Last night, I said to my husband, “What if our son is a genius? What if he goes to Harvard?”
My husband replied, “He won’t. He’ll be competing with all the other genius white boys. He won’t stand out.”
I replied, “So he’d have a better chance if he were Asian?”
The conversation got me thinking, because historically and even today, white men have a better chance of getting into the college of their choice. They have a higher chance of reaching the top of their chosen career. Overall a white man’s life has always been easier than any female’s or person of color’s. I often rely on my husband to make difficult phone calls because I’ve always noticed he is perceived better than I am as a woman. Conversations often end up with him getting what he wants, versus me feeling like I’m in a battlefield.
I know often it’s his tone. He’s better at staying calm than I am. I’m more likely to lose my cool before he is. However, I’ve always felt inferior, and part of that comes back to me being a woman. It’s the same feeling people of color experience.
So I think about his statement: it’s a common fear white men have when they see people of color succeeding. They think their white sons won’t stand a chance against the Black boy in school. They fear if a white and a black boy with equal smarts apply to the same school, the black boy will be chosen to increase the school’s diversity.
While I’m sure the latter happens, too often enough kids are pushed aside because their name isn’t as common as John Smith. My son’s name isn’t a common name, and it’s commonly used in the Black community when it’s used. I wonder how this will impact him too.
I think my husband’s statement may have been a little too optimistic. After all, we’re still electing white men as our president. I don’t think we’re closer to erasing white power anytime soon. I believe my son’s life will be easier than mine because he’s a white boy (and a cute one).
Before I had a baby, I didn’t know what snuggling babies was all about. Sure, I’d held a baby. There’s a seven year difference between my sister and I, so I’d held her when I was younger. But I didn’t snuggle her. Being only a clumsy seven year old, my parents only let me hold her for short times and while supervised.
The next baby I held was HER baby, who is five months older than my son. I remember when I first held my nephew, and I thought, “Wow, he’s like holding a doll!” He was sleeping and making little coos in his sleep. And he farted. A lot. He was like a doll who made noise. It was such a weird feeling.
I held my nephew many times before my son was born, but I wouldn’t say we cuddled, not like I cuddle my son. I was always nervous about dropping my nephew or making him uncomfortable. It seemed as soon as he was comfortable, I was uncomfortable and at a loss of what to do. I was worried I’d never be comfortable holding my own baby.
Everything changed when my son was born. I quickly learned how to hold him and how to never want to let him go (even if my arm is stiff when I let him go, I don’t care).
I never thought I’d feel comfortable cuddling a baby other than my cat, but now I’ve successfully learned to cuddle both at the same time. There’s something really special about falling asleep with a human baby and a fur baby on me.
I leave sometimes for work, but it’s not because I want to, it’s because I need to.
There’s no one I’d rather be than your mom.
I long for our cuddle sessions, the hours-long naps, and listening to your snores.
Your babbles are music to my ears, and your smiles are the warmth of my heart.
I long to soothe your cries, and comfort you even when it’s the middle of the night. The first few weeks were hard, but now I spring out of bed at the smallest sound of your fuss. I wouldn’t have it any other way, because it’s another moment to hold you tight.
You’re growing fast. I know someday you’ll be a big boy and not want to be with your momma, but know this, sweet son, I will always want to be with you.
With his bright blue eyes of wonder, in his short two months of life, my son has inspired me many times.
The first time and most imprinted in my memory was when we were still in the hospital. It was one of our early attempts at breastfeeding, which did not come easy for either of us. I had a PIC line in my arm up until I was discharged from the hospital, due to the difficulty the nurses had finding a vein in my arm, so long after I was disconnected from all the wires that line dangled on my right side, making it impossible for me to hold my little guy in my right arm. So our first attempts were on my left side, which has become my dominant supply source.
I also had to use a shield, because my son was only six pounds and due to being born at 37 weeks, had difficulty sucking. What I didn’t know was the sucking reflex doesn’t fully develop until 38 weeks. Therefore, latching was hard! Between both our physical limitations, I wasn’t sure if I would ever be able to breastfeed my son.
I remember trying to latch him maybe the second time, after a traumatic first time that left me full of doubt. My husband said, “I don’t think he’s ready. He’s too little.” My son then surprised us both by thrusting himself at me, then latching on. I knew then he was a fighter. He wasn’t going to give up, and neither should I.
