia wore off. The doctor wheeled him to my bedside, and then he was gone. I didn’t see him again for two days. His own mother didn’t visit him–couldn’t visit him. Other family rushed to town to see the tiny baby, but does that make up for missing a mama?

And then there’s all the bonding we missed. I didn’t hold him until his 5th day, and even then, it was just kangaroo care, not at all what I’d had in mind when I pictured snuggling my newborn.

In my mind, this list went on and on. I accounted for every mistake, every failure, every way I let J down. It began at his birth and continued for two and a half years. Years.

Of course, I loved him with my whole heart. I sacrificed in every way. I gave until I had nothing left to give him. And I walked through the world, unable to relate to most mothers I met who had birth stories I envied. Every, single subject was painful for me to discuss, from breastfeeding to walking, talking, and eating. Every thing I knew about parenting revolved around prematurity, and nothing I knew seemed to have a place in a regular parenting conversation. I knew better than to compare myself to other mothers, and I knew it was unfair to blame myself for J’s birth. But, I could not forgive myself.

Until M.

She is the result of preeclampsia, another surprise for me. She is a preemie too. She is sweet and giving, a ray of sunshine, people have said. She and J will have each other. With her birth, the entire dynamic changed. This story is no longer about J and me, about what I did or didn’t do; it is now the story of our whole family. Prematurity is a bond we all share. It is a uniter, not a divider. And, slowly, as the shock of M’s arrival waned, I realized so did my shame.

When I talk to mothers in the NICU, they are so full of anger at themselves. It is painful for me to witness because I want to save them. I spent so much energy punishing myself, but it’s not an anger I can quell in someone else.

Every mother has to reach her own place of forgiveness, in her own way.

Somewhere along the way, in the middle of long days and longer nights of parenting two preemies, Fraud Mama disappeared.

Here I am, in her place.

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