The second time came at almost a month old. We were putting him on his tummy for tummy time. Knowing the benefits of tummy time for development and strength, I wanted to get him started early. He was not a happy camper! I have a video where my cat appears to be taunting him, and at the end of the video, he surprises us once again and rolls over at only a month old! He’s a strong little guy.
As I watch him grow, and the wonder that fills his eyes as he experiences the world for the first time, I remember we are not born into this world without confidence. Babies possess strength adults only dream about. They are not weak. They are stronger than us. Weakness develops from years of wear and tear in the world. Babies are the true warriors of the world.
“Once he’s here, it won’t matter how you got him,” a nurse told me before my unplanned C-section.
I never wanted a C-section. Mentally, I was not prepared for one.
This has been an incredibly difficult post to write. I’ve let it sit in my drafts now for weeks. Maybe it’s because the initial heightened emotion phase has passed. I’ve had time to reflect and enjoy my precious baby.
I’ve had time to read other stories and realize mine isn’t as traumatic as some, but still, it was trauma. While my heart no longer aches as strongly and no longer do I burst in tears of regret when I think of my son’s birthday, it is the first thing to come to mind when I think of the day he was born or when someone referenced “giving birth.”
It’s still hard for me to acknowledge that I “gave birth” because I feel I was cheated of that respect.
When you go into the hospital at 37 weeks with high blood pressure, you’re put on a magnesium drip. They wheeled me up to my room and asked if I had to use the bathroom. I didn’t have to go that bad because I’d just peed in a cup, but they proceeded to warn me I wouldn’t be able to get out of bed until 24 hours after my baby was born. With that in mind, I enjoyed my last bathroom break before my son was born. I would spend the next three days in bed, the longest I’ve been confined to a bed.
You don’t realize how much appreciate being able to get out of bed until you can’t. I didn’t realize how out of it I was until I came to three days later, when I was finally taken off the magnesium, either.
At 9pm on 7/13, they started the process of inducing me. It wasn’t until 9am on 7/14 that they broke my water for me, since it hadn’t broken on its own. All I can remember is that was the most pain I’d experienced up until that time. I’d fantasized about my water breaking at the most inopportune time: at work, in bed, in the bathroom… not being forced. All I can say is, I don’t recommend it, and it hurt.
Contractions slowly began, but they never came as fast as they wanted to see them. Part of the problem, in my opinion, was I was confined to bed. Any hopes I had of a semi natural birth went out the window. (I figured I’d cry for an epidural eventually, but I’d hoped to walk around as much as I could until then). My legs were so heavy I needed assistance rolling from side to side in bed. I was so weak!
24 hours passed of not progressing, which included many painful cervix checks that I wasn’t supposed to feel because of the epidural I accepted since I was bed bound. I didn’t see a point in not getting it, since I couldn’t move. Since I wasn’t progressing, I knew it was only a matter of time until the dreaded C-word was mentioned.
I knew I didn’t have a choice when my water had been broken for over 24 hours. It’s not what I wanted, and as soon as I knew it was about to be a reality, terrifying images played through my head. I tried to stay calm, but inside I was terrified and disgusted.
They gave me another dose of pain meds, since it had been over 24 hours since my first dose. After agonizing in my room while I waited for my turn, as there was a scheduled C-section before me then mine was pushed because another woman went into labor, I was finally wheeled to the operating room.
I wish I could say they cut me open, I heard my son’s first cries, and looked with joy into my husband’s eyes. I can’t, though. I didn’t get to hear my son’s first cries, nor did my husband get to be in the room when our son entered the world. But let’s back up a moment.
After I was wheeled into the operating room, I felt like I was on an episode of Grey’s Anatomy. Earlier I had mentioned to my nurse that my IV seemed loose, but she thought it was fine. Of course when I got to the OR, it was determined it was indeed loose. The nurses spent AN HOUR poking and prodding me for a vein. I was so swollen at this point, and the veins they were finding were too small to use. During this time, my husband was in the hall waiting to be called in. As long as I stayed awake, he could be there.
As they poke me, I’m able to zone out. Finally, someone is able to find a vein and get my IV back in. My husband comes in the room, and they prepare to begin my C-section. All of a sudden I feel excruciating pain in my belly area, which I’m told is simply lap pad. They haven’t even cut me open yet. I’m inconsolable, and another dose of pain meds doesn’t help, so you guessed it, I had to be put to sleep.
It’s not my first round with anesthesia. I was also born under anesthesia, as back in the early 90s they put all women to sleep who had C-sections according to my mom. I was also put to sleep when I have eye surgery all four times and when I had my wisdom teeth removed. The anesthesia didn’t scare me, but not being able to hear my son’s first cries and have my husband in the room was devastating to me. I cried most of my stay in the hospital about it. I’m tearing up writing about it. I blamed myself for being so sensitive. I felt like a failure as a woman.
There were a lot of things that made my son’s birth traumatic, although the pregnancy itself was uneventful. I’ve developed a fear of pregnancy, and the thought of another C-section scares me more than anything because I don’t think I’ll be able to stay awake, meaning I’ll miss everything all over again.
The next days also came with agonizing pain. I had to be on magnesium for 24 hours after birth. Getting out of bed after three days was the most pain I’d ever experienced. They had to get a device to help me out of bed. The whole time I felt like I was going to rip a stitch, when in reality it was my muscles that had frozen up from being bed bound for so long.
The ride home from the hospital hurt like hell. Every bump hurt.
I couldn’t walk up the stairs when I got home.
I didn’t feel comfortable picking up my son from his bassinet until he was almost a week old.
I couldn’t walk down the stairs with him for another couple days.
Walking through a store hurt miserably.
But I healed. I’m not 100% yet, but considering where I came from, I’m 200% better. I am regaining strength every day because I fought like hell those initial days. Once I got out of the hospital bed, I refused to get back in it and spent the remainder of my hospital stay sleeping in a chair. I was afraid I’d never get up if I got back in the bed.
Now it’s seven weeks later, and I can say with confidence I don’t miss being pregnant. I love being able to lay flat, eat veggies, and not have heart burn every night. I love being able to eat garlic and spicy foods without puking. I truly don’t miss it.
I know every pregnancy and every birth is different, and every baby has a birth story. I know I want my son to have a sibling, but I’m in no rush. My body needs time to heal. Right now, I just want to focus on my adorable baby boy.
July 15, 2021, I became the mom of a bouncing baby boy. After years of proclaiming myself as a cat mom, I finally had a human baby of my own.
Since I was a little girl, probably when I was about two or three, I imagined growing up and having a baby of my own. I’d stuff my shirts with my dolls and pretend to be pregnant. I would mimic the laboring women I saw on television. I couldn’t wait to grow up and have a baby!
I never expected a “perfect” birth per se. Some moms want to go all natural without an epidural. They hire a doula and take birthing classes to prepare. I am not that much of a planner; I just wanted to go into the hospital when my contractions started or my water broke, walk through the pain and maybe get in the tub. When the pain became too stifling to bear, I’d beg for an epidural, then when the time finally came, I’d push my baby out.
Well, that’s not what happened, and somehow Facebook knows, because I keep getting recommended blog posts dealing with traumatic posts to trigger me and remind me the source of my tears.
It was my 34 week appointment that my numbers crept above 140.
My blood pressure was high my whole pregnancy. Before I got pregnant, it was almost perfect, but I noticed at my first prenatal it was around 130/70. I thought I was just anxious because I didn’t know what to expect.
My doctors never commented on it. I dropped regular urine samples to test for protein, and there never seemed to be any concern. After my 21 week anatomy scan, my blood pressure was normal again, so I attributed my higher numbers because they always took my blood pressure before listening to my baby’s heart rate. I’d heard too many sad stories of moms finding out they’d lost their baby from a prenatal appointment, and I didn’t really start feeling my baby regularly until 21 weeks when I saw his movements on the ultrasound and was absolutely sure they were him. I thought my blood pressure would return to normal now that I could feel him (and he was an active little guy in the womb! He’s quite the wiggle worm outside, too).
It was my 34 week appointment that my top number crept above 140. My blood pressure had never been that high. I knew about women being induced due to high blood pressure, and I knew I had so much to get done. My anxiety was boiling, which was not good for someone with high blood pressure.
I got sent to the ER after my 36 week appointment for monitoring. I had to do the 24 urine collection and everything. My tests were negative for preeclampsia, so they sent me home, but a nurse mentioned I would probably be induced at 37 weeks and it would be discussed at my prenatal appointment the following Tuesday.
Alarmed, I went home and bought a bunch of stuff on Amazon I still needed. I tried to relax. The Tuesday of my appointment, I ran as many errands as possible. Overall, I felt fine. I didn’t have any symptoms they talked about—headache, stomach pains, blurred vision. I believed I was having some Braxton Hicks, but nothing terribly painful.
My blood pressure was the highest it’d been at my appointment, and I got sent straight to triage. There, I was told I was being sent upstairs to work on having a baby.
Fur to Human Mom 